Chapter Three:
The Kock family finally had reason to celebrate.
The long-awaited approval for the multi billion-dollar oil refinery project in Venezuela had arrived—an accomplishment that reignited pride and relief within the empire David Kock had built with blood and brilliance. And as though fate had conspired to be kind for once, Steven—his only son and heir—had returned. Alive. Recovered. Glowing with the vitality that had once slipped from him.
The modest gathering initially planned was quickly scrapped. In its place: a full-blown extravaganza.
David Kock spared no expense. "Raise the bar. Let it be the event of the year," he commanded his team. "Leave the bills to me."
It was more than celebration—it was orchestration.
David had plotted something grander than a mere party. This was his stage to announce a dual legacy: his partial retirement from the empire, and Steven's swift promotion into the seat of power. But that alone wasn't enough. The jewel in this narrative? The engagement of his son to Cherry Goldman—the sophisticated daughter of Senator Elias Goldman, a man as politically lethal as he was diplomatically revered.
To David, it all felt like divine favor. A collapsing world rebuilt. An heir restored. A future secured.
The venue shimmered like a palace of dreams. Crystal chandeliers rained light over New York's elite—senators, billionaires, royalty from oil-rich states, movie stars with foundation-thick smiles. If your name wasn't on the guest list, you didn't matter in that world.
Fashion designers scrambled to outdo one another. Champagne bottles with names no one could pronounce were uncorked in waterfalls of gold. Gold Card guests received their own sections, their every move attended to by stunning ushers handpicked for status. Every detail screamed opulence and legacy.
And at the heart of it all stood Steven and Cherry.
Beautiful. Perfect. Hollow.
David's voice trembled with emotion during his toast. "Tonight, we celebrate more than love," he declared. "We celebrate continuity. Legacy. Destiny."
The crowd roared.
But behind Steven's practiced smile, something flickered. Doubt. Disquiet.
David chose not to see it.
There was no room for hesitation tonight.
Weeks later, the wedding followed with equal grandeur. Custom rings from Milan. Orchids flown in from Kyoto. Tabloids crowned it the wedding of the decade.
But behind the filtered photos and curated captions, a truth began to unravel.
The honeymoon marked the beginning of a silent war. Cherry, once the dazzling, dutiful bride-to-be, grew cold—her ambition outpacing her affection. She seemed repelled by Steven's quiet introspection, irritated by his emotional depth. The warmth she once offered now calcified into distant glares and clipped words.
Steven tried. He wanted to believe this could work. That love might arrive the way his father preached—in time, in proximity, in partnership.
But nothing came.
Instead, he found himself haunted—night after night—by the memory of Rebecca.
She lived in him like a ghost that refused to fade. Not tormenting. Just... present. The scent of her hair. The touch of her hand. The strength in her silence. These were not memories. They were anchors.
He asked himself the same question over and over:
Why did she leave without a word?
He had believed she loved him. Her eyes had said it more than once. But her absence spoke louder.
"Some women," he murmured to himself, "walk away not because they don't care... but because they're afraid to explain why they're leaving."
Was that her?
He didn't know. And that uncertainty gnawed at him more than her absence.
His father's voice echoed in his head: Love is mysterious, son!. Sometimes, you find it after the wedding. It will come to you both eventually. Give it time.
Steven wanted to believe that. But the only time he'd ever felt truly seen—truly known—was when Rebecca looked at him like he was more than the empire's heir.
Now, he was married to a woman who looked at him like a burden.
And his father's prophecy felt more like a prison.
At moments, rebellion simmered in Steven's chest—an urge to break away, to rewrite his own fate. But his mother's gentle pleas always pulled him back.
"Think about the family," she whispered. "The image. The reputation. Please, son... don't make this harder."
But no one seemed to ask how Steven felt.
No one seemed to notice he was breaking quietly.
What they called legacy, he now saw as a chain.
And somewhere, beneath the surface of all this control and glamour, something else was brewing. Something he couldn't yet name.
He only prayed that when it surfaced, it wouldn't be too late.