RISE OF THE MORTE CONGLOMERATE HEIR

Chapter 1

Novel Male Lead & Cover visuals: KADEN HAMMOND #instagramStar 

The world was steel gray and smelled of gasoline. Zander Morte, or "Ice" as the menial workers called him, was meticulously wiping down the chrome grill of a custom-built Morte Motors Phantom. His hands, though scarred from the recent accident he could not recall, moved with an unconscious, almost surgical precision, wiping away a speck of dust no client would ever see. 

Ice’s current workspace was a concrete cubby in the deepest level of the Morte Tower parking garage, a dark, pressurized place where the city’s noise died. He didn’t know he was the heir to the entire conglomerate that owned this tower. He only knew he was "Ice", the new, quiet, and slightly clumsy in-house driver. The company paid him just enough to rent a room in a noisy boarding house miles away.

He wore a cheap, polyester uniform that was perpetually damp with cleaning solution. His ID badge was blank, a deliberate choice by the security team (Onyx Blade) to keep him invisible. He often caught his own reflection in the polished glass of the luxury cars, seeing a man with sharp, intelligent eyes that contradicted the vacant look of his face. A face that belonged to the CEO, not the chauffeur. He would shrug, finish the wipe, and move on. He had a job to do, and the shift manager made it clear: if a single fleck of dirt stained the leather, he was finished. 

Suddenly, a massive black SUV roared down the ramp, slamming to a stop beside the washing bay, startling Ice. The driver's window rolled down. 

Sable Morte, Acting CEO of Morte Properties, sneered from the driver's seat. His tailored suit looked expensive enough to buy Ice's annual salary. Sable was Zander’s cousin, the man who had ordered the hit that put Zander in the hospital. He had a triumphant, cruel energy now that he sat in the seat of power.

“Ice! You still here, you sluggish brute?” Sable’s voice was a sharp crack of annoyance. “I need the Bentley for the viewing in ten minutes. And I mean pristine. Not your usual low-effort scrub.” 

Ice nodded immediately, his chest tight with a frustration he couldn't name. “It’s ready, Mr. Morte. Just finishing the interior check.” 

Sable chuckled, a dry, dismissive sound. “Interior check. Right. You probably confuse the gear stick with the accelerator, but sure, check away.” He paused, looking down his nose. “And stop wearing that atrocious cologne. It smells like cheap motel soap. Do you want my clients to think my drivers are common street riffraff? Go hose yourself down before you breathe on the leather.”

Ice felt a hot surge of anger, but his amnesia had left him passive, almost docile. He just lowered his head. "I apologize, Mr. Morte. It won't happen again." 

Sable opened the door, deliberately swinging it wide enough to smash against the wash bay wall with a deafening thud. He then stepped out, his polished leather shoe grinding a cigarette butt deep into the floor just inches from Ice’s face. He didn't even look to see if Ice moved. "Get that cleaned up, then park the Bentley at the executive entrance. Quickly." 

Ten minutes later, Ice was standing at attention by the gleaming Bentley. The executive entrance was a storm of tailored suits and expensive perfumes. Sable Morte emerged, flanked by a client and his Top Property Specialist, River Rend.

River Rend, a man who once shared a dorm room, a startup company, and a blood-oath friendship with Zander Morte was now forced to play the high-ranking executive. He met Ice's gaze for a fleeting second. The raw pain and apology in River’s eyes were swiftly replaced by a mask of cold professionalism, a practiced distance that was necessary to maintain his cover under Sable's eye. 

“River, remind our client how exclusive this unit is,” Sable instructed, using Ice to stage his power display. Sable handed his briefcase, his leather planner, and his phone all to Ice. “And Ice! Keep that car running and the A/C blasting. I don’t want to sweat just because your low-grade engine needs a minute.”

Ice struggled to juggle the items. The client smirked. River Rend cleared his throat, pulling Sable’s attention back to the deal. “The exclusivity, sir, is guaranteed. We only show the unit with our most trusted personnel. No one gets near these deals without going through us.” River’s voice was smooth, but he glanced at Ice, a look that said, I’m keeping you close.

They reached the door. Sable pulled his keys from the pocket of his trousers. As he did, he didn't bother to ask for his briefcase back; he simply nudged the bag off Ice’s shoulder with his elbow. The briefcase dropped to the stone floor. 

“Clumsy,” Sable muttered, stepping over the fallen item. “Pick that up, Ice. And be useful for once.” 

River hesitated, his jaw tight, but followed Sable inside, leaving Ice alone on the pavement to retrieve the scattered papers and the broken pen that had belonged to his old self. 

Ice collected the scattered items, his hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from the deep, unfamiliar ache of insult. He knew he should be angry, but he didn't know why this man’s cruelty felt so familiar and personal. He opened the briefcase to reorganize the papers Sable had dropped.

Tucked into a small, interior zipper pocket was a single, crisp five-dollar bill. On the bill, written faintly in a specific kind of indelible ink he instinctively recognized was a single, barely legible letter: 'E'.

This was not a tip. Sable never tipped. This was a message. 

Ice’s heart gave a sudden, sharp thud. The only thing he did not recognize was the person leaving the clue. He didn’t know that the message was from Ellvys Fog, his financial analyst, who had just used a brief moment of distraction to plant the signal.