Ella Wexler was lying on the worn sofa, staring blankly at the stained ceiling above her. Cold sweat covered her forehead, dripping down the sides of her neck as she tried to move her right leg. Nothing. Not even a single muscle moved. "What the heck is this?" Ella muttered under her breath, panic slowly rising in her chest. She took a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and tried again with all the strength in her body. Still, nothing happened. Her legs felt as heavy as blocks of stone, completely numb and cold as ice. Three days ago, she had injected that blue medicine Bruce gave her, thinking she was finally going to walk again. For the first day, the pain had actually disappeared, and she had genuinely believed Bruce's promises. She had even pictured herself stepping out of a sports car in front of Rowan, rubbing her recovery right in his face. Well, that turned out to be a complete joke. By yesterday evening, a strange stiffness had started creeping up from her ankles into

The silence in the grand ballroom was so thick you could hear a pin drop. Several older executives in the front rows took one look at the silver serpent pins on the guards' jackets and turned pale as ghosts. In the northern territories, nobody messed with the Obsidian Group. They owned the largest hospitals, controlled the banking syndicates, and had enough power to make entire companies disappear overnight. Director Harold from the City Commercial Bank nearly dropped his wine glass, his hands trembling so hard that wine spilled onto his shirt. "What is the Obsidian Group doing here?" Harold whispered in terror to the man beside him, "I thought Bruce Wexler was the only one they sent to Riverdale!" "Bruce was just an outside manager," The man replied, swallowing the lump in his throat, "That woman in red... that's Lady Vivienne. She sits on the central council in the Capital!" Vivienne walked forward with slow, steady clicks of her high heels, looking around the room with clea

The applause in the grand ballroom was still echoing off the high ceiling when a sudden, strange buzzing sound filled the air. It was a low, vibrating hum that rattled right through the walls and floor of the hotel. At first, nobody in the crowd paid attention to it, still staring in complete awe at the deep-blue sapphire resting against Zora's chest. Guests were still whispering among themselves about the fifty-million-dollar heirloom, pointing at Lady Vivienne whose face was pale with embarrassment. Zora looked at Rowan, her hand gently touching the cold, smooth surface of the stone around her neck, "Rowan, are you sure this is alright?" She asked softly, leaning close to him so only he could hear, "Lady Vivienne isn't going to let this go. A woman like that cares more about her pride than anything else in the world," "She has the entire Obsidian Group behind her," Zora added, worry visible in her bright eyes. Rowan smiled gently, his thumb lightly stroking the back of her ha

The bright white halogen lights illuminated every corner of the grand ballroom, banishing the darkness in an instant. The five hundred guests slowly poked their heads out from beneath the tablecloths and overturned dining tables, blinking their eyes against the sudden glare. When they looked at the center stage and the surrounding aisles, their jaws dropped wide open in complete, absolute shock. Lying scattered across the red carpet were twenty heavily armed mercenaries in matte-black body armor. Every single one of them was disarmed, their weapons tossed into neat piles on the floor. Some were groaning with broken arms and shattered knees, while others were completely knocked out, their helmets cracked in half. And standing on the stage, completely untouched, was Rowan Ashford and Zora Vance. Rowan was still holding Zora's hand gently, not a single speck of dust on his midnight-blue suit, his hair as neat as it was when he first walked in. "What in the world..." Director Harol

The morning fog hung low over the commercial court square in downtown Riverdale. A crowd of curious onlookers and small business owners had gathered outside the gates of the Wexler family's corporate headquarters. Red court-ordered seals were plastered across the heavy glass doors, stamped with the golden emblem of the Provincial Economic Crimes Bureau. Inside the building, court bailiffs were carrying out filing cabinets, computers, and office furniture, loading them into large auction trucks. Following Lord Bruce Wexler's arrest for treason and the two-hundred-million-dollar fine slapped onto the family, the Wexler estate was being dismantled piece by piece. Every single company asset, from their real estate properties to their private vehicle fleets, was being auctioned off to pay for the massive debt. Asher Wexler stood across the street, huddled behind a metal trash can like a stray dog. He was wearing a dirty gray hoodie and torn jeans he had picked up from a cheap motel l