DAMIAN
Observe. Analyze. Control. That's how I've always maintained the boundary between work and personal matters. Until now.
The line has blurred. Collapsed, really. And it's all because of her. Mila Thorne. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. Skin like warm cedar.
Stacy, my secretary, clears her throat again.
I look up from my laptop. Her expression is perfectly neutral, professionally controlled. Though one eyebrow ticks upward slightly, revealing her irritation.
"Sir, we've narrowed the options for the fashion expansion. The two most viable targets are Yonder Couture and L'Etoile Noir."
L'Etoile Noir.
And just like that, my mind returns to her.
Why is she making me wait?
I must admit, I didn't predict this level of stubbornness. I'd assumed she'd be desperate enough to do anything to save her mother. But Mila Thorne is a fighter.
I gave her seventy-two hours. My eyes shift to the clock on the wall. I clench my jaw. Her time is running out. In less than forty-eight hours, she'll be crawling back to me.
A satisfied grin creeps across my face.
I return my attention to the laptop, studying the same video clips I've watched for the past hour. The first clip shows Mila entering Sterling Trust Bank. The second, her meeting with Harrison in his office. The third, her walking out twenty minutes later, shoulders slumped, defeated.
I have the audio for everything except the conversation in Harrison's office. But I don't need it. Harrison already briefed me. He followed my instructions perfectly. Refused her request. Explained the Power of Attorney situation. Crushed her last hope.
I pause the video and zoom in on a still frame from just before she entered the bank. She's frowning at her phone. I wonder what she saw.
No matter how much I zoom in, I can't make out what's on her screen. The resolution isn't good enough.
"Sir, which company should we focus on for the partnership?"
Stacy again.
I wasn't listening.
I lean back in my chair and wave a hand dismissively.
"Email the details to me. I'll review them and give you my answer tomorrow."
Her eyes widen slightly, as if she wants to argue.
I raise a brow, expectant.
"Of course, sir," she says, her shoulders dropping. "Eight AM, as always."
That's right. Now leave.
I wait until the sound of her heels fades down the hallway.
Then I replay the footage again.
Mila is close to breaking. I can see it in the way her shoulders slump when she leaves the bank. The way her hand trembles as she opens the taxi door. The defeated angle of her head as she stares out the window.
Satisfaction settles in my chest. She has no way out of this.
Elena Thorne has more than enough money to fund her own care. Millions of dollars, sitting in accounts at Sterling Trust. But with her in a coma, it might as well not exist.
Arthur Thorne holds Power of Attorney over his wife's finances and medical decisions. The financial clause doesn't bother me. But the medical clause is where things get interesting. Technically, Arthur could refuse to authorize Elena's transfer to Riverside Medical Center. He could block the entire arrangement out of spite.
But I have him cornered on every front.
All the evidence I've compiled against him regarding his involvement in illegal offshore accounts and tax evasion is enough to sideline him. Shut him up. Destroy him.
Harrison made sure I got copies of everything when Arthur moved his accounts to Sterling Trust three years ago. Every transaction. Every suspicious transfer. Every illegal deal.
Arthur values his reputation above everything. He won't risk a public scandal just to deny Elena treatment. Not when I hold enough leverage to dismantle his empire in a single afternoon.
I close the surveillance footage and open another folder. This one contains the original contract. The real one. Not the fabricated version Mila saw at my penthouse.
There's one critical difference between them.
The length of our marriage.
I scan through the document. Thirty days. That's all I need her for. On Day 31, I'll file for divorce on grounds of adultery. I already have the pre-arranged evidence. Photographs. Witnesses. A scandal designed to maximize damage. Each piece will be released to the media on the morning of Day 31. Then Elena's medical funding terminates immediately.
The effect will be devastating. Maximum public humiliation. Arthur will watch his daughter destroyed, disgraced, abandoned. And Mila will discover the truth. That I never intended to honor the six-month timeline. That her mother's care was always going to be cut off after thirty days. That she was nothing but a pawn in a game she didn't even know she was playing.
The landline on my desk starts beeping. I answer.
"Yes, Stacy."
"Sir, the investors from Shanghai are here for the three o'clock meeting. They're waiting in the lobby."
A welcoming distraction.
"Show them to the conference room. I'll be there in ten minutes."
I close the laptop and straighten my tie.
*
The remaining hours blur together in the familiar rhythm of business. I sit through meetings with the Shanghai investors, discussing expansion into the Asian luxury market. Numbers. Projections. Revenue streams.
Everything runs exactly as it should. Except my thoughts.
They keep drifting back to her.
I check my phone. No missed calls.
Not yet.
*
I leave the office at eight and head straight to my private gym on the forty-second floor of Visconti Tower.
The space is minimalist. Concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Equipment arranged with military precision. Punching bags. Free weights. A boxing ring in the center.
I change into workout gear and wrap my hands.
My trainer, Joel, is already waiting. Mid-forties, former Marine, the only person I trust to push me past my limits.
"Rough day?" he asks, tossing me a pair of gloves.
"No."
"Then why do you look like you want to kill someone?"
I don't answer. Just pull on the gloves and step into the ring.
Joel grins. "Alright. Let's go."
We start slow. Jabs. Crosses. Hooks. The rhythm is familiar, grounding. My fists connect with the pads in Joel's hands with satisfying thuds.
"Faster," Joel says.
I increase the pace. Sweat drips down my temple. My muscles burn.
"Harder."
I throw everything into the next punch. Joel staggers back a step, laughing.
"There it is. Whatever's eating you, take it out on the bag."
I move to the heavy bag and let loose.
Each punch lands with brutal force. The chain rattles. The bag swings violently.
I see Arthur's face. His smug expression. The way he spoke to Mila at the hospital.
"She's been a vegetable for months."
I hit harder.
I see my father's office. The contract Arthur made him sign. The betrayal hidden in the fine print.
Harder.
I see my mother. Screaming. Water closing over her head.
My fist slams into the bag so hard the chain snaps.
The bag crashes to the floor.
Joel whistles low. "You good?"
I'm breathing hard, chest heaving. My knuckles ache inside the gloves.
"I'm fine."
"Yeah. Sure you are."
I strip off the gloves and head to the showers.
The water is scalding. I stand under the spray, letting it burn away the tension in my shoulders.
Steam fills the space. I close my eyes. And hear it.
Splashing. Frantic. Desperate.
My mother's voice.
"Help me! help me!"
I open my eyes. The shower. Just the shower.
But the sound doesn't stop.
Water hitting tile. Her screams. My father's shouts.
I slam my fist against the wall.
The memories are always there. Waiting. No matter how much time passes, they don't fade.
That night. Fourteen years ago.
My parents, defeated. And Arthur Thorne's hand in all of it. I turn off the water and stand there, dripping, fists clenched.
Resolve tightens in my chest.
I don't need Mila to sign the contract to start destroying Arthur.
I can begin now.
I dry off, dress in a white shirt and black shorts and return to my study.
It's nearly ten PM. The city glitters below. I pick up my phone and dial.
It rings twice.
"Visconti." The voice on the other end is smooth, professional. Vincent Calabrese. My contact at Hernez Capital. A man who owes me more favors than he can count.
"I need a favor," I say.
"Of course. What do you need?"
"Thorne Global Group. They have a infrastructure deal closing at the end of the month. Hernez is one of the anchor investors."
A pause. "That's correct."
"Pull out."
Silence on the other end.
"That's a big ask, Damian. Arthur has been a client of ours for fifteen years." He says quietly.
"I'm aware. Pull out. Cite internal reallocation. Nothing accusatory, nothing that gives him grounds to push back."
"He'll feel that. Other investors will get nervous when they see Hernez walk."
"That's the idea."
Another pause. "This won't finish him. Not over one deal."
"I'm not trying to finish him." I pour myself a scotch and let the silence stretch. "Not yet."
Vincent goes quiet on the other end. Then, conceding, he says, "Consider it done. I'll have the withdrawal notice filed ASAP."
"Good."
"This makes us even, Damian. All the favors. Cleared."
"Agreed."
The line goes silent.
I walk to the window, swirling the scotch slowly.
It's a small move. Precise. Arthur will hear about Hernez pulling out soon and spend the rest of the week running damage control, reassuring investors, demanding explanations nobody will give him. It won't cripple him. A man like Arthur Thorne doesn't crumble over one nervous investor. But that isn't the point. The point is the doubt. The cold awareness that something has shifted.
Let him look over his shoulder for a while.
The real damage won't come from a withdrawal notice. It will come first from his daughter, standing beside me, photographed and announced as my wife. That is the wound Arthur won't recover from. Everything else is just the opening move.
I take a slow sip and watch the city below.
The game has already begun. And Arthur Thorne doesn't even know which board he's playing on.