The Rolls-Royce glided through the dark, winding roads of Westchester. The interior was silent, save for the hum of the tires on asphalt.
Ace held a tablet, swiping through the holographic display of the Hubbard family portfolio. It was a vast, tangled web of shell companies, real estate holdings, and tech investments.
He stopped on a pie chart.
"Jaiden has been busy," Ace remarked. His voice was low, devoid of warmth.
Sen nodded from the front seat. "He believes he is the heir apparent, sir. Your father has allowed him that illusion to keep him motivated."
Ace saw a file marked CONFIDENTIAL. He opened it. A photo of a woman appeared. Sharp features, ice-blue eyes, blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun.
Calista Foley. CEO, Foley Group.
"Calista Foley," Ace said, his voice flat. He'd read about her rise years ago, even from halfway across the world. "The Ice Queen of Logistics. What's my father's angle?"
"A political marriage to secure your return," Sen explained, unfazed by Ace's prior knowledge. "Their logistics network would complement our shipping division and solidify your position against internal threats."
Ace scoffed. "I'm not a breeding stallion for the family business."
"It would provide you with an independent power base," Sen countered gently. "Away from your father's direct control. And Jaiden's."
Ace paused. He looked at Calista's cold, unyielding expression in the photo. A tactical alliance.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Chicago, Brittni Ramirez stood in the center of Ace's empty apartment. The silence was deafening.
She walked into the kitchen. The smell of stale pasta hung in the air. She saw the trash can.
Something caught her eye. A flash of velvet.
She reached in, her fingers brushing against the cold, sticky noodles, and pulled out the box. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like rhythm.
She opened it.
The diamond was small. Modest. But tucked into the lid was a folded note.
For the only one who saw me, not the money.
Brittni's knees gave way. She grabbed the counter to stop herself from sliding to the floor. The breath left her lungs in a rush. He knew. He had known before she even walked through the door.
She fumbled for her phone and dialed his number again.
"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced her chest.
Her phone rang in her hand. She gasped, hoping it was him.
It was Jefferson.
"Babe, where are you?" Jefferson's voice was loud, slurring slightly. "The after-party is starting at The Underground."
"Shut up, Jefferson," she snapped. Her voice trembled.
"Whoa, chill. Just get down here."
She looked at the ring in her hand. A wave of nausea rolled over her.
Back in the Rolls-Royce, Ace's phone pinged. Sen had forwarded a notification.
"Mr. Medina has just posted another photo," Sen said. "He's taunting your old identity."
Ace looked at the screen. Jefferson was holding up a wrist, showing off a Rolex Submariner. The caption read: Upgrade.
Ace stared at the image. His lips curled into a thin, lethal line.
"Sen," Ace said. "Buy the building Medina's office is in. The one on Wacker Drive. Do it quietly."
"Consider it done, sir. What about the tenants?"
"Evict him on Monday morning," Ace said. "Cite... professional reasons. Renovations."
He felt a flicker of satisfaction. It was the first emotion he had felt since the betrayal, and it was dark and sweet.
The Rolls-Royce slowed. They were turning into a massive, gated driveway. Stone lions sat atop the pillars, their mouths open in a silent roar.
The Hubbard Estate loomed ahead, a gothic fortress of grey stone against the moonlit sky.
"We're here," Sen said. "The vipers are waiting in the dining hall."
Ace adjusted his cuffs. "Let them wait."
