THE HEIR THEY BURIED ALIVE

THE MAN THEY WANTED DEAD

POV: DORIAN

The black sedan sped toward Dorian so fast he almost didn’t move in time. He dove out of the way. The car screamed past, mirror whacking his shoulder and slamming him to the ground.

Pain shot up his arm. He rolled, right before the back tires could catch him, as the sedan skidded to a stop.

For a second, Dorian just lay there, stunned. Then the passenger door opened.

A man stepped out.

Adrenaline pushed Dorian upright. The guy wore all black—a dark cap hiding most of his face—but Dorian saw enough. This wasn’t some warning. This was a hit.

Dorian jumped up. The man reached for something inside his jacket.

Dorian bolted. Didn’t look back. He just ran, sprinting toward the parking garage as footsteps thundered behind him.

“Stop!”

Not a chance.

He shoved through the security gate and ducked between parked cars. His mind spun. He couldn’t stop replaying the conversation in the study.

We were paid to hide him. He’s not a Vale. We should have killed him twenty years ago.

Twenty years. What happened back then? Who paid off the Vales? Why hunt him down now?

A gunshot echoed through the garage.

Dorian jerked sideways. Something slammed the concrete near his head: a bullet.

He dove behind an SUV, chest heaving.

Footsteps got closer.

He scanned around. His own car sat on the far side of the garage. Too far. But right here—an old maintenance van.

He tried the driver’s door. Locked. He yanked anyway. Nothing.

Footsteps stopped.

He held his breath. Waiting.

Then a voice: “You can’t hide forever.”

Dorian shrank deeper into the van’s shadow. Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket. The noise almost sent him through the roof.

Unknown number. A message: RUN.

He stared at it. Another: THEY KNOW YOU HEARD THEM.

Ice crept through his veins. Someone else knew what he’d overheard.

Before he could type, another message: DO NOT GO HOME.

He glanced toward the entrance. The gunman stepped into sight.

Dorian’s body moved on pure instinct. He reached under the van, found a metal bar.

Waiting.

The man edged closer, gun up and ready. Dorian’s heart hammered. When the guy rounded the vehicle, Dorian swung as hard as he could.

The metal slammed into the man’s wrist. The gun hit the floor. Dorian struck again. The man staggered back, furious.

Dorian ran. Made it to his car, unlocked it, and all but threw himself behind the wheel. His hands trembled so much he nearly dropped the keys.

He started the engine. The lights snapped on—enough to catch the gunman already getting back up. Dorian floored it.

The car jumped forward, blasting through the parking gate. Out on the street, he didn’t even slow down—just blew through three red lights before daring to look in his rearview.

The black sedan was still there. Still coming.

“Damn it.” He pushed the pedal harder. Where could he go? The Vale mansion was out. His place—probably staked out, too. The cops? He paused. If someone got to the Vales, why would the police be safe?

He heard Edmund’s voice again in his head: We were paid to hide him.

Suddenly, it clicked. Maybe his whole life was built on a lie. Every birthday, every school form, every document stamped with the name “Dorian Vale.” What if none of it was true?

His phone buzzed again. Another unknown message: GO TO BLACKWATER BRIDGE.

He clenched his jaw. Another: THERE IS SOMEONE YOU NEED TO MEET.

He almost ignored it.

Then: IF YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY YOUR PARENTS DIED, GO THERE.

That landed like a punch. His parents. The Vales always said they died when he was five. A tragic accident. He believed it. Why wouldn’t he?

But now—nothing made sense.

He took the turn for Blackwater Bridge. The sedan chased after him, relentless. The city faded in his rearview. Rain started to fall, spattering the windshield.

The bridge rose ahead in the dark, empty and long. Dorian slowed, searching for anyone else. Nothing. No cars, no lights.

The phone buzzed: Stop at the center of the bridge.

He gripped the wheel so tight his knuckles hurt. “This is insane.” But he stopped.

The black sedan rolled up behind him, stopping a few meters back.

Doors opened. Two men stepped out. Then a third.

He locked his doors.

One man leveled a gun at him.

Dorian looked ahead; just the river, wide and black. Three armed men coming from behind. No way out.

The gunman raised his weapon.

Dorian shifted into reverse, slamming the gas. The sedan blocked him. He jerked into drive—the car leaped forward. The first man dove away but the second fired.

The windshield shattered. Glass sprayed his face. Dorian ducked. Another shot blasted through the side window.

He shouted, “Get away from me!” and yanked the wheel. The car fishtailed on the wet pavement, spinning out. He fought to keep control, but the car slammed into the bridge’s steel barrier.

The jolt stole all the air from his lungs.

For a few moments, he just sat there, stunned by the impact, cars groaning all around. The metal beneath his car whined.

He looked down. The barrier was cracking. The river loomed below.

Behind him, footsteps—men running toward his car.

He tried the door. Stuck. He yanked again. Still nothing. “Come on!”

The car tilted.

The barrier snapped. His eyes went wide. “No, no—”

The car pitched over the edge.

A few seconds of freefall—then the crash. Water exploded through the windows, freezing cold, filling the car in an instant. The seatbelt dug into his chest. He fumbled with the latch—his fingers slipped. The car kept sinking. Water crawled up to his chest, then his chin.

Panic took over. He thrashed, finally freeing himself. He kicked for the surface—but something yanked at his arm.

He looked down. The seatbelt had half-twisted around his jacket.

He fought it, lungs burning, head pounding. The surface shimmered far above. His vision faded at the edges.

Then—a glint in front of him. A small pendant, floating. His mother’s.

He reached, grabbed it—and something inside his mind cracked open.

A memory: a woman’s voice, soft and terrified—“Whatever happens, never let them take your name.”

He froze. He’d never heard that voice before.

Another flash. A man’s hand, slick with blood. Flames lighting up a wrecked car. A boy crying. Someone shouting: “Take the child!”

Then darkness. The images vanished, and Dorian lost the last of his breath.

The world faded out.

⸻

Miles away, inside the Vale mansion, Edmund Vale stared at the television. A breaking news banner rolled along the bottom:

YOUNG BUSINESSMAN MISSING AFTER VEHICLE PLUNGES INTO BLACKWATER RIVER

The reporter’s voice barely registered.

“Authorities believe the driver, identified as twenty-five-year-old Dorian Vale, may have died in the incident. Rescue teams are currently searching the river…”

Edmund went pale.

Tristan hovered behind him, silent. Celeste came in, eyes lingering on the screen, then on Tristan.

“Is he really dead?”

Tristan didn’t answer.

Edmund turned to him. “You said you would handle it.”

Tristan’s jaw set. “I did.”

“Then why haven’t they found the body?”

Tristan looked away. “The river is deep.”

Edmund stared at the news, a sick feeling knotting in his chest.

Suddenly, the doors burst open. A security guard rushed in.

“Sir?”

Edmund snapped, “What?”

“We have a problem.”

“What problem?”

The guard handed him a phone. “A message came through—a private family number.”

Edmund took the phone and read the screen. His face drained of color.

YOU BURIED THE WRONG BOY.

Tristan leaned in. “What does it say?”

Edmund didn’t answer. The TV reporter’s voice cut in, urgent:

“Authorities have just confirmed that the vehicle has been located beneath Blackwater Bridge.”

Celeste gasped, covering her mouth. “The body?”

The reporter looked rattled. “No body has been recovered.”

Edmund’s hand shook. Tristan’s confidence slipped away for the first time that night.

They both knew the truth: The river ran deep. And if Dorian was still alive, he’d heard everything.