Rain lashed the rooftop like a warning from the heavens. Derek Blackwood stood outside the emergency room, soaked to the skin, the cold doing little to numb the fire raging in his chest. Inside, a life was hanging in the balance—his foster father’s. The only man who had given him a semblance of family after years of being tossed from home to home like trash.“Family only,” the nurse had said, barring his way. Family.He clenched his fists. What a joke.Behind him, a familiar voice sliced through the storm. “You should be used to rejection by now, Derek.”He didn’t need to turn. That icy tone belonged to her—Tahlia. His wife.Or the woman who once wore that title.She stepped under the hospital awning, perfectly dry in her tailored coat, makeup flawless, eyes cold as glass. Her mother was right beside her, clinging to a crocodile-leather purse and moral superiority.“I didn’t think you’d show,” Tahlia added, eyeing him like something that crawled out of the drain. “But I suppose even r

Derek had barely slept.By morning, the house had transformed into a machine. Assistants buzzed through the marble halls, stylists hovered over him like he was a product, and his tailored suit was delivered with surgical precision.Alaric watched from the corner of the room, arms crossed. “Remember, today isn’t about being liked. It’s about being undeniable.”Derek stared at himself in the mirror. The reflection didn’t look like the man who’d been kicked out of a cramped apartment days ago. He looked like a Dawson. But inside, he still felt like the intern who had to fight for respect.They arrived at the Dawson Corp headquarters at 9:00 a.m. sharp.Twenty stories of polished steel, glass, and power. Security guards nodded as he passed. But not everyone looked thrilled. Some employees stared like they were seeing a ghost. Others whispered, some smirked.Then the press hit.Flashes. Microphones. Shouted questions.“Mr. Dawson, how long have you known you were heir?”“Did you really gro

Derek sat in the backseat of the sleek, matte-black SUV as it cruised silently through the heart of Havencrest. He stared out the tinted window, barely blinking, his hand clenched around the letter from the Dawson Foundation—his father’s last words, hidden for decades.“You’re unusually quiet,” Marcus said from the passenger seat, glancing at him through the rearview mirror.Derek’s voice was low. “I just found out my real father might have been murdered.”Marcus didn’t flinch. “There’s something else you need to know.”Derek turned his full attention to him.“The Dawson Foundation was never just a charity,” Marcus said, pulling out a sealed brown envelope. “It was a front for something much older… and much more dangerous.”Derek opened the envelope. Inside were photos—old crime scenes, bloodied letters, and a worn-out journal. In the center was a newspaper clipping: Billionaire Philanthropist Dies in Fire—Suspected Arson.His heart hammered against his ribs. The date matched his eigh

The intercom crackled again. That same voice.“We warned you, Derek. Stop chasing ghosts.”Derek was already moving—grabbing the hidden pistol from the drawer, switching his monitor feed to security cameras. Every hallway was dark. But on Camera 07, he spotted it.A figure, tall and familiar, standing in the elevator.Impossible.His uncle—James Dawson—had died in a car crash ten years ago. The body was burned beyond recognition. The funeral closed-casket. Derek had been fifteen.And yet, here he was, staring back at him through a grainy feed.Was it a trick? A voice mimic? Deepfake?Or worse…The elevator stopped on his floor.Derek turned off the monitor and killed the lights. Silent as a predator, he moved to the shadows near the door.Footsteps.The distinct sound of Italian leather on marble.Then a soft knock. Just three taps.Then silence.Then…“I taught you better than to freeze, Derek.”The voice was real.He didn’t open the door. He whispered instead: “If you’re alive… why

Derek Dawson stood in the center of the Dawson family archive, the scent of old wood and aged leather thick in the air. The vault beneath the estate had remained sealed for nearly two decades—until now. The creaking iron door groaned open like a dying man’s last breath. Behind it, rows of ancient ledgers, locked cabinets, and dusty portraits whispered secrets long buried.The flashlight in his hand cast eerie shadows across the stone walls. For a man now worth billions, Derek still felt the weight of his former life—those hungry nights, those days Tahlia treated him like he was beneath her shoe. But this vault wasn’t about pain. It was about power—and truth.“Are you sure about this?” Miles asked from behind him. The former bodyguard-turned-confidant stood watchfully, his hand near his sidearm.“I need to know everything,” Derek said, voice flat. “No more blind loyalty to a name. I want the truth about the Dawson legacy.”As Derek pulled open the first drawer, a letter fell to the flo