THE KASTELLAN HEIR.

THE INVITATION.

Preston and Vivienne climbed out of the vehicle, but their gaze skipped past Ronan entirely at first. They were fixed on the machine parked a short distance off. Ronan had traded the Lamborghini for something rarer still, pulled straight from the Kastellan collection: a Pagani Huayra.

Barely a hundred of these existed on the planet, each one worth millions. It didn’t look like a car so much as a low, sleek predator crouched and ready to strike.

“Man, would you look at that thing!” Preston blurted, unable to hide the greed in his stare.

“Don’t dwell on what we’ll never have, sweetheart,” Vivienne said, resting a hand on his sleeve. “We’ll only end up wanting it.”

They finally pulled their attention off the car, and that’s when they noticed Ronan standing there. He leaned casually against the porch rail, wearing a calm, unsettling look. He’d caught every second of them gawking at his possession, and he savored it fully.

“Would you look at that, the golden couple,” Margaux said, her tone thick with scorn aimed straight at Ronan. “There’s a real man for you, Ronan. I still can’t wrap my head around my daughter putting up with someone like you for so long.”

“Told you we should’ve gotten Grandpa checked out mentally,” Coleman scoffed. “That old man must’ve gone senile, picking this clown for my sister.”

The shock on Vivienne’s face at seeing Ronan hardened fast into a bitter scowl. She strode toward him, fingers laced with Preston’s.

“Why are you even here, Ronan? I already said we’re finished. Quit trailing after me.”

“Sounds like somebody’s still ‘hopelessly devoted,’” Preston mocked, moving closer. “Seriously, go find something to do with your time. You were a nobody back at my company, and nothing’s changed. You’re just a leftover I already tossed out weeks back.”

“Actually” Ronan began, but Preston talked right over him with a barking laugh.

“Don’t you dare cut me off! It’s honestly sad. You probably borrowed money from some loan shark just to rent that suit and try to look good in front of my future wife. You’re working so hard to seem important, but underneath it, you’re still just a failure in a fancy coat.”

“Once an idiot, forever an idiot,” Coleman chimed in. “Just take off already. You’re only humiliating yourself further.”

Ronan searched Vivienne’s face, hoping to spot even a hint of the woman he’d once loved for years. Her eyes stayed icy, blank, without a trace of shame. The jabs from Margaux and Coleman meant nothing to him; backed by the Kastellan empire, their words were nothing more than static in his ears. But Vivienne’s blank stare cut deeper. It punched small gaps into his chest, gaps quickly flooding with fury.

Part of him wanted to spill everything on the spot. He wanted to announce that he was already dismantling Brentford Design and stripping away every cushion they had left. Instead, he stayed composed.

“Now that you’ve both finished venting,” Ronan said, his tone unnervingly steady, “mind if I get a word in?”

Vivienne shook her head, exasperated. “Nothing left to discuss. Just leave. You’ve got no business here.”

“I came for my belongings,” Ronan said, flat and direct. “The things I collected over the years, the trinkets from the orphanage, the presents from my adoptive parents. I stored them in the back room. I want them returned.”

Margaux sneered. “What are you rambling about? You never owned a single thing, you broke parasite.”

“Vivienne,” Ronan said, brushing past her mother. “My belongings. Hand them over.”

She glanced away, tilting her chin up with pure disdain.

“Your junk isn’t here anymore, Ronan. Not one thing that’s yours remains in this house.”

Ronan’s brow furrowed. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Meaning it got tossed out,” she replied, indifferent. “It was taking up space we actually needed. We’re renovating, and honestly, your stuff wasn’t worth a dime.”

“We had to gut the place because our wedding’s happening in three days,” Preston added, tugging Vivienne nearer. “She can’t have reminders of some deadbeat cluttering our fresh start. Call it basic hygiene.”

The two of them cackled straight in his face. Reality slammed into him like a punch to the gut. Twenty-four years of history, the only proof of his past, thrown in a dumpster because of a ceremony.

“You trashed my entire history over a wedding?” Ronan asked, his voice fading to almost nothing.

Preston stepped in and jabbed a finger into his chest. “A genuine wedding, Ronan. Not that miserable little stunt you pulled off. Actually, come see what a legitimate celebration looks like. I’ll mail you an invitation. Just give me the address of whatever trailer park you’re squatting in, and I’ll make sure it arrives.”

Coleman howled with laughter, and the rest joined in.

Ronan glanced downward, a shadowy grin tugging at his mouth. “Your invitation? If that thing ever lands in my hands, Preston, you can say goodbye to your dream day. Because I won’t just crash it. I’ll tear it apart.”

The laughing cut off instantly. The raw threat behind his words made Preston’s eyes twitch with a flicker of genuine fear.

“You? Tear apart my wedding?” Preston barked, scrambling to reclaim his nerve. “You couldn’t even make it past security. You’re nothing but empty air.”

“Mail the invitation,” Ronan murmured. “I’ll be ready.”

“Let’s head inside,” Preston snapped, his face burning with anger. “I’m finished trading insults with a fool.”

They shoved past him, slamming the door so hard the frame shuddered.

Ronan lingered on the porch a moment, the sting of losing his belongings hardening into cold resolve. The path back to who he used to be was gone for good.

He walked back toward the Pagani. Its engine roared awake with a fierce, animal scream that rolled through the silent street.

Inside, Preston stood near the window. He caught sight of the car pulling off, and the figure steering it.

“No way…” he muttered. He scrubbed at his eyes, but the sight refused to change. That was Ronan. Ronan, driving something worth more than every dollar Preston owned.

The car vanished down the road, leaving Preston frozen in place. He spun toward the others, jaw slack.

“Babe… I just watched Ronan drive off in that Pagani.”

Vivienne, Coleman, and Margaux traded glances for a beat before dissolving into laughter.

“Nice try!” Coleman wheezed.

“Ronan can’t scrape together enough for a bicycle,” Margaux said with total confidence. “He probably hoofed it to the corner and waited on a bus. Quit imagining things, Preston.”

Vivienne smiled, shaking her head. “You’re just wound up, babe. Come help me choose between these two gowns. I can’t tell which one makes me look more like a queen.”

Preston nodded slowly, though his thoughts stayed anchored to what he’d witnessed. They had a point; Ronan was nobody. But the man he’d glimpsed through that glass carried himself like he owned everything.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​