The muted hum of conversation floated up through the tall windows of Bluestone Tower, the heart of the Bluestone Group's empire and the most exclusive skyscraper hotel in Manhattan. The air inside Alexander Marcelo's penthouse-level office was crisp and quiet — just how he liked it.
Until Craig Luther walked in, as punctual as ever.
"Mr. Marcelo," Craig said, voice clipped and professional. "You've got five minutes until the shareholders' quarterly meeting."
Alexander didn't look up from the document he was scanning on his tablet. "Where is it being held?"
"Boardroom Alpha. Floor forty-five. I've already prepped your notes and sent the digital presentation to the head screen."
Craig stood silently, waiting — as always — for a cue that Alexander might acknowledge the rest of the day's chaos. He got it a moment later when Alexander finally set the tablet down and massaged his temple.
"And before I forget," Craig continued, checking his tablet. "Miss Jennie Jones called again."
Alexander groaned softly.
Craig raised an eyebrow. "She says — and I quote — 'Please tell Alex that I made dinner reservations at my place. Just the two of us. I've had the chef fly in lobster from Maine.' She insisted I mention the lobster twice."
"Jesus Christ," Alexander muttered. "The woman thinks lobster is a love language."
"Should I… cancel for you?"
"No. That's not enough."
He stood up from his seat and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the skyline. Below, Manhattan glittered like a jewel box — distant, chaotic, but too far to touch him.
"Tell her I'm unavailable," he said. "Something came up last-minute. Be polite."
"Polite how?"
"Tell her I appreciate the offer but I'll have to take a rain check. Say it in a tone that sounds almost apologetic."
Craig tapped it into his notes. "You know she won't give up."
"I don't expect her to," Alexander replied dryly. "But I also don't reward persistence that borders on stalking."
He adjusted the cuff of his tailored navy-blue suit and headed for the door. "Let's get this meeting over with."
**********
The boardroom was already filled when he arrived — twelve shareholders seated around a gleaming obsidian conference table, each with a glass of sparkling water in front of them and a digital monitor flickering with quarterly reports.
The room fell quiet as Alexander walked in. He didn't need to assert his authority. It followed him like a shadow.
"Gentlemen. Ladies," he said with a nod. "Let's begin."
He took his seat at the head of the table and launched into the quarterly overview — growth metrics, acquisition updates, expansion plans. His voice was smooth, confident, sharp. The kind of voice that closed billion-dollar deals before breakfast.
His father sat to his left — Martin Marcelo, founder of Bluestone Group and a man who wielded wealth and manipulation like twin blades. He was in his sixties now, but still wore power like an expensive cologne.
Every so often, Alexander noticed his father watching him. Not with curiosity — with calculation.
And each time Alexander took a sip from his water glass, Martin's smile curled just a little deeper.
It was weird. Disconcerting.
By the time the meeting was halfway through, Alexander felt... off.
His skin prickled with heat beneath his suit. His fingers were trembling — barely, but enough for him to notice. He blinked hard, trying to stay focused, but the words on the digital screen were starting to swim.
He pressed two fingers to his temple.
"Are you alright, Alexander?" one of the board members asked.
"I'm fine," he said, too quickly. "Just— too many late nights reviewing projections."
Martin chuckled. "Working hard... or hardly sleeping, hmm?"
A few people laughed. Alexander didn't.
He took another sip of water, hoping the coolness would settle the strange burn in his chest, but it only made it worse.
His father raised his glass in an almost mocking toast.
That was the final red flag.
Alexander pushed his chair back abruptly and stood. "If you'll excuse me— I've just remembered I have a personal obligation."
"Shall I continue the presentation on your behalf?" Craig asked quietly.
"No." Alexander's voice was strained now. "Just wrap it. We're done here."
The moment he left the boardroom, the world seemed to tilt.
The elevator ride to the penthouse suites felt like a fever dream. He ripped off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt collar, and texted Craig:
ALEXANDER: Make sure my father doesn't follow me up.
ALEXANDER: I don't want him in my suite.
CRAIG: Understood. Want me to call the doctor?
ALEXANDER: Not yet.
He made it into Suite 5000— his private residence within the hotel — and stumbled into the bathroom like a man possessed. The air inside felt suffocating. His skin burned like fire.
He turned on the cold water full-blast and stepped under the shower fully clothed, leaning his forehead against the marble tiles.
What the hell is happening to me?
His thoughts were fractured, disoriented. Every cell in his body felt like it was vibrating — hot, wild, desperate.
It was more than stress. More than exhaustion.
He'd been drugged.
**********
Two floors below, in a locked boardroom...
Martin Marcelo leaned back in his chair, swirling the untouched glass of water in front of him with a smirk.
One of the shareholders leaned in. "Is your son alright?"
"He's just... overwhelmed," Martin replied calmly. "The pressure of leadership. Running this empire."
The other man chuckled. "Or maybe he needs a vacation."
Martin's smirk widened. "Oh, he'll get one. Sooner than he thinks."
**********
Back upstairs…
Alexander collapsed onto his couch, soaked and shivering, his mind running in circles.
He tried to think rationally.
What did he drink? Just water. From the glass Craig had poured… no, wait. He hadn't seen who poured it. The glasses were already set up when he walked in.
And his father kept glancing at him.
He sat up suddenly, drenched clothes clinging to his skin.
His father had drugged him.
But why?
The answer was as clear as it was chilling: Control.
Martin Marcelo had never approved of Alexander's bachelor status. Never accepted that his only son refused to settle down. And lately, he'd been applying more pressure than usual. Asking about grandchildren. Legacies.
It was absurd. Maddening. And yet…
A strange haze was creeping into Alexander's thoughts now. Not panic — something deeper. A rush of instinct, heat, hunger.
He stumbled toward the minibar, trying to pour himself a glass of whiskey to burn through whatever was in his system. His hands shook. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble floor.
"Goddamn it!"
He gripped the counter, chest heaving. Sweat dripped down his neck despite the air conditioning. Every nerve felt like it was buzzing, craving... something.
Someone.
His mind flashed — unbidden — to the face of a woman. He didn't know who. Just warm brown eyes, soft lips, dark curls pulled into a ponytail...
He clenched his fists.
Get a grip, Marcelo.
He needed to get help. Or lock himself away until this passed.
He grabbed his phone and typed another message to Craig:
ALEXANDER: No one enters my suite. Not even housekeeping.
CRAIG: Understood. Should I come up with security?
ALEXANDER: No. Just make sure my father doesn't come near me.
He didn't wait for a reply. He tossed the phone on the couch, breathing heavily, the room spinning slightly.
He couldn't think straight. Couldn't control it.
All he knew was that he needed air.
And just as he reached for the door... it opened. Alexander panicked and ran for the bathroom.