The soft click of leather soles echoed through the underground parking lot beneath Everhart Tower. Javier Everhart walked alone, his figure calm and unbothered in his usual plain attire—charcoal slacks, an off-the-rack shirt, and no hint of the empire that pulsed beneath his name. To most, he was still the "assistant," the man who delivered coffee to executives who didn’t know he paid their salaries.But tonight, his calm carried a blade.Hidden in the shadowed pillars was the final piece of a puzzle that had bled his company for months.The mole.Javier turned the corner and stopped in front of a black sedan parked near the service lift. A tall man leaned against it, nervously smoking. It was Darren Holt, one of the junior project directors—ambitious, always eager to be seen, always quick to laugh too loud at a superior’s joke. He was also the one who’d been leaking internal documents, contracts, and board memos to Gideon Langston’s firm.Darren stiffened when he saw Javier. Then he

Gideon Langston stormed out of the boutique with the sharp staccato of his Italian leather shoes echoing against the marble. Rage coiled in his chest like a serpent. The smirks, the gasps, the humiliation—it all burned in his veins.He had underestimated Javier Everhart.Again.The man was like a ghost in the corporate world—unseen, unheard, and yet always one step ahead. The more Gideon tried to pull the strings, the more he found himself tangled in Javier’s invisible web.He climbed into the back of his limousine, barking into his phone, “I want everything you can find on Javier Everhart. Every property, every partner, every damn private holding. I don’t care how deep he’s buried it. Dig.”“Yes, Mr. Langston,” the assistant stammered.But as the call ended, Gideon leaned back and muttered bitterly, “This isn’t over. He’ll regret ever stepping out of his shadows.”Meanwhile, across the city, Javier sat alone in the Everhart Holdings penthouse office. The view behind him was dazzling—

“Ugh, seriously? You’d think malls had better standards these days.”The voice rang out sharp and haughty, echoing off the marble tiles of the luxury wing of the Avalon Mall. A group of well-dressed socialites, young heirs and heiresses in their designer wear, clustered near the display of a new boutique launch. And all their attention was fixed—not on the new collection—but on the man quietly browsing a modest rack in the corner.Javier Everhart.Plain grey shirt. Dark trousers. No logos, no sheen, no statement.Invisible to those who never learned to see power without labels.“Is he lost?” a girl with platinum curls and oversized sunglasses whispered, deliberately loud. “Someone tell him the discount store’s two floors down.”Her companion, a tall man in an obnoxiously bright Versace jacket, snorted. “I didn’t know janitors shopped here.”Laughter followed.Javier said nothing. He was examining a pair of cufflinks—modest but elegant. Something old-world. Understated. Just the way he

“THERE YOU ARE, YOU BASTARD!”The voice tore through the air like claws on glass. Loud. Unfiltered. Dripping with venom.Heads whipped toward the source.Storming into the boutique was a young man in a blood-red blazer, all fire and fury. Expensive cologne wafted with every exaggerated step. His jaw was tight, his lips curled into a sneer that could cut through glass.He pointed directly at Javier.“You think you can just ruin people’s lives and walk away like some kind of invisible god?”Javier turned slowly. No change in his expression. Calm. Controlled. Unmoving.The red-blazer man scoffed at the silence. “Oh, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue now that someone finally says it to your face?”People were already backing away, forming a loose circle around the scene. Phones began to rise—some pretending to check messages while they hit “record.”“That’s the guy?” someone whispered.“Javier Everhart. I heard he just had someone arrested.”“He looks like someone’s accountant, not a

The room went silent again, not from tension, but curiosity. The new man had the kind of presence that demanded attention. Slick, arrogant, dressed in an all-black ensemble that screamed “money” and “menace.” A gold watch peeked beneath his sleeve, the kind people wore not to tell time, but to own it.Javier turned fully now, eyes locked on the man like a sniper sighting a target. His expression didn’t change—still quiet, composed, and unimpressed.But the man smirked wider.“What? No hug for an old friend?”He stepped further into the boutique, the floor-length glass doors closing behind him with a click. His shoes—shiny, imported, expensive—made no sound, unlike Gideon’s once had. This man didn’t stomp.He prowled.Javier’s silence was permission.So the man continued.“Oh, that’s right. We’re not friends, are we? You’re the awkward charity case that used to sit at the end of the schoolyard bench with a book while the rest of us lived.”Someone gasped quietly.Another whispered, “He