Dorian Vale felt the weight of every stare as soon as he stepped into the ballroom. It was pity, not surprise, not excitement. Just pity. He froze by the doorway, digging his fingers into the small velvet box in his pocket, the one he’d spent months planning for.He’d pictured this night a hundred times. Celeste would smile as she walked toward him. Her father would look grumpy as usual. The Vales would pretend he’d always been family. Dorian would open the box, and Celeste would say yes. Simple. That’s how he wanted it.He’d saved for the ring—no way was he spending Vale money. This was supposed to be his gift. But now, everyone watched him with the kind of expression reserved for bad news and broken dreams.He scanned the room. There was Celeste, standing under the chandelier, shining in a silver dress. Tristan Vale stood beside her, one arm slung around her waist, looking like he owned the moment. A giant diamond sparkled on Celeste’s finger—way bigger than the one Dorian bought.D

POV: DORIANThe first thing that hit Dorian was pain.Not the quick, stabbing pain he’d braced for when he heard the gunshot. Not the suffocating pressure from being swept under by the river—that felt like it had happened to someone else.This pain cheated. It was everywhere, all at once.Every breath made his ribs flare up, both shoulders ached like they’d been pinned in place with steel rods, and there was a thick, grinding headache pressing behind his eyes.For a moment, he had no idea where he was.Then it rushed back.The river. The bridge breaking apart under him. Gunfire. Tires screeching. His mother’s voice.He jolted awake and tried to sit up.Agony knifed through his side, and he couldn’t help the half-groan that ripped from his throat.“Don’t.”A voice. Not one he recognized.He went rigid.A man sat by the window in a wooden chair—late fifties, early sixties maybe, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Dark hair, streaked with silver. A hard face, edges blunted by

POV: DORIANDorian stopped believing in stories a long time ago.Stories were what people used when they didn’t have proof. The Vales gave him stories for twenty years. His parents died in an accident. He just happened to survive. They took him in because they cared. They made him believe he was family. But those stories fell apart, every single one, all in less than a day.So when August looked him in the eye and said he was Cassian Adrian Ardent, Dorian pushed back. Not because he wasn’t afraid—he was terrified, honestly. That’s exactly why he demanded proof. The kind you can’t argue with. No photos, no memories, no strangers, no dusty records. DNA.“DNA,” Dorian said.August looked up from the front seat. “We’re almost there.”“I don’t care.”Dorian kept his tone cold. “I want a DNA test.”“You’ll get one,” August said.“Between me and Octavian.”August’s gaze shifted. “That’s difficult.”“Then make it happen.”August started to protest—something about danger—but Dorian cut him off

POV: DORIANThe thing that hit Dorian first about Ardent Dominion was how much it didn’t feel like a company at all.It felt like its own country.The headquarters towered over the financial district, a wall of glass and steel pushing up into the morning clouds, way above the city. Down below, hundreds of employees moved through a lobby that gleamed—black marble, gold trim, and that big polished emblem: ARDENT DOMINION.He stopped beneath it, looking up.For twenty years, people told him he was just a lucky nobody, some orphan who got a second chance with the Vale family. Now here he was, standing under a family name that was supposed to have been his since the start.August stood next to him.“You all right?” he asked.Dorian kept looking at the sign. “No.”August almost smiled. “Good.”Dorian shot him a sideways glance. “Good?”“If you were comfortable, I’d have to worry,” August said.They walked inside, took the private elevator up. Octavian had ordered everyone to keep Dorian’s v

POV: DORIANDorian didn’t confront Edmund Vale. Not yet, anyway. The message he’d gotten last night gave him a name, but a name alone doesn’t prove much.One thing was clear though: Edmund Vale knew exactly why he’d been kept off the radar. Trying to deny it now just sounded stupid.But over the past few days, Dorian had figured something out. People lie when they’re scared. And records? They lie too, once someone’s slipped them enough cash. Numbers are a tougher breed. Numbers remember things.So, at eleven forty-seven that night, you’d find Dorian sitting alone in Veyron Logistics’ restricted financial archive, hunched over three glowing monitors. The place was quiet—the kind of quiet that settles in when only the security lights are left, cold and white, striping the polished hallway floor outside his glass box of an office.He’d already spent six hours pulling Veyron’s transactions apart, thread by thread. First, that $2.75 million funneled straight to Vale Strategic Holdings. The