Liam stared at the headlines on the glowing tablet in front of him. His coffee sat untouched, growing cold. “Hawthorne Empire Expands Into East Asia After Takeda Deal Collapse”“CEO Called ‘Too American’ for Global Integration”“Liam Hawthorne: The King of Nothing or the Next Global Warlord?”The words crawled like vipers across the screen, each one sharpened to provoke. They weren’t just reporting facts — they were trying to write his downfall before it had even begun.The board wanted calm.The press wanted blood.And Takeda?Takeda wanted revenge.The Japanese tech giant had once been a potential ally. Liam had extended his hand in good faith. Even flown to Osaka, sat across from him with translators and contract lawyers, outlining a partnership that could’ve pushed Hawthorne Holdings global.But when Liam refused to cede control, refused to become a puppet CEO beneath a foreign conglomerate’s thumb, Takeda turned cold. The deal collapsed, and with it came whispers — that Liam was

The Takeda motorcade glided up to the Plaza like a black, armored serpent. Sleek sedans with tinted glass and a stretch limousine at the center. The hum of New York’s media vultures filled the air — the flash of cameras, the bark of shouted questions, the restless press corps penned in behind barricades. Ava Langston stood at the front of the line, her PR team flanking her, dressed in steel-gray silk that shimmered beneath the winter sun. She was poised, chin high, the picture of a woman unshaken by the chaos around her. Until the car door opened. And the first stiletto heel touched the pavement. They were black patent leather, needle-thin, glinting as the wearer stepped out. The skirt followed — midnight-blue power suit, tailored to perfection. A tall, willowy figure unfolded from the limousine with the grace of a predator. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but not the faint curl of her lips. Ava’s breath hitched. The world around her dulled, sound muffled, as her gaze locked on the

It happened just after 7 a.m.Liam’s phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. He ignored the first two calls from Voss, assuming it was about an overnight market shift or a hostile board member making noise. The third call made him frown. By the fourth, he picked up.“They leaked it,” Voss said without preamble.Liam’s grip tightened on the phone. “Leaked what?”“The boy. You. Boston.”Ice spread through his spine. “Where?”“Everywhere. Takeda’s media arm packaged it into a headline: The Child Ava Langston Hid From the Empire.”“That’s a lie,” Liam said sharply.“I know,” Voss replied. “But they buried the truth under something better — headlines, sentiment, outrage. Social feeds are flooding with it. News anchors are dissecting your morality over morning coffee.”Liam didn’t bother pulling up the articles. He could already hear the crowd outside his building from the top floor — the chaos of press cameras, shouted questions, and the shrill click of shutters.From the street, voices rose like a

"Ava.”Her name from his lips was both a command and a warning. He wasn’t going to let it go. He never did when he thought she was hiding something dangerous.She turned from the window at last, and for a moment, the room felt too small for the two of them. Liam stood with his hands braced on the counter’s edge, eyes sharp, but there was something else there too — worry. The kind of worry that made her want to look anywhere but at him.“It’s not just her,” Ava said finally. “It’s what comes with her. The kind of trouble that makes even you look over your shoulder.”“I’ve faced worse.”She let out a humorless laugh. “You’ve faced enemies who wanted to win. Delilah doesn’t just want to win — she wants me gone. Erased. There’s a difference.”His jaw tightened. “What did she do to you?”A thousand images clawed up from the dark — the auction room, Julian Vale’s cold smile, Delilah’s whispered advice that wasn’t advice at all but the first nudge toward ruin. The night she’d realized her si

The image burned in Ava’s palm like it was molten iron, searing through skin and bone until it settled somewhere deep in her chest.She didn’t even realize she’d stopped breathing until her heel shifted slightly, pressing into the base of her wineglass, and the faint crack of glass reached her ears. It was barely more than a whisper — but enough to snap her back into herself.Her gaze locked on the man in the photograph.Tall. Lean. A shadow of muscle under a tailored jacket.And the scar — sharp and deliberate — cutting across his jawline like a blade had claimed him and he’d survived just to spite it.But it was his smile that cut deepest. Dangerous. Amused. The same smile he’d worn the night he left her bleeding on the cold pavement while the city lights blurred above her. A smile that had followed her into her nightmares.“Impossible,” she breathed, her voice almost drowned by the pounding in her ears.Delilah’s voice came smooth as silk, but with the edge of a knife hidden in its