The fluorescent lights of the Cross Tower vibrated with a low, headache-inducing frequency that seemed to drill directly into Fegor’s skull.He sat in his cubicle —a grey, fabric-walled box that was indistinguishable from the three hundred other grey boxes on the floor. To the corporate world, this was his cage. To Fegor, right now, it was a bunker.He dabbed a wadded-up tissue against his split lip. The blood had started to dry, turning tacky and dark, but the throbbing hadn't stopped. His ribs ached with a dull, rhythmic cadence that matched his heartbeat. Thump-throb. Thump-throb. Every breath was a reminder of Randy’s fist and Gustavo’s knee.But pain was just data. It was the body’s way of saying, “We are damaged.” It wasn't a stop sign.He swept a stack of "Urgent" files off his chair, listening to them slap against the cheap carpet. He didn't care about the quarterly projections for the Midwest region anymore. He didn't care about the supply chain logistics for the upcoming qua

New York City blurred past the window of the yellow taxi, a smear of grey concrete and flashing lights. Fegor sat in the back seat, bouncing his knee nervously. Every red light felt like a personal insult. Every pedestrian crossing the street too slowly felt like an enemy of the state. "Driver, abeg move fast!" Fegor muttered, lapsing into Pidgin as his anxiety spiked. He checked his cracked phone for the hundredth time. 11 hours remaining. Dr. Aris had been clear. The Ghosts —the internal intelligence of the West Syndicate— were scanning the guest lists. Fegor’s fake entry under "Medical Partners" was a ticking time bomb. If he wasn't physically standing on that Island when the digital flag went up, if he wasn't there to smooth-talk or bulldoze his way through, the invite would be deleted. And Fegor would be dead. Or worse —unemployed and blacklisted by Ethan Cross. "We are here, buddy," the cab driver grunted, pulling up to the curb of a faded, red-brick apartment complex

Fegor flinched. He looked at the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir sitting on the nightstand.He had drunk that wine last night.He remembered the taste —earthy, rich, expensive. Tisha had poured it for him, smiling, clinking her glass against his. He had thought she bought it as a treat, a celebration of their two-year anniversary which he couldn't afford to celebrate properly. He had toasted to their future, to the house in Jersey, to the children they would have.He had toasted with wine bought by the man sleeping with his girlfriend.The humiliation was complete. It didn't just wash over him; it drowned him. It felt like sewage filling his lungs, heavy and suffocating.Lance stood up, pulling on his silk boxers with the casual arrogance of a man who owned the room, the woman, and the world. He walked over to Fegor, towering over him by three inches. He was clean. He smelled of sandalwood and money. He was everything Fegor wasn't in that moment."Here," Lance said, reaching into his d

Fegor closed his eyes. He didn't hit her. He simply turned his body and shoved. He pushed her backward, breaking her grip on the bag. It wasn't a strike, just a forceful displacement of energy.Tisha stumbled back. She tripped over Lance’s legs. She fell hard onto the floor, landing on her hip.She gasped, looking up at him with wide, shocked eyes. Then, the tears came—fake, loud, and practiced."He assaulted me!" she screamed at the empty room. "He pushed me! Help! He violated me!"She scrambled for her phone on the nightstand."I'm calling 911! You're done, Fegor! You're going to prison! You'll never see the light of day!"Fegor watched her. He watched the woman he had planned to marry dialing the police to ruin his life.Fear —cold and sharp— spiked in his chest. This was it. This was his greatest fear coming true. The system swallowing him whole because of a lie.He adjusted the bag on his shoulder."Call them," Fegor said.Tisha froze, her finger hovering over the call button. S

Helen pushed herself off the bed and suddenly, she began to rip off the pipes attached to her body. She was tired of being stuck in the bed and doing nothing. She needed to see the entire mansion and exactly what Eva was talking about when she said Adrian was a god. But most importantly, she needed to devise a plan, a way to exert revenge on everyone who had hurt her. Her mom, the Crosses, the Romanos and any one else involved in the murder of her father and the near-death experience of…“Ma’am, please, return to your bed.” a thick voice stopped her before she could take further steps. It was one of the guards, a fine black man who looked like he could singlehandedly end the incoming world war 3. He opened his hands, blocking the entrance, then signalled to the others to ensure that Helen does not leave.“You are not to leave the room under any circumstances, Mrs. West. The order is from Mr. West hisself.” then he turned behind, “Go get the doctors now,” his voice vibrated.Helen hisse