THE UNSEEN HEIR

Do You Know Who That Man Was?

Lord Barry Sterling slowly scrambled to his feet, his face contorting from momentary shock into an ugly, veins-popping sneer.

He looked at Lorenzo’s simple attire—the cheap jacket and worn-out sneakers that didn't dare hint at the Lancaster bloodline—and spat on the shattered wood of his own front door.

"Who the hell are you?" Barry barked, his voice raspy. "How dare you barge into my home to claim someone? Do you have a death wish? Get lost right now if you don't want to end up floating in the river!"

Barry adjusted his cuffs, puffing out his chest with the unearned confidence of a man who believed his name bought complete immunity.

He gestured to Roxana, who was trembling on the cold marble floor, her eyes glazed over from the heavy sedative.

"This woman belongs to me," Barry laughed, a grotesque, dark sound. "I bought her, fair and square. Her family practically begged me to take her off their hands."

Lorenzo didn’t hear a word past 'bought her.'

The murderous rage radiating from his chest grew suffocating.

What Barry didn't know was that he hadn't negotiated with a desperate family.

He had merely been a pawn in Chloe’s vicious game.

Driven by a toxic, lifelong jealousy because Roxana was consistently prettier, smarter, and infinitely more graceful than her, Chloe had orchestrated this entire nightmare.

She had promised Barry ten million dollars of her unearned Hawthorne funding to permanently rid her of her cousin.

To a man like Barry, the money was just extra pocket change, but who could refuse the chance to break a beautiful, innocent woman while pocketing an extra ten million?

Lorenzo moved like a shadow. Before Barry could finish his sickening chuckle, Lorenzo crossed the distance between them. His hand shot out, clamping around Barry’s right wrist with the force of a hydraulic press.

"You said you bought her with money?" Lorenzo’s voice was dangerously low, like a whisper that spoke death. "Who sold her to you?"

"Ah! Let go! Let go of my hand, it's breaking!" Barry shrieked, his posture collapsing instantly as he dropped to his knees under the crushing grip.

"Take her! Take the woman if you want her so damn bad! I just bought the marriage license from her stepmother! I don't know anything about what's happening in that family!"

A cold glint flashed across Lorenzo's pitch-black eyes. He didn't just see a devilish playboy; he saw a monster who had harmed his true lifesaver.

Lorenzo didn't argue. He twisted his wrist, and a sickening pop echoed through the hall.

With two strikes from his fingers, Barry’s hands went completely limp—the major tendons in his wrists were completely severed.

"Ahhhhh!" Barry cried out in despair, clutching his useless, dangling hands against his chest. "My hands! You bastard, who are you?! I won't let you off for this! You took my woman and crippled my hands! Who gave you the nerve?!"

Lorenzo didn't offer the courtesy of an answer. As Barry screamed, the double doors of the courtyard swarmed with motion.

Summoned by the initial crash and Barry's shrieks, ten heavily armed private security guards and muscular household servants rushed into the main hall.

Seeing his personal militia standing in the courtyard, Barry’s terror morphed back into manic bravado. "Kill him! Drop him where he stands! I don't care who he is, he doesn't leave this estate alive!"

The ten men lunged forward simultaneously, batons raised, heavy boots echoing on the marble.

An ordinary man would have fled, but Lorenzo didn't even shift his stance.

Having survived brutal assassination attempts since his early childhood to protect his claim to the Lancaster Empire, his martial arts training wasn't a hobby—it was a survival mechanism.

He sidestepped the first guard, utilizing the man's own momentum to throw him face-first into a pillar.

He ducked a baton, delivering a crushing fracture to the second man's knee, before spinning to catch a third guard in the throat.

He fought ten men single-handedly, moving with a swift motion that defied the cheap clothes he wore.

Within three minutes, the grand hall fell completely silent again, save for the low groans of ten unconscious, broken bodyguards littered across the floor.

Barry was frozen against the base of the stairs, hyperventilating as he stared at the carnage. The arrogance was entirely gone, replaced by a primal, shaking terror. "Please... please, don't kill me... take whatever you want..."

Lorenzo walked over, his face an emotionless mask.

He looked down at Barry’s useless, twitching hands. "Since you can't control your own hands, you might as well not have them from now on."

With a cold, final flick of his boot, he ensured Barry would never use them to touch another woman again.

Turning away from the groveling billionaire, Lorenzo’s expression softened instantly as his eyes fell on Roxana.

He knelt down, gently peeling off his suit jacket and wrapping it securely over her torn, exposed collarbone.

Gathering her weak, shivering frame into his arms, he carried her out of the blood-stained mansion, ignoring the distant sirens.

To ensure no eyes from the factions could track her rescue, Lorenzo didn't take her to a private hospital or the heavily guarded Lancaster penthouse.

Instead, his assistant drove them straight back to the ordinary, working-class community where Lorenzo had spent the last two years hiding his identity.

He lived a life of intentional obscurity here—taking buses, riding subways, and pretending to count pennies, ensuring that the corporate vultures on his own board never suspected the true heir was alive and preparing his return.

Inside his modest apartment, Lorenzo handed Roxana over to his trusted, elderly landlady. "Please change her into clean, ordinary clothes," he requested softly. "And make sure she drinks some warm water."

A half-hour later, the bedroom door opened.

Roxana stepped into the simple living room, wearing a borrowed, oversized cotton sweater and soft sweatpants.

Her dark hair fell over her shoulders, and though her face was pale, the fog from the sedative was finally clearing from her deep, intelligent eyes.

Lorenzo sat on the worn fabric sofa, a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table. He stood up as she entered, his imposing stature filling the small room, yet he still looked like a humble, respectful man.

Roxana clutched the warm mug he offered, sitting on the opposite side of the sofa. Her mind was racing.

Before she had completely lost consciousness back in that horrific hall, she remembered the deep, roaring voice breaking through the doors, commanding Barry to let her go.

She knew this man had risked everything to save her, and the gratitude in her heart was overwhelming.

But as she looked around the modest apartment, a cold dread began to overshadow her relief.

"Thank you," she began, her voice a little raspy but steady. "You saved my life. But...do you have any idea what you've actually done? Do you know who that man was?"