The tension in Alexander's mansion was thick enough to choke on. Alexander stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, back ramrod straight, his silhouette etched against the smog-choked skyline of Hiddenville. The city was loud, chaotic, alive—but inside the room, everything was silent. Heavy.
He had barely been back for twenty-four hours. Barely enough time to sleep. Barely enough time to breathe.
And now—this.
Alexander sat at the head of the long obsidian table in his study, eyes locked on the tablet in front of him. The video played in silence now—no sound necessary. The brutal clarity of Jude kicking Mia, the terrified child clutched in her arms, and Jason's slap echoed louder in his mind than any commentary ever could.
Reporters had already latched onto it like wolves.
"Velmonte Twins Caught Assaulting Woman and Child"
"Mia Miller, Alleged Victim, Identifies One Child as Jude Velmonte's Daughter"
"#VelmonteScandal Trends as Sponsors Pull Out of Major Deals"
He handed the tablet back to Andrew without a word.
Andrew lowered his eyes. "It's bad. Every major outlet's running it. They've listed names—Jude, Jason… and the company. Your name hasn't surfaced yet, but it's only a matter of time."
Alexander stood, jaw tight, the muscles in his face locked with fury. "How long have they been in Alderidge?"
"They never left. Still there."
Alexander clenched his fists. "Idiots. Absolute idiots."
Andrew didn't flinch, only waited.
"Bring them back to Hiddenville," Alexander snapped. "Immediately. And find that girl."
"We already have her name," Andrew replied. "Mia Miller."
Alexander turned, his eyes burning. "Then find a way to bring her, too."
Andrew gave a firm nod. "I'll handle it."
Alexander walked to the window, inhaled deeply, then turned again. "Now—Leah. Where is she?"
"At the warehouse. She hasn't spoken much… but she's waiting."
A brief silence.
Just then, the doors opened.
Juliet.
She stepped inside like a gust of perfume and memory, clothed in a tailored cream suit, her heels clicking against the marble. There was no surprise in Alexander's expression—he had known she was in Hiddenville the moment her private jet touched down.
Juliet's eyes roved over him like a starving woman at a feast.
"You always did know how to make the news," she said coolly, glancing at the still image frozen on the dark screen behind him—Jude mid-kick, Mia curled over her daughter.
Alexander didn't reply.
Juliet walked closer, voice softening. "It's funny, watching you play god with your family, with your empire. I almost forgot how ruthless you could be."
"You didn't forget," Alexander said. "You just thought I'd let you back in."
She smiled at the sting, then leaned a little too close. "You still need someone who understands you."
"I don't need distractions," Alexander replied coldly. "Especially not from the past."
Juliet's smile faltered, just slightly. "Then make me useful."
Andrew cleared his throat. "We should go. Leah's waiting."
Alexander nodded once. "Keep Juliet in the guest wing," he told one of the guards. "She stays out of my business unless called."
Juliet didn't speak, but the look in her eyes turned stormy as she watched him walk out without a second glance.
—
Alderidge
Emily reclined in her chair, the morning sun warming her face, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. The chaos was unfolding exactly as she had planned.
The video had hit every news cycle before sunrise. Investors were already whispering. Velmonte Technologies' shares were dipping—and so were its ties to major luxury car sponsors, thanks to the race-track scandal.
Mia and her daughter were safe, resting in one of the top guest suites at AetherCore's private compound. Emily had visited them briefly, calm and gracious as always. Mia still didn't suspect a thing.
Michael stepped into the room, tablet in hand.
"It's spreading like wildfire," he said. "Just like you wanted."
Emily's eyes gleamed. "Good. Let it burn. Some of us have empires to run."
Michael tilted his head. "Are we staying here?"
"No," she said, rising. "We're going back to Hiddenville."
He raised a brow.
"You'll be going as my cousin," she continued, already walking toward the wardrobe. "We'll blend in, keep a low profile until the next move."
Michael smiled. "You think they've found Leah?"
Emily's gaze narrowed, her voice cold. "Yes. And they're questioning her now."
—
Hiddenville – Warehouse
The warehouse was suffocatingly quiet.
A single bulb swung faintly above Leah's head, casting sharp shadows on her face. She sat with eerie calm, ankles crossed, her wrists resting lightly on her knees. Her long braid was loose, the strands falling across her shoulder like a serpent waiting to strike.
Alexander stood just out of reach, eyes locked on her like a panther circling its prey.
Leah sat calmly, her eyes cold and steady under the harsh light. She already knew her role, the script she had to play. Alexander paced slowly, his gaze sharp and unforgiving.
Alexander's jaw tightened. "Why did you steal." His voice dropped, colder now, like ice cutting steel.
Leah's eyes darkened. "I did it for my father. Gerald Maze. You remember him, don't you?"
Alexander's expression didn't change, but the name hit deep. Maze — the ex-executive, the fool who dared to betray Alexander's trust. The man who disappeared without a trace.
"He was a rat," Alexander said quietly, voice heavy with past grudges. "And I had no choice but to silence him."
Leah's voice was steady. "You killed him."
She took a deep breath, eyes narrowing. "I did what I had to do. Revenge isn't always clean. It's messy. Dark. I took what was priceless to you because you took my father away from me."
Silence stretched, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside.
Alexander's gaze was a storm. "You think this… this Sigil can hurt me?"
At that moment, one of the guards walked in, a black case in hand. "We found this hidden in her house."
Andrew stepped forward, unlatched the box, and slowly lifted the lid.
Inside sat the obsidian Sigil and documents, her scheme her plans.
Andrew turned to Alexander, eyes narrowed. "Sir."
Alexander looked at it once.
Then turned to Leah. "Now that that's been settled," he said smoothly, his voice venom-soft, "it's time to meet your father."
Leah didn't blink. She only smiled, wicked and serene.
"You have no idea…"
A single silenced shot cracked through the room. Leah's head jerked, a blossom of red splashing against the concrete wall behind her. Her body slumped forward, lifeless.
Alexander exhaled through his nose, turned on his heel, and walked toward the door.
"That's settled."
Andrew followed closely, giving a brief nod to the cleanup crew. "We'll handle the rest," he assured.
"I have business to attend to tonight," Alexander said, sliding into the backseat of his sleek, waiting car. "Make sure I'm not disturbed."
"Yes, Alexander."
The doors shut, and the car sped off into the night.
—
Alderidge
Emily stood before a long marble table in her office, the soft hum of classical music in the background. She wore a black silk blouse and tailored slacks, her blonde hair swept elegantly to the side. A velvet-lined box rested in front of her.
With steady fingers, she opened it.
Inside lay the real Obsidian Sigil—alive with ancient energy, humming faintly as if recognizing its mistress.
She smiled.
"Your sacrifice, Leah," she whispered, "will not go unnoticed."
A soft laugh escaped her lips as Michael walked in, phone in hand.
"It's them," he said, offering the device.
She took the call without hesitation.
"It's Leah," She said softly.
Emily's smile deepened as the voice on the line reported, "Alexander and Andrew have left."
Emily exhaled slowly, her smile deepening. "Good."
She closed the box gently, sealing it shut. Then handed it to the man waiting by the door.
"Keep it safe. You know where."
The man nodded, disappearing without another word.
Emily dropped the phone into Michael's open palm, then pulled out her own.
A single text.
It is done.
She sent it. Then locked the screen and handed the device back to Michael.
No further words were needed.
The game had shifted.
The queen was already moving.
It was past eleven when Alexander stepped out of the back of his dark Maybach, his frame cutting a shadow under the polished gold awning of Vyxen. The private club wasn't listed, wasn't publicized. It was where powerful men played their dirtiest games in tailored suits and whispered sins.
He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket as Andrew flanked him, phone in hand, eyes constantly scanning.
"Your father is already inside," Andrew murmured. "He requested a 'chat.'"
Alexander's jaw tightened. "He wants to play again."
"Yes," Andrew said evenly. "And… there's someone else you wanted to meet."
A slow, almost imperceptible smirk touched Alexander's lips. "Good. I'm in the mood for confrontation."
The bouncers opened the doors without a word.
Inside, the club pulsed with low jazz and expensive secrets. The lighting was seductive, dim golds and crimson casting long shadows across the velvet walls. Private booths lined the edges of the room like confessionals for the corrupt. Cigar smoke curled through the air like ghosts of past deals.
Alexander made his way to the VIP lounge at the back, eyes scanning the room—calculating, always calculating. His father sat at the far end, draped in nostalgia and arrogance, glass of whiskey in hand, flanked by old business partners and younger men who were still hungry.
But Alexander didn't approach him yet.
No. First, he veered left—to the person he'd asked to meet. A woman.
She sat elegantly, legs crossed, wearing a blood-red dress that screamed both elegance and danger. Her hair was pinned up, throat bare, and her smile—poised but sharp.
Alexander slid into the booth across from her. The air between them was tense, thick with old memories and new intentions.
"You came," she said, swirling her wine.
"I always come when it's time," he replied coldly. "You said you had something."
She leaned forward, lips close to her glass. "I have everything."
He studied her, unblinking. "Then give me a reason not to destroy you."
She smiled.
From across the room, Mr. Velmonte raised his glass toward his son, watching the exchange with gleaming eyes.
The night had only just begun.
She didn't flinch under Alexander's gaze—most did. But this woman, draped in scarlet like a warning sign, held her ground with the ease of someone who'd walked through fire before.
She placed her wine glass down with the elegance of a queen placing a dagger.
"Still staring, Alexander?" Her voice was velvet laced with poison. "You used to be better at hiding what you think."
"I stopped hiding things from people I no longer care to play nice with," he replied, his voice cold, smooth. "You said you had information. Talk."
She let out a soft laugh, but there was no amusement in her eyes. "You haven't changed. Not even a little. Still walking into rooms like the walls owe you their secrets."
Alexander didn't blink. "And you still talk too much."
A tense pause.
Then she slid an envelope across the table. Thick. Sealed in black wax.
He didn't touch it.
"You should," she said, leaning back. "Inside are photographs, names, bank transactions. Your father's newest playmates… and the one who's been feeding off your empire like a rat in the dark."
Alexander's jaw flexed, but still, he didn't reach for the envelope. "What do you want?"
She smiled, slow and sultry. "A favor. Just one. When the time comes, you'll owe me."
"I don't do debts."
"You will tonight."
The music shifted, deeper now—something heavy on piano and strings. The shadows around their booth danced with it, flickering like flames.
Alexander reached forward, broke the wax seal, and scanned the first few pages. His eyes sharpened like blades. A name caught his attention.
Nolan Vance.
The man was supposed to be dead.
He looked back up at her.
"I see," he said.
She sipped her wine again, waiting.
"You've made yourself useful," Alexander said. "That's rare."
Her gaze flicked down to his hands. "Still steady. Still capable of anything, aren't they?"
"Especially the unspeakable."
She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Then maybe you'll understand why I'm here. I didn't come for power, Alexander. I came to pick a side before this city burns."
He looked her dead in the eye. "Then choose wisely. Because when the fire starts—there won't be any middle ground."
Another pause. A charged silence.
Then she stood, slowly, running a hand down the side of her dress. "I've already chosen. I'm betting on the devil I know."
Alexander watched her walk away, her heels echoing softly against the marble floor. He remained seated, his mind already moving ahead of the moment, processing everything she'd just given him—calculating who would fall next, and who would burn with them.
Behind him, his father still sipped his drink, pretending not to watch—but Alexander could feel the weight of his gaze.
He tucked the envelope into his coat.
Then, calmly, coldly, he stood. "Let's begin," he muttered under his breath.
And walked into the lion's den where his father waited. After playing the game for long The game was nearly over. The final move rested in Alexander's hands—his signature poised above the black-and-gold board like the kiss of death.
Across from him, his father chuckled, swirling aged bourbon while two women lounged lazily against him, more props than company. Their laughter blended into the dim-lit haze of the private room, rich with cigars, perfume, and the bitter scent of competition.
But Alexander wasn't playing against them. He never was.
He placed the final piece with calculated precision.
"Checkmate," he said, his voice cool and final.
The room fell briefly silent. Then, a slow, indulgent clap came from the old man opposite him.
"You always win," Mr. Velmonte grinned. "Like clockwork."
Alexander didn't smile. "Losing is a disease I've never had the time to catch."
Just then, a discreet presence moved at his side. Andrew leaned close, whispering only loud enough for Alexander's ears.
"Nolan Vance has been taken care of. It's done."
A quiet nod. No celebration, no reaction. Just the cold satisfaction of control.
Alexander stood slowly, brushing invisible dust from the sleeve of his jacket. He reached for his coat and slid it over his frame with sharp precision.
"I take my leave," he said, his voice steady.
Mr. Velmonte threw his head back in laughter, holding both women tighter. "Still so formal. So cold. You'll choke on that one day, boy."
Alexander's eyes didn't flinch. "Better cold than complacent."
Without another word, he turned and walked out.
The night outside was soaked in silver and shadows, streetlamps flickering across wet pavement. The car was silent as it glided through the affluent hills of Hidden Ville, passing rows of estates tucked behind manicured hedges and iron gates.
Andrew drove the car occasionally glancing at Alexander. "Go to Emily's house" Alexander finally broke the silence.
Then the car slowed.
Alexander's eyes were drawn to the left—drawn to her.
Emily's house.
The lights were still on in the top floor window. A soft, amber glow bled through the curtains like a quiet rebellion.
He didn't speak. He only stared—like a man waiting for a ghost to turn around.
Inside, Emily felt it. That familiar chill crawling up her spine.
She walked to the window, pushed aside the sheer curtain.
And saw the car.
Him.
The unmistakable silhouette of Alexander Velmonte.
She felt her heart filled with daggers.
She reached for the lamp beside her, flicked it off, and pulled the curtain shut.
Then turned away with ice in her veins.
Alexander remained still, eyes on the now-darkened window. The curtain had fallen, but her shadow—her presence—lingered like a challenge.
Andrew finally broke the silence. "She saw you."
Alexander didn't reply.
But inside that silence was a storm.
Then he said, as if to himself, "She's not running."
Andrew nodded slowly. "No. She's planning."
Still, Alexander said nothing. But his jaw tightened, and his gaze lingered a moment longer before he looked forward again.
"Drive," he said.
As they pulled away, the street returned to silence.
Inside Emily's Room
She stood in the dark, arms crossed over her chest, her thoughts a raging tide.
Alexander Velmonte.
He had watched her like a predator testing the cage.
But this time, she wasn't the prey. Not anymore.
She walked to her desk, sat down, and opened her journal—the one she used for war.
In firm strokes, she wrote across the next page:
"Let him look. Let him watch.
I won't rest until the Velmontes burn—one by one."
She closed the book and climbed into bed. Not to rest.
But to prepare.