The Westmont building had been abandoned for years.Once a symbol of high rise ambition, the skeletal structure now loomed over the edge of the city like a forgotten ghost. Its scaffolding was rusted, its elevators inoperable, and its name had long since been scraped from the marble lobby wall. Yet tonight, it would serve as the setting for a conversation that might alter the course of Van’s life.He arrived just before midnight, dressed in a simple dark coat and boots. No entourage. No driver. Just him and the city, veiled in fog.The security gate had been left open —deliberately, no doubt. He pushed through, boots crunching softly on gravel and broken glass. The building was quiet except for the wind moaning between the steel girders.Van climbed thirteen flights of cracked concrete stairs before reaching the roof.Andrew was already there.He stood near the edge, hands in the pockets of his long coat, his posture casual. But Van knew better. His brother was never casual about anyt

Van knew something was wrong the moment he entered his office Monday morning.The front desk staff barely looked at him. Two department heads who usually greeted him with warmth avoided his eyes. And when his assistant handed him the morning summary, her fingers trembled slightly.He read the top line and froze.“Leaked Documents Suggest Long Term Financial Misconduct Tied to Everest Holdings.”It had begun.“Source?” he asked.“No confirmation yet,” She said. “But whoever leaked it… they knew exactly what to release.”Van’s heart pounded as he scanned the summary. The documents were real. Years old reports showing questionable transfers under his father’s name. Several tied to campaign funding in foreign accounts. The report was vague enough not to indict Van personally —but damaging enough to create a storm.“They’re painting us all with the same brush,” he muttered.“That’s not the worst part,” She added, her face grim. “Andrew just gave a statement to the press.”Van slowly lifted

Van sat in his office the next morning, the anonymous message from the night before still fresh in his mind.“You think you’ve won, but we’re just getting started.”He had seen many threats in his time— corporate saboteurs, boardroom betrayals, scandalous exposés— but this one was different. It wasn’t just a threat to his career.It was personal.The message had come from an untraceable number, routed through two international servers, leaving his security team spinning. Whoever sent it knew how to stay hidden.His assistant brought in his morning espresso, unusually quiet. She set it on his desk, along with the early reports.“No updates yet?” Van asked, voice low.“No, sir. But cybersecurity’s monitoring everything.” She hesitated, then added, “And the media’s starting to speculate.”“Let them.”She lingered by the door. “There’s something else. The chairman of Triarch Investments called. They’re asking whether you’ll be stepping down.”Van didn’t flinch. “Tell them no.”“Understood

The day had started like any other.Van was already dressed and in his home office by seven thirty, reviewing quarterly forecasts and fielding early calls from his European investors. Ivy peeked in around eight with Leona on her hip, hoping to convince him to come down for breakfast.“Five more minutes,” he said, distracted.She rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said thirty minutes ago.”He smiled at her —just a flicker— and then turned back to his screen. Ivy sighed and carried Leona back to the kitchen, where the real operation was already in motion.In the background, music hummed from the speakers: soft jazz, mixed with occasional bursts of child giggles.The dining table had been cleared to make space for decorations. A roll of gold and navy ribbons sat next to a large banner that read: “Happy Birthday, Van!”— hand painted in swirling script by Isadora, whose hands were now smudged with ink and glitter.“Does he suspect anything?” Isadora asked.“Not a clue,” Ivy said, then grinn

It had been four months since Brandt and Isadora returned from their honeymoon like stay in Cuba —four months of playful days, long nights, and the constant, chaotic wonder of raising a newborn.Their daughter, Celeste, had transformed everything.And yet… nothing between them felt forced.Some days were a blur of diapers, spit up, and 03:00AM lullabies. Others felt like walking through a poem— Brandt cooking breakfast with Celeste tucked into the sling across his chest, Isadora sketching the world from their sunlit balcony as Brandt read novels aloud beside her.Today was somewhere in between.They lived in a cozy modern apartment not far from Van and Ivy’s mansion, close enough for impromptu visits and family dinners, but far enough to feel like their own space. Isadora’s art studio took up the sunroom, while Brandt converted the small office into a minimalist library with floor pillows and baby-proofed bookshelves.The rhythm they built was not perfect, but it was theirs.And they