SON-IN-LAW BY DAY, UNDERGROUND KING BY NIGHT

“You signed them, right? The papers?”

The question was thin, sharp, and it hung painfully in the opulent air of the penthouse office. Aria Elston did not look at Mikael Dray. Her gaze was fixed on the sprawling city lights glittering twenty floors below, her perfectly manicured fingers clutching a thin, sealed, white envelope.

Mikael stepped further into the room, the lingering scent of expensive cigar smoke and old-money perfume clinging to the leather of the executive chairs. The massive glass table in the center was still littered with champagne flutes and the signed Aethel contract documents—the contract that had just secured the Elston Group’s next decade.

“Aria, what in the hell are you talking about?” Mikael asked, his voice low, a tired rumble from a man who hadn’t slept properly in three days. The relief and exhaustion of the night were still etched into his face, and he was still wearing the tuxedo from the celebratory dinner. “I just closed the biggest deal the company has ever seen. We should be popping another bottle of the good stuff. What papers are you talking about? Legal filings? Tax forms?”

Aria finally turned, but her eyes were glazed over, still meticulously avoiding his. She pushed the sealed envelope across the vast expanse of the glass table. It slid to a stop beside a half-forgotten bottle of vintage Bordeaux, the expensive red wine glinting under the track lighting.

“The annulment papers to end our marriage, Mikael,” she whispered, the words barely audible, like a confession she desperately wanted to take back. “My father and the board agreed to have them drawn up months ago. They’re already processed, legally sound. All that’s missing is your signature. Just sign them, and it will all be over, cleanly and quietly.”

Mikael’s chest felt like it had been suddenly and brutally caved in. The pure, heady elation from the evening’s victory drained out of him, leaving behind a hollow, cold space that radiated outward through his body. He stared at the pristine white envelope, then lifted his eyes to his wife of five years, searching her face for any hint of a joke, a test, a misunderstanding. There was only a cold, set finality in her expression.

“Five years,” he stated, the number flat and meaningless on his tongue. He took a step closer, stopping just across the glass table from her. “Five years of my life I gave to your family. Five years of non-stop work, fighting tooth and nail, clawing this failing business back from the brink of bankruptcy. Five years of ‘stability’—that was the word you used when you asked me to marry you, wasn’t it? You swore to me this was a partnership, a lifetime commitment to secure both our futures. And this is it? A discarded envelope with annulment papers inside?”

A muscle twitched violently in Mikael’s jaw. His control was fraying, but he forced his voice to remain steady, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him break down.

“Tell me what changed, Aria,” he demanded. “After tonight’s success? The Aethel deal gives us a clear path for the next decade. Everything we worked for, everything I worked for, is finally secure. Why now? Why tonight?”

Aria’s composure finally cracked. Her voice rose in pitch, sharp with defensive frustration. “It is a strategic decision for the business, Mikael. Nothing more, nothing less. Please, do not try to make this difficult or emotional. It serves no purpose now. You have done exactly what you were asked to do. You stabilized the finances, you secured the key contracts, you elevated the stock value. You were… useful. Exceedingly useful, in fact. My father is very pleased with your performance.”

“Useful,” Mikael echoed, the word sounding like a profound insult. He slammed his hand down on the glass table, making the champagne flutes jump and clatter. “Useful is that all you have to say to me, Aria? After five years of sharing a name, a bed, a life? Did any of it ever mean anything to you? Did you ever look at me and see a man, a husband, or was I always just an asset you could liquidate when my purpose was fulfilled? Look at me and answer that, Aria. Look at me!”

Just before he could finish, the heavy oak door behind him opened without a knock. Arthur Elston, Aria’s father and the CEO, walked into the room, followed immediately by two grim-faced security guards who moved with cold efficiency to position themselves by the entrance. Arthur wore a smug, utterly relaxed expression, a stark, infuriating contrast to Aria’s palpable tension and Mikael’s controlled fury.

“Useful, indeed,” Arthur boomed, his voice loud and condescending. He walked directly to the liquor cabinet, ignoring Mikael completely, and poured himself a generous measure of top-shelf scotch. He didn’t offer a drink to his son-in-law. “Aria, run along now. Go on. Mikael and I have some final, rather tiresome business to conclude. We will handle the paperwork.”

Aria looked from her father, whose gaze was now fixed on the amber liquid in his glass, to her husband, whose eyes held a dangerous, burning intensity. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second, her hands tightening on the small handbag she held, before she quickly turned and headed for the door, walking out of the room without another word, without a backward glance, leaving Mikael utterly alone to face the consequences.

Mikael stood still for a long moment, the silence of Aria’s betrayal ringing louder than any shouted argument. Then he turned slowly to face Arthur, his jaw tight, his shoulders squared.

“I want an explanation, Father-in-law,” Mikael said, emphasizing the title with blistering sarcasm. He watched Arthur take a long, slow sip of his drink, swirling the dark liquid in the glass before finally setting it down on the counter. “I brought your company back from the brink of total collapse. I just closed the Aethel deal, which gives you more leverage than you’ve had in two decades. You owe me more than a pathetic, unsigned note delivered by your daughter. What is this ‘final business’?”

Arthur leaned back against the counter, his eyes scrutinizing Mikael from head to toe, a look of utter, casual disdain settling on his face. He smiled, and the expression was cold and reptilian.

“Don’t be sentimental, Mikael. Sentiment is for fools, and you were always supposed to be sharper than that,” Arthur sneered. “And please, who are you calling your father-in-law? That’s a truly rich name coming from a piece of refuse like you. You were perfect for us precisely because you had no sentiment, no pride, no shame, and nothing—absolutely nothing—to lose.”