One hundred and forty billion reasons

Whispers of an Empire

The Veymar estate sprawled across three acres of manicured lawns and marble fountains, a monument to old money and older cruelty. Rohen stood in the doorway of the grand sitting room, watching his wife’s family gather like vultures around fresh prey.

He’d returned from the hospital an hour ago, slipping through the servants’ entrance as always. No one had asked where he’d been. No one cared.

“Quiet, all of you.” Matriarch Isolde’s voice cut through the chatter. She sat in her usual high-backed chair, a queen holding court, her emerald necklace catching the chandelier light. “We have urgent business to discuss.”

The room fell silent. Olivier lounged on the sofa, legs crossed, looking bored. Dante Severan stood near the window, swirling brandy in a crystal glass. Lira sat near her grandmother, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast. She hadn’t seen Rohen yet.

Other relatives filled the remaining seats—cousins, uncles, business associates. All of them draped in designer clothes, all of them radiating entitlement.

Rohen stayed in the shadows by the door, invisible as always.

“I’ve received intelligence about a significant development,” Isolde began. “The Avalon Collective is expanding operations. They’re seeking partnerships for a new development initiative.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

“The Avalon Collective?” Olivier sat up straighter. “The hotel empire?”

“The largest privately-held hospitality network in the world,” Isolde confirmed. “Hotels, resorts, private islands, aviation services. Their portfolio is worth over one hundred and forty billion dollars.”

Someone whistled low. Dante’s eyes gleamed with interest.

“Their CEO is notoriously private,” Isolde continued. “No one knows his identity. He operates entirely through intermediaries and board members. But my sources tell me he’s young, ambitious. And currently searching for partners to expand into luxury real estate development.”

“And you want us to secure the deal,” Olivier said.

“I want this family to secure the deal,” Isolde corrected sharply. “Veymar Prestige Developments needs this partnership. It would elevate us from regional players to global contenders. The prestige alone would be worth billions.”

Rohen listened, his jaw tight. They were talking about his company. His empire. And they had no idea.

“How do we even approach him?” asked one of the cousins. “If his identity is secret—”

“Through his intermediaries,” Isolde said. “I have contacts who can arrange meetings. But we need to present ourselves as indispensable, charming and worthy of his attention.”

Olivier leaned forward, grinning. “Leave that to me. I’ve closed deals with harder targets than some reclusive billionaire. A little charm, a few carefully placed compliments—”

“Your charm is overrated,” Dante interjected smoothly. “This requires finesse, strategy. Perhaps a more… personal approach.”

He glanced at Lira.

Rohen’s hands curled into fists.

“What are you suggesting?” Isolde asked, one eyebrow raised.

Dante swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “The CEO is young. Unmarried, presumably. Someone like Lira, beautiful, elegant, refined could catch his attention where business proposals might not.”

Lira’s head snapped up, her face pale. “What?”

“It’s a sound strategy,” Olivier agreed, eyeing his cousin with new interest. “Use her as bait. Get close to him. Secure the deal.”

“I won’t—” Lira started.

“You will if this family requires it,” Isolde said coldly. “Unless you’d prefer to remain married to that worthless valet and watch your sister-in-law die in poverty?”

The words landed like a slap. Lira’s eyes filled with tears, but she said nothing.

Rohen wanted to storm in, to tell them all the truth, to watch their smug faces crumble. But Armitage’s words echoed in his mind: You don’t have to decide tonight.

Not yet. Not until he was ready.

He slipped out the door, unnoticed.

Twenty-four hours later, Rohen stood on the tarmac of a private airfield, staring at a Gulfstream G700 jet that gleamed white and gold in the afternoon sun.

“Avalon’s flagship,” Armitage said beside him, climbing the stairs. “Top speed, transcontinental range, every luxury imaginable. You’ll get used to it.”

Rohen followed him aboard, his worn sneakers sinking into carpet so plush it felt like walking on clouds. Leather seats, polished wood accents, a full bar, flatscreen monitors. The kind of plane he’d only seen in movies.

A flight attendant in a crisp uniform smiled. “Mr. Ashtekar. Welcome aboard. We’ll be departing for Santorini shortly.”

Rohen nodded mutely and sank into a seat that adjusted to his body with a soft hum.

Armitage settled across from him, opening a leather briefcase. “We’ll finalize the international expansion agreements in Greece. Sign the official transfer documents. And I’ll show you the resort your father died trying to open.”

The engines hummed to life. Within minutes, they were airborne, the city shrinking below them.

Armitage pulled out a thick portfolio and placed it on the table between them. “Your empire, Rohen. Every property, every subsidiary, every revenue stream.”

He opened it to the first page: a glossy photograph of a sprawling resort perched on white cliffs overlooking turquoise water. Celestine Santorini Resort.

“Your father’s dream project,” Armitage said quietly. “He spent three years designing it. State-of-the-art facilities, private beaches, underwater restaurants. He was flying there for the grand opening when the helicopter went down.”

Rohen stared at the image, imagining his father’s excitement, his pride. Then the sudden drop. The impact. The silence.

“It’s been closed ever since,” Armitage continued. “Waiting for you to decide its fate.”

He flipped through more pages. Avalon Grand Paris. Avalon Towers Dubai. Celestine Maldives. Each more stunning than the last.

Then a page that made Rohen freeze.

Azure Grand Hotels - a subsidiary brand focusing on urban luxury. Annual revenue: $45 billion. CEO: Viktor Hale.

Rohen knew that name.

Six months ago, Rohen had been working as a valet at the Azure Grand downtown. Hale had pulled up in a Rolls Royce, snapped his fingers at Rohen like he was a dog, and complained when Rohen didn’t move fast enough. He’d tossed a single dollar bill at Rohen’s feet and called him “slow and stupid.”

Rohen had picked up the dollar without a word.

Now he owned the company. He owned Viktor Hale’s career.

“Forty-five billion,” Rohen murmured.

“One of our top performers,” Armitage said. “Hale’s efficient, if ruthless. He runs a tight operation.”

Rohen turned the page, unwilling to think about revenge yet. Not when Mira’s pale face kept flashing in his mind.

“How is she?” he asked.

Armitage’s expression softened. “Stable. Dr. Tanaka arrived this morning. The treatment is already showing promise. Your sister is strong, Rohen.”

Relief flooded through him, so intense it left him dizzy.

“And Lira?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Armitage studied him. “Still at the Veymar estate. Still unaware of who you are.”

“It has to stay that way. For now.”

“Why?”

Rohen looked out the window at the endless sky. “Because the moment they know, everything changes. They’ll come after me. After her. After Mira. I need to be ready first.”

Armitage nodded slowly. “Smart. But eventually, Rohen, you’ll have to choose. You can’t live in both worlds forever.”

Rohen knew he was right. But for now, he was still the valet in worn sneakers, sitting in a private jet worth more than the Veymar estate.