From Prison scapegoat to a Multi-Trillionaire

Chapter 10: Delivery

Damien looked at the trembling warehouse manager, a man who had spent two years spitting on him, docking his pay, and treating him like vermin. Now Higgins sat behind his desk, reeking of cheap whiskey and desperation, begging for answers Damien had no intention of giving.

"The schedule," Damien repeated, his voice calm. "I asked you a question, Higgins. What routes are open?"

Higgins blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He was used to screaming at this man, threatening him, humiliating him. The sudden power reversal had shattered something inside his small, cruel mind.

"There's... there's a delivery to the Kingston Corporation building," Higgins finally stammered, pulling up his digital log with shaking fingers. "Heavy equipment parts. But you don't have to—I can send someone else—"

"No."

Damien's single word cut through the air like a blade. He reached forward and took the printed route ticket from Higgins's desk, folding it neatly and tucking it into his back pocket.

"I'll take it."

"But... but the Kingstons... they're your—" Higgins stopped himself, the word 'wife' dying on his tongue. He had heard the rumors already, the way gossip traveled through the city's business circles like wildfire. The divorce had been filed. The papers were signed. Damien Blackwood was no longer connected to the Kingston name.

"Ex-family," Damien finished for him. "Which makes this delivery even more interesting, doesn't it?"

He turned and walked out of the glass office, leaving Higgins slumped in his chair, staring at the empty doorway like a man who had just watched a ghost walk through a wall.

The manual flatbed truck rattled through the city streets, its engine coughing black smoke at every red light. Damien sat behind the wheel, his bruised hands steady, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The morning sun glinted off the skyscrapers of the financial district, and in the rearview mirror, he could see the three black SUVs maintaining a careful distance.

Elena's people. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.

He didn't mind the surveillance. In fact, he expected it. A brilliant detective knew that sometimes the best shield was someone else's curiosity.

The Kingston Corporation headquarters rose from the concrete like a monument to stolen wealth. Thirty stories of blue glass and steel, the family name carved in gold letters above the revolving doors. Damien had been here before, in the old life, but never as anything more than a servant carrying coffee or waiting in the lobby while Chloe attended meetings she refused to let him join.

Today was different.

He pulled the truck into the loading bay at the rear of the building, parking beside a row of sleek delivery vans belonging to legitimate suppliers. The moment he killed the engine, a security guard approached, clipboard in hand, his expression bored and dismissive.

"Delivery manifest," the guard grunted, not even looking up.

Damien handed over the ticket. The guard scanned it, then froze. His eyes slowly lifted, traveling from the faded warehouse uniform to the bruised, unreadable face above it.

"You're... you're Damien Blackwood."

"Sharp observation," Damien replied dryly. "The engine parts are in the back. Where do you want them?"

The guard's face twisted through a series of emotions: confusion, discomfort, and finally, a sneer of contempt. The news of the divorce had spread fast, but so had the family's version of events. To the Kingston employees, Damien was still the trash son-in-law, a pathetic figure to be mocked and dismissed.

"I heard Ms. Kingston finally threw you out," the guard said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Took her long enough. You want my advice? Take the parts to Bay 7 and keep your head down. Some of the executives are coming through today, and they don't need to see your ugly face dragging down the property value."

Damien didn't react. He simply nodded, walked to the back of the truck, and began unloading the heavy crates onto a rolling cart. The guard watched him for a moment, then spat on the concrete and walked away, already forgetting the interaction.

But Damien remembered. He remembered every slight, every insult, every moment of cruelty directed at the man whose body he now inhabited. The original Damien had died in that prison cell, but his memories remained—a ledger of pain that demanded to be balanced.

The service elevator carried Damien up to the 12th floor, where the executive suites overlooked the city. The cart rattled beside him, stacked with crates of industrial equipment destined for the company's IT upgrade. According to the manifest, he was supposed to deliver them to the storage room and leave immediately.

But Damien had other plans.

As he pushed the cart down the carpeted hallway, his eyes scanned every door, every security camera, every keycard reader. The building's layout was already mapped in his mind from the System's blueprint, but seeing it in person confirmed his suspicions.

The private vault was on the 18th floor, accessible only by a separate elevator that required biometric clearance. Chloe's fingerprint. Chloe's retinal scan. Chloe's access code.

He couldn't blow the vault open. But he could wait for the right moment. A moment when Chloe would open it herself, and he could slip through the cracks.

That moment, he suspected, was coming sooner than anyone realized.

"Damien?"

The voice stopped him cold. He turned slowly, his expression shifting into the dull, submissive mask of the old Damien just in case.

Chloe Kingston stood in the doorway of a corner office, her arms crossed over her chest, her sharp eyes narrowed with a mixture of surprise and fury. She was dressed in an expensive white pantsuit, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun, every inch the powerful executive she believed herself to be.

Behind her, standing at the window with a glass of champagne in his hand, was Julian. The golden boy's face went pale the moment he saw Damien, his grip tightening on the crystal stem.

"You," Chloe hissed, stepping forward. "What are you doing in my building?"

"Delivery," Damien said flatly, gesturing to the cart. "Engine parts. Your IT department ordered them last week."

"I don't care what they ordered." Chloe's voice was ice. "You signed the divorce papers. You're nothing to this family. You shouldn't even be allowed to breathe the same air as us."

Julian recovered his composure, setting down his champagne and walking to stand beside his sister. "Maybe he's here to beg, Chloe. You know how pathetic he is. Probably crawled back hoping you'd take pity on him and give him a few scraps."

"Actually," Damien said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that made both siblings flinch, "I'm here to deliver a message."

Chloe's eyes widened. "A message? From who?"

Damien stepped closer, the cart rolling forgotten behind him. He stopped inches from his ex-wife, close enough that she could see the cold fire burning in his dark eyes.

"From the police," he said softly. "The internal affairs investigation into the prison guards who tried to kill me? It's expanding. They're looking into the payments that were made to ensure I didn't survive Cell 4. Payments that, according to the financial trail, came from a shell company connected to Kingston Construction."

Julian's face drained of all color. "That's... that's a lie. There's no investigation."

Damien smiled, thin, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Keep telling yourself that, Julian. But when the detectives come knocking, remember that I warned you."

He turned and walked back to his cart, leaving Chloe and Julian frozen in the doorway of the corner office. As the elevator doors closed behind him, he heard Chloe's voice rising in panic, demanding to know what Julian had done, what loose ends they had missed.

The doors sealed shut, cutting off her screams.

Damien leaned against the elevator wall, his eyes fixed on the descending floor numbers. The seeds were planted. The paranoia would grow. And when the Kingston family finally cracked under the pressure, they would make a mistake.

That was when he would strike.

Back on the loading dock, Damien secured the empty cart and climbed into the driver's seat of his truck. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A System notification, he assumed, updating his trial progress.

But when he pulled out the device, the screen displayed a different message.

[Unknown Number]: I know you saved my life. I know you're hiding something. And I know you're sleeping in a fifty-dollar tenement while holding enough power to buy this city. You can't hide from me forever, Damien. —ES

Damien stared at the message for a long moment. Then, slowly, a genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Elena Sterling was relentless. He respected that.

He typed a single word in reply and hit send.

[Damien]: Patience.

He started the engine, the truck coughing to life as he pulled out of the loading bay and merged into the flow of city traffic. The black SUVs fell into formation behind him, invisible guardians watching his every move.

The game was accelerating. The pieces were moving into position. And somewhere in the penthouse suite of the Sterling Group headquarters, a brilliant, determined heiress was reading his message and smiling for the first time in years.

No romance. She wasn't throwing herself at him. Just respect.

And respect, Damien knew, was far more dangerous than love.