The dossiers covered Lawrence's desk like casualties on a battlefield.Twelve files, each thick with information Kent had gathered over the past week. Photographs, financial records, and personal histories. Everything Lawrence needed to know about the people who would judge him in Geneva, deciding whether Thomas Lance's son was worthy of inheriting his father's place among Europe's elite.Or whether he was just another pretender destined to be exposed.Lawrence picked up the first file, its weight substantial in his hands. The photograph clipped to the front showed a man in his early seventies, his silver hair perfectly styled.Kent stood across the desk, tablet in hand, ready to clarify anything the files didn't fully explain. "Lord Blackwell controls about forty percent of Europe's luxury goods market. His family has been in textiles, jewelry, and high-end retail since the 1600s. He's very particular in the person he gives his attention""Particular how?" Lawrence asked, scanning th

The poker table materialized like a trap being set.Staff moved with practiced efficiency, clearing a section of the grand ballroom and assembling a professional-grade table covered in green. Crystal glasses appeared, filled with amber liquid. Chips stacked in precise towers, each representing thousands of euros in real money.Lawrence watched the preparation with a sinking feeling he refused to show.Sebastian Cross stood across the room, surrounded by admirers and sycophants, his silver hair catching the chandelier’s light like a crown. He announced the challenge loudly enough for half the gala to hear. It was about humiliation."Your father and I used to settle disputes this way," Sebastian said, loud enough for the growing crowd to hear. "Cards don’t lie. They reveal who you are under pressure. Let’s see if Thomas’s son inherited his father’s spine or if he’s just another rich boy playing dress-up in daddy’s suit."The crowd loved it. Phones came out immediately, discreet but pres

The chateau transformed around Lawrence as if he’d stepped through a portal into another reality.People who’d been watching him with skepticism an hour ago now approached with calibrated warmth. Conversations that had excluded him suddenly opened to include his opinion. Laughter followed his casual comments as if winning twenty million euros and humiliating Sebastian Cross before Europe’s elite had made him inherently funnier.Isabelle Moreau was the first to approach."That was impressive," she said, her accent making the words sound more profound. "I’ve watched men play poker for years, but I’ve never seen someone read Sebastian Cross that accurately. He’s usually unreadable.""Everyone’s readable if you look closely enough," Lawrence replied, aware of how pretentious that sounded."Indeed." Isabelle’s smile was wide. "Perhaps we should discuss business sometime. Moreau Banking is always interested in strong partnerships with companies that demonstrate both intelligence and courage

Lawrence entered Dr. Hart's office. Dr. Hart looked up at him from the notebook she's reading."Lawrence," she said, gesturing to the couch. "You look terrible.""Thanks." He sat down heavily, feeling exhausted. "That’s exactly what every man wants to hear.""I'm not here to flatter you. I'm here to help you avoid destroying yourself." She set her notebook aside, giving him her full attention."What happened?"For a long moment, Lawrence didn't answer. He stared at the white walls of her office, and then at the diplomas and certificates that proved she was qualified to dissect his psyche, and wondered if there was any point in pretending he had everything under control."I found letters," he said finally. "From my father. Dozens of them, written over thirty years. All addressed to me. None was ever sent."Dr. Hart's expression didn't change, but he saw her lean forward slightly. "What did they say?""That he loved me." The words felt strange in Lawrence's mouth, like a language he'd ne

Dr. Evelyn Hart sensed something was wrong the moment she stepped into the parking garage.The overhead lights flickered, casting shadows that twisted across concrete pillars. Her footsteps echoed loudly in the empty space.She tightened her grip on her briefcase, keys already between her fingers. The garage was supposed to be secure, access-controlled, monitored by cameras recording every angle.Her car sat three rows away, a silver sedan dull under inconsistent lights. Evelyn quickened her pace, heels clicking against the floor in sync with her racing heartbeat. Paranoia gnawed at her—no one was—The van door slid open with a thunderous sound in the silence.Three men emerged, faces hidden behind masks. Evelyn opened her mouth to scream, but a gloved hand covered her face before the sound escaped her mouth, a chemical-soaked cloth pressed against her nose.She fought. Dropped her briefcase, clawed at the arms holding her, kicked backward with her heels. One man grunted in pain, his