Rowan’s private lift opened straight into the top-floor suite of Echelon Eight. It still felt strange, riding up fifty stories alone. No chime, no polite “ding,” just doors that parted like stage curtains whenever the biometric scanner recognized his pulse. Inside, Elena already had the war-room look on her face: hair twisted in a low knot, glasses perched halfway down her nose, one finger flying across a tablet while the other hand paged through three color-coded folders at once. She never seemed rushed, only calibrated. Rowan stood before the glass, the skyline sprawled beneath him like a chessboard on fire — towers glowing, cars streaming through arteries of light. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, subtle but real. Elena saw it. She’d been watching him for years, and she could count on one hand the times that smile had appeared like that — genuine, not calculated. The last time, if she remembered right, was the day he found out his secret investment in a failin

PRESENT DAY Jason almost tripped out of the boardroom, disbelief draping over him like a second skin. One minute, he was just Jason, a campus nobody with a part-time job at Billy’s Diner Grill. The next, he was walking out with a Lexus at his side, ready to be presented to the most powerful man in the world as “his son for the evening.” The surreal nature of the moment made his heart drum in his ribs—but it also ignited something else: a fierce, electric thrill. He paused in the lobby, hands trembling, doubt creeping in. Me? But Elena’s voice had been firm, unwavering. “You fit the role, Jason. Just be yourself—carry yourself like you already own the place.” So he’d smiled, nodded, climbed into the car that cost more than a starter home, and drove away from everything he thought he knew. By midday, he was back at college—his second home, and his daily battlefield—sunglasses masking his fatigue, hidden in a sleek but borrowed jacket. The campus buzzed with the usual midday fre

Lena sat in the plush salon chair, the stylist’s skilled fingers weaving magic through her hair. Soft waves cascaded into perfection, every strand shimmering beneath the salon lights. She scrolled through her phone absentmindedly—outfit choices, invite RSVP lists—when suddenly her breath caught. A video had blown up her feed. It was them—her and Dominic—in her office. Intimate. Exposed. Their kisses raw, their laughter unfiltered, Dominique’s shirt hanging open. The glare and glamour of the salon’s lighting added glamor and scandal to every second. She froze, nails digging into the leather armrest. The stylist paused mid-motion. The room buzzed with salon chatter, but the screen ruled the air. Leaked? she thought, stomach twisting. How? Who filmed it? How did this get out—right before the gala? Her reputation was on the line. Tonight was supposed to cement her presence in high society. It was a key moment—for Obsidian, for Dominic, for her. “Oh—my—God,” she whispered. The styli

Megan lay sprawled beneath silk sheets, the late afternoon sun slipping through their bedroom window. Dominic's phone thudded on the bedside drawer. Megan lifted her head, hair tousled like a dangerous halo around her defiant face. “Who was that? Lena?!” she hissed, eyes narrowing. Dominic adjusted his tie, lingering over the phone to silence any further interruptions. “Yeah. Something about Rowan,” he replied with an edge—half irritation, half satisfaction. Megan’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oh… can that daughter of mine survive out there in the world without needing a babysitter like you? You, who swept in with your silver spoon and zero backbone?” He leaned forward, brushing a seductive line across her collarbone. “Depends on how she plays her cards.” Megan closed her eyes, exhaling with silent pleasure. His touch was both comforting and scandalous—a reminder of her illicit power. Yet the undercurrent of threat hung in the room like perfume. “If you want something from me, D

Echelon Eight—an empire hidden in plain sight, carved into the marrow of the world’s economy. Nations bent for a seat at its table. Billionaires whispered its name in reverence. Politicians feared it. CEOs envied it. And tonight, under a sky thick with stars and secrets, its gates opened—not for the world, but for the chosen few. The night draped itself in velvet silence, broken only by the soft hum of engines—no, not engines—symphonies. One after another, exotic machines rolled up the white marble driveway like creatures of a higher order. First came the frost-white Koenigsegg Jesko Absolut, its twin-turbo engine purring like a dragon. Out stepped a man wrapped in sapphire satin. His cane gleamed in one hand, his wife shimmering in a gown stitched with actual diamonds. She waved like royalty, and to some, she was. This was the prince of New Monaco, a client of Echelon Eight since his father’s crown nearly collapsed. “Wow. The Albert Alex family,” someone said, pulling out his pho