Sealed Heir Awakens; From Corpse to Conqueror

Chapter 1: Arrived Early

The clock on Ethan Cross's computer screen mocked him: 11:52 PM.

He leaned back in his creaking office chair, the only sound in the vast, empty floor of zenith Solutions Corporation. Forty-three floors above the city, surrounded by darkness and the ghosts of ambition that never belonged to him.

His reflection stared back from the black monitor with hollow eyes, stubble he'd forgotten to shave for three days, the kind of exhaustion that lived in your bones. Twenty-nine years old and he looked forty.

"Submit final report?" the dialog box asked cheerfully.

Ethan clicked yes. Three weeks of work, compressed into seventy-two sleepless hours. The screen flashed green.

PROJECT ACCEPTED - DEADLINE BEAT BY 96 HOURS

"Fantastic," he muttered to the empty room. "Maybe they'll give me a coffee mug this time."

His phone vibrated against the desk. A message from Claire, his wife *“Baby, you still there? Come home soon. I miss you.”*

The tightness in Ethan's chest eased slightly. Claire. The one good thing in his life. The woman who'd married him when he was nobody, who'd believed in him when everyone else saw just another corporate drone destined for mediocrity.

He typed back quickly, *“Finishing now. Be home in an hour. I love you.”*

Three dots appeared, then, *“Love you more. Drive safe.”*

Ethan grabbed his jacket, the same one he'd worn for five years and made a decision. For once, he'd do something spontaneous. That bakery Claire loved, the one with the overpriced pastries she always stared at through the window but never bought because they were "too expensive" he'd stop there. Surprise her.

When was the last time he'd surprised her with anything?

The elevator descent felt like falling through layers of his own failure. Each floor a year of broken promises. “Next year I'll get promoted. Next year we'll buy a house. Next year things will be different.”

Next year never came.

The city streets gleamed with rain. Ethan walked six blocks out of his way to the bakery, hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar pressure building in his chest again. It had been there since childhood, this sensation like something heavy pressed against his ribs from the inside, especially when he was stressed or emotional.

His mother used to say he had an "old soul." His doctor said anxiety. Neither explanation felt right.

The bakery was closing, but the owner recognized him, the guy who always window-shopped with his pretty wife but never bought anything.

"For your lady?" the old man asked, already knowing.

"Yeah. The lemon tarts. Six of them."

"Big spender tonight, eh?"

Ethan handed over forty-five dollars he couldn't really spare. "Special occasion."

"Oh? Anniversary?"

"No. Just... she deserves something nice."

The old man's expression softened. He added two extra tarts to the box. "No charge for those. You're a good husband."

If only that were enough.

Ethan caught a cab to their apartment complex across town. As the city blurred past, he allowed himself a moment of hope. Maybe this was the beginning of change. Maybe tomorrow he'd finally stand up to his boss, demand the promotion he'd been promised for two years. Maybe.

The cab stopped three blocks from their building. Budget constraints. Ethan walked the rest, the pastry box growing heavier with each step.

Their apartment building rose ahead, eight stories of weathered brick, neither nice nor terrible, just perpetually in-between, like everything in his life.

He climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, rehearsing his entrance. “Surprise! I brought your favorites!” No, too cheesy. “Hey beautiful, thought you might want dessert.” Better.

The hallway was quiet except for the buzzing fluorescent light that had been broken for three months.

Their apartment door stood slightly ajar.

Ethan's smile faded. Claire was paranoid about locking up. She'd grown up in a bad neighborhood, always triple-checked the deadbolt.

"Claire?" He pushed the door open. "Honey, I'm home."

The words strangled in his throat.

A man's coat hung on their rack. Expensive. Charcoal gray cashmere. Not his.

On the coffee table, two wine glasses. Both used. One stained with Claire's favorite lipstick shade.

The pressure in Ethan's chest detonated into white-hot agony.

A sound drifted from the bedroom. Low. Rhythmic. Unmistakable.

No. No, this wasn't happening.

The pastry box fell from Ethan's numb fingers. Lemon tarts scattered across the floor like broken promises.

His legs carried him forward on autopilot. The bedroom door stood half-open, warm light spilling out. Another sound, Claire's voice, breathy and raw, saying a name that turned Ethan's blood to ice.

"Vincent... don't stop..."

Vincent Hawthorne. His boss. The man Ethan had worked himself to exhaustion for. The man who'd looked him in the eye this morning and said, "Great work, Cross. Keep this up and that promotion is yours."

Ethan's hand touched the door. It swung open silently.

His wife, his wife naked, moving above a man he'd trusted.

Claire's head snapped toward him. Her eyes went wide with something that wasn't quite guilt, not yet. First came annoyance, as if he'd interrupted something mundane.

"Ethan! What are you, you're supposed to be working!"

Vincent didn't scramble. Didn't panic. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, and smiled. Actually smiled.

"Well. This is unfortunate timing."

The thing in Ethan's chest, the pressure, the weight, the wrongness he'd carried his entire life erupted. His vision blurred red at the edges. Heat spread through his veins like molten metal.

"How long?" His voice sounded dead even to his own ears.

Claire clutched the sheet to her chest. "Ethan, it's not…."

"How. Long."

Something in his tone made her flinch. "Eight months."

Eight months. While he'd taken double shifts to save for their anniversary vacation. While he'd skipped meals to afford her birthday present. While he'd dreamed about their future.

Eight. Goddamn. Months.

"You son of a bitch!" Ethan lunged at Vincent, but exhaustion made him slow. Vincent rose from the bed, naked and unbothered.

"Easy there, Cross. Let's handle this like civilized people."

"Civilized? You're fucking my wife!"

"Your wife?" Vincent's laugh was genuine. "Come on, Ethan. Look at yourself. Look at her. Did you really think a woman like Claire wanted to waste her life with someone like you? You're a worker bee. You'll never be anything else. She deserves someone who can actually provide."

The heat in Ethan's chest turned nuclear.

"Get out." Claire's voice cut through everything. Cold. Final. "Ethan, just leave. Please."

Ethan stared at her. At the stranger wearing his wife's face.

"You're choosing him?"

She couldn't meet his eyes. "You were never going to give me what I need."

Something inside Ethan's chest cracked. The pressure, the heat, the screaming presence he'd ignored his entire life, all of it surged toward a breaking point.

"Fine. I'm leaving. But I'm calling everyone. Your parents. HR. Everyone's going to know about this."

Vincent's hand clamped onto his shoulder like a vice. "I don't think so, Cross."

Ethan spun around and Vincent's fist crashed into his temple.

Stars exploded across his vision. The room tilted sideways. Ethan staggered backward and his skull cracked against the corner of the dresser.

Warmth flooded down his face. Blood. He was bleeding.

"Vincent!" Claire screamed. "Stop! What are you doing?"

"Shut your mouth!" Vincent grabbed Ethan by the throat. "You think I'm letting this pathetic nobody ruin my career? Do you know what the board will do if this gets out?"

Ethan clawed weakly at Vincent's hands. His strength was draining away. The room grew darker.

"Claire." Vincent's voice turned to ice. "Hold him down."

"What? No! Vincent, we can just…"

"Do it or I swear to God I'll tell everyone you seduced me. That you planned this whole thing."

Claire hesitated.

For one desperate moment, Ethan thought she might refuse. Thought there might be something human left in her.

Then her hands pressed against his shoulders, pinning him to the floor.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, but I can't go back to being poor."

Vincent's grip tightened. Ethan's vision tunneled. His lungs burned.

The last thing he saw was his wif

e's face, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The last thing he felt was the thing in his chest, finally, violently, breaking free.

Then darkness swallowed everything.