Paris had always been the city of dreams, but for Adrian Knight, it had become the city of ghosts. Beneath its glittering lights and elegant charm, he saw only the reflection of his failures. The streets whispered secrets in languages he didn’t understand, the soft rain carried memories he couldn’t escape, and every step he took seemed to lead him back to the same haunting truth he had run from a life that refused to let him go. The sound of rain against the cobblestone filled the air as he walked aimlessly, hands deep in the pockets of his dark coat. He looked like a man with everything wealth, power, control but beneath the surface was a heart torn by the past he had buried alive. Paris was supposed to help him forget. It didn’t. It only sharpened the pain he had tried to silence.He had chosen this exile, renting a small apartment in Le Marais, far from the noise of business, far from the name Knight. Every morning, he would watch the sunrise creep through his window, painting the c

The morning after his return, the Knight estate stirred with quiet chaos. Word had already spread—Adrian Knight was back. Some called it resurrection, others called it disaster. To those who served under his father’s rule, his name carried both fear and fascination. He was the son who had vanished when the empire began to rot, the heir who had turned his back on blood and business. Now he was walking through the halls again, alive and deliberate, and everyone wondered what he wanted.Adrian didn’t answer questions. He didn’t give interviews. He didn’t even glance at the curious eyes watching him as he strode through the corridors of power that once defined his world. He had learned something in Paris—silence was stronger than words. Silence made people nervous. Silence made them reveal themselves.The boardroom felt colder than he remembered. Polished marble floors reflected faces that smiled too easily and voices that spoke too politely. There were new faces among the old, and Adrian

The rain came down like shattered glass, every drop glinting under the pale city lights as Adrian drove through the sleeping streets. The storm had drowned Paris in darkness, and the only sound was the steady rhythm of the wipers fighting against the downpour. The city looked unfamiliar now — colder, emptier — as though every corner was holding its breath. He had been gone for years, but tonight, Paris didn’t feel like home. It felt like a warning.The Glass District rose ahead of him, its skyline fractured and incomplete. The towers that once promised fortune and beauty were nothing but hollow skeletons of ambition. Half-built glass walls reflected the faint light of his headlights, turning the ruins into mirrors of failure. He remembered walking through this place as a child, clutching Victor Knight’s hand while workers shouted orders and sparks from welding torches rained like stars. His father had promised him that one day, this district would belong to the Knights — that they woul

The wind cut through the open field like a blade, dragging the smoke of the explosion across the horizon. Elena ran until her lungs burned, until her body felt detached from her mind. Her hair clung to her face, soaked with rain and blood that wasn’t entirely hers. Somewhere behind her, the city was screaming — sirens, shouts, and the low, endless hum of chaos.She didn’t look back.The SUV that had picked her up minutes before the blast had flipped under gunfire; its frame was now a mangled skeleton on the roadside. She had crawled out, limping, half-conscious, with only one thing still clutched in her palm — the small, scorched chip she had torn from the detonator panel seconds before everything went white.Now it pulsed faintly in her hand, alive, mocking her.She stumbled toward a cluster of abandoned warehouses near the docks, her breath short and ragged. Every sound felt amplified — the echo of her steps, the whine of wind through broken windows, the metallic hum of the world col

The rain hadn’t stopped. It came down in sheets that blurred the streets of Paris, drowning the city in silver. Adrian Knight stood at his hotel window, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand, his reflection staring back at him like a stranger. It had been weeks since the incident at the safe house in Montmartre, but the silence that followed felt wrong too quiet, too measured, like the world was holding its breath before something broke.He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. Every reflection on a café window. Every shadow that moved half a second too late. Every call that disconnected before a voice spoke. It was as though someone was following him through invisible mirrors.He told himself it was paranoia. Trauma. The price of remembering too much and trusting too little. But that night, when he woke to the faint hum of static from the corner of the room, he knew it wasn’t just his mind. The television had turned itself on. The screen flickered with broken fragme