The glass doors of Prestwick International Holdings swung open with a loud hiss as two broad-shouldered security guards stormed into the main lobby, their eyes locked on the thin, ragged figure standing in front of the front desk.“Sir, we’ve warned you already,” one of them barked. “You’re not welcome here.”John Whitaker’s arms flailed as they grabbed him roughly by both shoulders. “Please,” he said, voice cracking, “I just need to speak with Eleanor. Five minutes—just five minutes. I’m begging you.”But the guards weren’t listening.The first guard shoved him hard, sending him stumbling to his knees on the polished marble floor. Before he could gather himself, the second one yanked him up by the collar of his worn-out shirt and began dragging him across the lobby.The lobby of Prestwick International Holdings; the very heart of the billion-dollar Prestwick empire, was bathed in gold-trimmed elegance. Employees in designer suits paused mid-stride, turning toward the commotion. Some

The rain had slowed to a light drizzle, but the cold still clung to John’s skin. He could feel it deep in his bones. He sat hunched on a bench in Greywall Park, breathing softly, his hands shaking as he held the envelope the strange man had given him. It felt too heavy for just a few pieces of paper; like it carried something more. The man in the dark gray coat was already gone, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had come, leaving John sitting alone under a flickering streetlight.John turned the envelope over in his hands. It was smooth and black, with a silver symbol pressed on the front. The symbol showed a raven with its wings spread, holding a scepter in its claws. It looked familiar. He had seen it somewhere before; maybe in a magazine or on the news. Then he remembered. Thus symbol belonged to a man named Howard Ravenshore.Howard Ravenshore was no ordinary man. He was one of the richest people in the world; so rich it didn’t even make sense. People said he could co

The Prestwick estate’s living room was filled with shock and whispers. The air felt heavy, thick with the smell of whiskey and tension.John stood still near the doorway, his torn shirt sticking to his bruised body. In his pocket, he could feel the weight of the black card and the Ravenshore phone. Hannah’s words; her sudden proposal to marry him, still echoed in the room like thunder. Everyone was stunned.Eleanor’s mouth was open in shock, the divorce papers still in her hand. Winston’s cigar shook between his fingers. At the head of the table, Hailey Prestwick sat silently, her sharp green eyes focused and unreadable.It was Eleanor's father, Winston, who finally broke the silence. His loud voice filled the room, full of disbelief.“Hannah, do you even know what you’re saying?”Hannah didn’t respond. Instead, she stepped forward and knelt before Hailey, her delicate frame steady despite the weight of every gaze in the room. “Please, Matriarch,” she said, her voice soft but resolute

Early morning light slipped through the dirty window of John’s old apartment, giving the cracked walls and dusty floor a pale glow. John woke up on the worn-out couch, his bruised body aching as he moved. The thin blanket over him smelled musty, a sharp reminder of his life before Eleanor and the Prestwick estate. Across the room, Hannah slept on the narrow bed, her dark hair spread over the old pillow, breathing softly. Even here, she looked graceful—yet John couldn’t decide if her being here was genuine or if she had another reason.He sat up slowly, wincing from the pain in his ribs. In his torn jacket pocket, the Ravenshore phone and black card felt like secrets he wasn’t ready to share. His old phone buzzed on the floor beside him. The screen lit up with a hospital message: “Surgery scheduled for 10:00 AM. Patient stable. Funds cleared.” Relief washed over him, but he kept his face calm, checking to see if Hannah was still asleep. His mother’s life was safe now, thanks to the Rav

The night air grew thicker as John approached Westwood Bridge, the fog rolling in from the river like a shroud, muffling the distant hum of the city. The bridge arched over the dark water, its stone railings weathered and cracked, illuminated by sporadic sodium lamps that cast long, eerie shadows. John's footsteps echoed softly on the pavement, his breath visible in the chill. He checked his old phone again—8:57 PM. His heart raced with a mix of curiosity and caution. Who could it be? A Ravenshore contact with urgent information? Or a trap set by the Prestwicks or Fergusons, sniffing out his sudden disappearance from their lives?From afar, he spotted a car parked near the bridge's midpoint—a sleek red Mercedes Benz, its headlights off but its engine idling with a low purr. The sight stopped him in his tracks. That car... it was familiar. Too familiar. He squinted through the fog, his mind racing to place it. The red paint, the custom rims, the tinted windows—the exact model, the exac