2025-12-11 00:39:07The toilet brush felt heavier than the pen he'd used to sign a billion-dollar acquisition last month.
Blake scrubbed at the porcelain, phone wedged between shoulder and ear. His subordinate's voice crackled through: "President Blake, Nasdaq confirmed. Tomorrow, 9:30 AM Eastern. Your wife's press conference goes live."
"Good work, Sam." Blake hung up, peeling off the rubber gloves. In the bathroom mirror—expensive face, cheap clothes. The irony wasn't lost on him.
He'd been greasing palms, whispering favors in powerful ears, all while also erasing paper trails just so he could buy her this company listing while she thought it was her brilliance.
Downstairs, laughter echoed like breaking glass. The air full of jasmine tea and competition.
"Robert just bought me this." Mrs. Patterson lifted her wrist, letting the Cartier bracelet catch the light. "Anniversary gift. Fifty thousand. He said I deserved something timeless."
"How thoughtful," Madam Mary said, smile tight as wire.
"Men should provide," Mrs. Patterson continued, adjusting the bracelet with deliberate slowness. "That's what makes them men, isn't it? The ability to give their wives the life they deserve."
Mrs. Wellington laughed, light and cutting. "Exactly. My James just surprised me with a villa in Tuscany. Said a woman of my caliber shouldn't settle for hotel vacations."
"A villa," Mrs. Patterson breathed. "How romantic."
"It's the thought that counts," Mrs. Wellington said, though her smile said the price tag counted more. "A man who can't provide romance is just... well." She paused delicately. "What is he, really?"
Madam Mary's teacup rattled slightly against its saucer.
"Of course, not every woman needs grand gestures," Mrs. Patterson offered, false sympathy dripping. "Some are content with simpler lives. More... domestic arrangements."
"Domestic," Mrs. Wellington repeated, like the word tasted sour. "Yes, I suppose some women prefer that. Though I can't imagine—" She stopped, eyes widening with theatrical realization. "Oh, Mary. I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking about your—"
"My what?" Madam Mary's voice could cut steel.
"Well." Mrs. Wellington glanced at Mrs. Patterson. "Your son-in-law. Blake, isn't it? I heard he's very... involved in household management."
The temperature dropped ten degrees.
"He manages the home," Madam Mary said carefully. "Someone has to."
"Of course, of course." Mrs. Patterson's smile sharpened. "And it's wonderful that Lillian married someone so... talented about house keeping."
"Talented," Mrs. Wellington echoed. "That's a kind way to put it."
"My Robert would never," Mrs. Patterson continued. "He says a man who doesn't provide is a man who doesn't lead. Strong words, perhaps, but—"
"But true," Mrs. Wellington finished. "A woman needs to feel protected. Cherished. To know her husband can handle the world so she doesn't have to." She paused. "Don't you agree, Mary?"
Madam Mary's face went crimson.
A knock interrupted. Three soft raps.
Blake entered carrying a silver tray—finger sandwiches cut into triangles, fresh tea steaming. He'd arranged everything exactly how his mother-in-law preferred.
She didn't notice.
The silence was deafening.
Mrs. Patterson's eyes widened. Mrs. Wellington's smile turned predatory.
"Oh," Mrs. Patterson said slowly. "Hello, Blake."
"Ladies." Blake set down the tray.
"How... domestic of you," Mrs. Wellington said, the word landing like a slap. "Bringing tea. How sweet."
"Someone has to," Blake said evenly.
"Yes, well." Mrs. Patterson exchanged a glance with Mrs. Wellington. "Not every man would be comfortable in that role. It takes a certain... energy."
"A certain lack of pride," Mrs. Wellington added, laughing behind her hand.
Madam Mary looked like she wanted to disappear into the sofa. "Blake, we're in the middle of a conversation—"
"Of course." Mrs. Patterson leaned forward. "Tell me, Blake. Do you enjoy housework? The cooking? The cleaning?"
Blake's jaw tightened. "I do what needs doing."
"How admirable." Mrs. Wellington's tone said otherwise. "And what does Lillian think about having a husband who—how did you put it, Patricia?—flexible about housekeeping roles?"
"I believe she appreciates it," Mrs. Patterson said, voice dripping false sweetness. "After all, not every woman can have a man who actually provides. Some have to settle for men who serve in the kitchen."
The words hung in the air like poison.
Madam Mary's hands trembled. "Blake, why are you here?"
"There's something you should know," Blake said quietly. "About Lillian."
"What now?" Madam Mary snapped. "Did you burn her dinner? Break something again?"
Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Wellington watched with barely concealed delight.
"Her company," Blake continued. "NovaTech Solutions. It's been approved for Nasdaq listing."
Silence.
"What?" Madam Mary's cup froze halfway to her lips.
"The press conference is happening now. Live television."
For three seconds, nobody moved.
Then Madam Mary lunged for the remote. "Where? Which channel?"
The TV flickered to life.
And there she was.
Lillian stood behind a podium in a navy suit that cost more than most people's cars, hair swept into a flawless chignon. Behind her, the company logo gleamed. Cameras flashed.
"—honored to announce that NovaTech Solutions will officially list on Nasdaq tomorrow morning—"
Madam Mary's hand flew to her mouth.
"—revolutionary AI integration platform expected to transform the industry—"
Mrs. Patterson's face went pale. "That's... that's Lillian?"
"—initial market projections exceed eight hundred million—"
"Eight hundred million," Mrs. Wellington breathed, and the envy was naked now.
Madam Mary's face transformed. Pride radiated from her like heat. She turned to her friends, and Blake saw the exact moment she won.
"I had no idea it was this advanced," Madam Mary said, false modesty dripping. "Lillian never tells me anything. Too focused on work."
"She looks incredible," Mrs. Patterson admitted, and the words clearly hurt.
"Nasdaq," Mrs. Wellington repeated faintly. "At her age."
"Well, she's always been exceptional." Madam Mary's chest swelled. "Even as a child, she had this drive. This vision."
On screen, Lillian answered questions with practiced grace. Every word, every gesture—Blake had orchestrated. Had moved pieces across the board until this moment became inevitable.
She didn't know. She'd never know.
"Madam Mary, you must be thrilled," Mrs. Patterson said, jealousy thick in her voice. "Nasdaq. My God."
"I am," Madam Mary said, savoring every syllable. "So very proud."
Then her gaze landed on Blake.
The pride curdled instantly.
He stood there, still in his house clothes, surrounded by the wrong life. In the TV's reflection, he saw what they saw—a man who scrubbed toilets while his wife conquered Wall Street.
The disgust in his mother-in-law's eyes was familiar.
"You're still here?" Her voice could freeze fire. "What do you want, applause?"
Mrs. Patterson looked away. Mrs. Wellington studied her nails.
"Go," Madam Mary said, waving him off like a servant. "Upstairs. I don't want you lingering here, soaking up glory you didn't earn. Go clean something."
Blake met her eyes. For one second, he let her see a flash of the man who'd built empires. Who owned the companies her friends' husbands worked for. Who could buy this entire house with pocket change.
Then he bowed his head. "Of course. Congratulations on your daughter's success."
He left the tray and left the room.
Behind him, the women's excitement swelled again, voices climbing over each other, celebrating Lillian's triumph. His triumph. Their daughter. His wife.
Upstairs, Blake closed the door and pulled out his phone. The encrypted app glowed—thirty-seven subsidiary companies, investment portfolios, an empire built in shadows.
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
LET HER DIE
Blake stood in his office, holding the blood-soaked blanket with gloved hands. Sam was photographing it from every angle, documenting evidence they'd never use in any court. This wasn't about justice anymore. This was about survival.Emma appeared in the doorway. She'd been in the next room when the package arrived. One look at her face told Blake she already knew."Show me," she said.Blake hesitated. "Emma—""Show. Me."He held up the blanket. Watched his wife's face go from pale to red to absolutely white. Her hands clenched into fists. Her breathing stopped, then started again too fast."That's not—" Blake started. "The blood isn't real. It's probably animal blood, staged for effect."Emma walked forward, took the note from his hand. Read it slowly. "'Choose.' They want us to choose which of our children dies.""They're bluffing. Trying to scare us—""They killed our baby!" Emma's voice cracked like a whip. "They killed our unborn child with stress and attacks and now they're thre
YOUR UNBORN CHILD'S BLOOD
The ambulance screamed through city streets, sirens wailing. Blake sat beside Emma's stretcher, holding her hand, watching paramedics work frantically. Blood pressure dropping. Pulse weak. The bleeding wouldn't stop."Stay with me," Blake whispered. "Emma, please."Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused. "The baby?"Blake couldn't answer. Didn't know what to say. The paramedic met his eyes, shook her head slightly.They reached the hospital in seven minutes. Emma was rushed into emergency surgery. Blake followed as far as they'd let him, then security stopped him at the surgical doors."Family waiting room is down the hall," a nurse said gently.Blake stood frozen, Emma's blood still on his hands. Literally on his hands.Sam arrived within minutes, having followed the ambulance. He took one look at Blake and guided him to a sink, helped him wash the blood away. Neither man spoke. What was there to say?Diana appeared next, still in her surgical scrubs from her own hospital. "I heard. Is s
CALLING AN AMBULANCE
The voice on Nikolai's phone was familiar in a way that sent ice through his veins—not fear, but recognition. He'd heard recordings of this man. Vincent Cross, the lawyer who'd orchestrated attacks against Blake Sterling years ago. The man who'd supposedly died when Blake's counter-operation collapsed a tunnel on him."You're supposed to be dead," Nikolai said.Vincent laughed, low and bitter. "So are you, if Blake Sterling had his way. Seems we both have a talent for survival."Nikolai paced the safe house, still furious about the fake USB drive. "How did you survive? The reports said—""Reports lie. I made sure of that." Vincent's voice carried the satisfaction of a man who'd executed a perfect con. "The tunnel collapse was real. But I wasn't in it. I had my assistant there instead—a man who looked enough like me from behind, wearing my jacket. When Blake's people confirmed a body, they stopped looking.""Where have you been?""Rebuilding. Watching. Waiting." Vincent paused. "I've s
LET'S DESTROY THEM TOGETHER
Blake's phone buzzed thirty seconds later. A video file.He pressed play with hands that had stopped shaking years ago—trained himself not to shake, not to show weakness. But watching his seven-year-old son bound to a chair in a concrete room, tears streaming down his face, Blake's carefully constructed control cracked."Daddy?" James's voice was small, terrified. "Daddy, where are you?"The camera shifted. Nikolai Volkov stepped into frame, placed a hand on James's shoulder. The boy flinched."Six hours," Nikolai said to the camera. "Abandoned subway tunnel beneath Morrison Street. Come alone with the USB drive, or I mail you pieces of your son." The video cut to black.Emma grabbed the phone from Blake's hand, watched it again, then screamed. It was a sound Blake had never heard from her—primal, maternal, the cry of a woman whose child had been stolen."We get him back," she said, her voice breaking. "Whatever it takes. Whatever he wants. We give it to him."Blake pulled her close.
YOU HAVE WHAT I WANT
Diana Gate stood in the center of Blake's study, arms crossed, jaw set. "I don't know anything about any evidence. I met Grace Sterling exactly once—in a hospital room two days before she died. We barely spoke."Blake studied his newly discovered half-sister. She had their mother's eyes, the same determined set to her shoulders. "The people who attacked you believe otherwise.""Then they're idiots." Diana's voice was sharp, clinical. Years as a surgeon had taught her to cut away emotion when necessary. "I was sedated most of that visit. Hospital policy after my car accident. I don't even remember what Grace looked like clearly."Sam entered the study with a tablet, his expression grim. "We interrogated the attackers. Their leader is Nikolai Volkov—Dimitri's nephew, third generation of that family's vendetta against the Sterlings."Blake's hands clenched. Another Volkov. Would this family's hatred never end?"Nikolai claims you were alone with Grace for seventeen minutes," Sam continue
WHO'S TRYING TO KILL ME?
Blake stared at his mother's final revelation until the words blurred.Diana. His half-sister. A daughter his mother gave up forty-five years ago. A Sterling who didn't know she was a Sterling.Emma found him still holding the letter an hour later."Blake? What's wrong?"He showed her the letter. Watched her read it. Watched her expression shift from confusion to shock."Your mother had another child," Emma said quietly."A daughter. Diana. She's out there somewhere. Doesn't know who she is. And according to my mother, she's in danger.""Then we find her." Emma's voice was certain. "We find her and we protect her."Blake hired investigators that afternoon. The best money could buy. Gave them everything from his mother's letter—Diana's birth name, approximate age, the adoption agency.The search took three weeks.Sam walked into Blake's office carrying a file. "Found her."Blake's hands trembled taking the folder. Opened it.Diana Martinez. Forty-five years old. Cardiologist practicing
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