The banquet hall still echoed with laughter and clinking glasses, but Ethan Cross had already tuned out the noise. His smirk never wavered as he lifted a hand, silencing the chatter around him.“You’ve all said enough,” he declared, his voice carrying the calm assurance of someone who finally sat where he believed he belonged. “Make the arrangements. I don’t want just any restaurant—m I want the best. The finest chefs in this city. Our celebration must be remembered, not only by us but by everyone who dares whisper the name Cross.”The room filled with murmurs of approval. Servants and assistants scurried to take notes, some already making phone calls, eager to deliver results before Ethan’s temper could sour.“Vanessa,” Ethan said smoothly, “come with me. I have… a private matter to discuss with you.”The words sent a ripple through the gathering. Bob blinked, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Private?” he muttered under his breath. For a second, the corners of Bob’s smile twitched.

The apartment had never felt so small. It was a modest place with peeling wallpaper and secondhand furniture, the kind of space that whispered of exile and failure. But for Helen, it was at least a shelter after the storm. She had just started to catch her breath from the chaos at the Cross estate when the low rumble of engines rolled down the narrow street outside.At first, she ignored it. Cars came and went all the time. But this sound wasn’t casual traffic—it was deliberate, heavy, a synchronized arrival. When Helen glanced out the curtain, her stomach plummeted.A fleet of glossy black cars lined the curb, their tinted windows gleaming under the streetlamps. Doors opened, and a small army of bodyguards stepped out, their suits perfectly tailored, their movements crisp. At the center of it all, like the star of a show he had staged himself, emerged Fabio Romano.The man looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. His hair was slicked back with precision, his Italian

Fabio adjusted the cuffs of his designer jacket as though the visit had been little more than a chore. He glanced at the apartment door, already signaling to his bodyguards to clear the way. To him, the evening was over — he had flaunted his wealth, mocked Helen, spat on Adrian’s pride, and lapped up enough of Sasha and Ben’s groveling to stroke his ego.But Sasha wasn’t ready to let him leave. Not yet.She hurried forward, her heels clicking against the uneven floor tiles, her face tight with desperation. “Mr. Romano, wait,” she called out, her voice rising with false cheer. “You can’t go just yet. Please, stay for dinner.”Fabio paused, turning his head slowly. His expression was half amusement, half irritation. “Dinner?” he repeated, his tone dripping with disbelief. “Here?” His eyes traveled deliberately around the small apartment — the worn sofa, the cramped dining table, the outdated light fixture overhead. He smirked. “Do you really think you have anything to serve that could p

The mahogany table in the Cross estate’s great hall gleamed beneath the chandelier’s golden glow.Every chair was filled — uncles, cousins, aunts, spouses, each member of the sprawling Cross family gathered as Ethan had commanded. Their faces reflected a mix of unease and eagerness. Unease because the patriarch, John Cross, lay upstairs unconscious. Eagerness because power was shifting, and they all knew it.Ethan sat at the head of the table where his father once presided. He leaned back slightly in the chair, fingers tapping on the polished surface, his expression calm but calculating. The silence was deliberate. He let them stew in it until the tension grew thick enough to taste.Finally, he spoke. His voice was smooth, carrying a gravity that silenced even the faintest whispers.“As you all know,” he began, “our father’s condition has not improved. In fact… I fear it has worsened. The physicians we’ve summoned have done what they can, but the truth is clear.” He paused, letting hi

The night over the Cross estate was calm — almost too calm. The meeting had ended in roaring approval, wine glasses clinking, laughter echoing through the corridors. Yet upstairs, away from the noise, Ethan Cross’s mind was restless.He walked briskly up the marble staircase, his polished shoes tapping softly against the floor, and made his way to the private balcony overlooking the city. The sprawling skyline glittered below, towers piercing the darkness like shards of gold. It was a view John had loved — one Ethan intended to claim for himself, permanently.He shut the balcony door behind him and slipped a hand into his pocket, drawing out his phone. His fingers trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the electric pulse of ambition surging through him.He dialed a number. It rang twice before a calm, accented voice answered.“Doctor Petrovic speaking.”“Petrovic,” Ethan said, his tone low, almost a growl. “I just came from the meeting. The family believes Father won’t make it. Bu