BETRAYED ONCE: FROM NOTHING TO BILLIONIARE POWER

Chapter 15: Will Reading

Marcel furrowed his brow, but he didn’t argue. Just disappeared into the back and came out with a garment bag. “Rush job, one suit, ready now. The rest in a week.”

Ryan took the bag. “Thanks.”

Marcel smiled; it was small but real. “Mr. Cole said you’d be interesting. He was right.”

Ryan, not knowing how to acknowledge that, nodded his head and then proceeded towards the exit.

Marcus leaned against the Mercedes when Ryan came out. His eyes swept different directions of the street before landing on Ryan.

“Done?” He asked.

“Almost.” Ryan held up the bag. “I need to change.”

Marcus pointed down the block. “Public restroom. There.”

Ryan walked. Marcus followed, half a step behind, still scanning.

The restroom was very small, and it smelled like bleach and old piss. Ryan locked the door and opened the bag.

The suit inside was black and expensive. It felt like water when he touched it.

He stripped off the thrift store clothes and pulled on the suit. The fabric was cool against his skin and fit perfectly; Marcel had somehow nailed it without a second fitting. The jacket hugged his shoulders, and the pants fell clean. The shirt was white, crisp, and starched.

Ryan looked at himself. The guy in the mirror was still thin, but he looked ready now. Like someone who’d crawled out of hell and wasn’t done fighting.

A cold smile spread across his lips. “Let them see me now.”

He walked out, and Marcus straightened when Ryan emerged. His eyes widened just for a millisecond, just enough for Ryan to catch.

“Better,” Marcus said.

“That’s all you’ve got? Better?”

Marcus’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “You look like you’re about to bury someone.”

“That’s the idea," he chuckled.

They walked back to the car. Marcus opened the passenger door. The seat felt different now. He felt different now.

Marcus started the engine and pulled into traffic.

“Where to?” 

Ryan looked out the windshield. “Take me to my father’s house.”

………

The Wright private villa stood immaculately over the city landscape stretching through. The Mercedes sliced through the quiet road before slowing at the towering iron gates. They opened with precision, as if the house itself had been expecting them.

The moment almost felt cinematic, and Ryan watched from the back seat of the car.

Marcus had insisted he sit there for appearances. 

‘You know because you are a young master now,’ he added earlier, ignoring Ryan's protest.

The words still felt foreign in his head.

As his father's estate came into his view. Ryan's eyes widened in awe. It was a place he had never seen or been before. He knew of his father, but never had he dreamt of him having a mansion that existed in the richest part of the city.

This wasn’t wealth. This was a legacy.

The driveway stretched endlessly ahead, lined with ancient oak trees whose branches curved overhead, forming a natural tunnel. Their shadows swallowed the car as it moved forward, like a passage into something darker and older.

Then the house revealed itself.

It wasn’t flashy; no glass walls, no loud, modern design screaming for attention.

It didn’t need to. Power didn’t announce itself here. It simply existed.

‘This is where he lived, and this is where he died,’ Ryan thought.

Marcus parked among a fleet of vehicles ranging from black SUVs to a silver Rolls-Royce to a Mercedes-Maybach that probably cost more than Ryan had ever touched in his life. Every car gleamed, spotless, as if cleaned daily. 

Everything about the place screamed luxury, old money, the type of money that had lasted generations, but his dad was not always rich, or was he? Ryan thought.

Ryan didn't move for a second. He sat in the back seat, with his hands placed on his thighs, still feeling the fabric of his new black suit, which fit perfectly. 

“You look like you're about to bury someone,” Marcus's words came back to him.

That's the idea.

“Ready?” Marcus asked. His voice was lower than usual.

Ryan looked at the house, then shifted his gaze to the windows. In the shadow, people were moving behind the glass, people who were about to become his enemies; he could sense it.

“As I can be," Ryan finally replied. With a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped out.

With heavy feet, Ryan approached the double door, which opened before he even got to it.

A butler stood in the doorway, dressed in a tailored black suit, assisted with white gloves that fitted so precisely they looked like a second skin. His posture was rigid, and his face carried no warmth or welcome. 

The man's eyes landed first on Ryan then Marcus before resting on Mercedes behind them, as if cataloguing every detail.

“Your name, sir?” he asked, his tone smooth.

“Ryan Wright.”

For a fraction of a second, barely noticeable something shifted in the butler’s eyes. Ryan couldn't tell if it was recognition or surprise, but after a second it vanished quickly as it came.

"Yes, Mr. Wright, you are expected,” he said with a slight nod, then stepped aside with one gloved hand, gesturing inward.

Ryan reciprocated the nod.

“Please, follow me.”

Ryan walked past him, feeling the weight of the man’s presence linger for a moment too long, like he had been measured and silently judged.

The building was two stories tall, and a foyer came into view with a chandelier hanging above the kind of piece that looked like it belonged in a royal castle, guarded day and night in case anyone dared to steal it. 

Light spilled from it in soft gold, reflecting off the polished marble floors beneath Ryan’s feet.

Each step he took echoed.

A long staircase curved upward, and the walls were lined with paintings and portraits of men and women frozen in time, ranging from generations of faces to wealth, power, and legacy.

To Ryan they were all strangers, except one. At the end of the hallway, a portrait stood apart from the rest. It was his father, and Ryan stopped.

The man in the painting looked younger than the one from the video. Stronger, with healthier youth untouched by whatever burdens had come later. One thing remained: his eyes were the same grey, lingering with sadness.

Ryan’s jaw tightened. 

‘That’s the man who left you and your mother without looking back and died two weeks ago.’

The thoughts came uninvited, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring; then, after a few seconds, he forced himself to move.

The butler led them up the staircase and into a large study on the second floor. The room felt heavy with silence; bookshelves covered three walls, filled with rows of leather-bound books perfectly existed for display rather than use. On the fourth wall sat a fireplace, cold and dark despite the chill in the air, as though warmth wasn’t something this house believed in.

At the center of the room stood a long wooden table, surrounded by high-backed chairs that gave off an almost throne-like presence.

And they weren’t empty as people were already seated.

Ryan's eyes moved around the room, looking at faces, trying to read them, labeling things in his mind.

Harrison sat at the head of the table, shuffling papers, looked up when Ryan came in, and gave a small nod.

Three other lawyers who were wearing dark suits all had faces that looked like they'd been carved from stone. 

Ahead of them was a woman in her late twenties, having dark hair with familiar grey eyes. She wore a black dress that cost more than most people's rent, and her posture gave a hint of years of practice.

Katerina.