The Fallen Heirs Wrath

chapter 6

The headlights of the black SUV cut through the rain-slicked darkness of the North District, as sharp as a blade. Victor felt the world tilting, the cold brick at his back the only thing keeping him upright. When the door opened and two silent men in suits hauled him into the leather interior, he didn't fight. He didn't have the strength left to be a predator.

By the time the car glided into the underground garage of a glass-and-steel fortress overlooking the bay, Victor’s vision was a shimmering haze of red and grey.

"Can you walk, or do I need to call a forklift?"

The voice was like silk and ice. Ariella stood by the private elevator, her midnight-blue blazer gone, the sleeves of her white silk shirt rolled up to her elbows.

"I’ve had worse Tuesdays," Victor rasped, his voice cracking as he leaned heavily on the driver.

"Don't lie to me. You’re grey, Victor. Your blood is literally dripping onto my floor," Ariella snapped, waving the guards away and stepping under his good arm. She was surprisingly strong, her shoulder firm against his ribs. "Get him inside. Now."

They stumbled into her penthouse, a space of minimalist luxury that felt more like a gallery than a home. She led him straight to a massive, marble-tiled bathroom that smelled of eucalyptus and expensive soap.

"Sit," she commanded, easing him onto the edge of a deep soaking tub.

"You're going to get blood on that shirt," Victor muttered, his head lolling back against the cold tile wall.

"It’s Alexander McQueen. I’ll send the bill to your estate if you die," she replied, her hands already busy. She reached for a pair of medical shears, the blades glinting under the recessed lighting. "Hold still. I’m cutting the jacket off."

"That suit cost more than most people's cars, Ariella."

"And now it’s a very expensive rag. Congratulations," she said, the fabric shearing away to reveal the crimson mess of his shoulder. She hissed through her teeth. "God, Victor. Renzo doesn't miss, does he?"

"He’s out of practice. If he was on his game, I wouldn't be talking to you right now."

"Shut up and breathe," she whispered, her tone softening as she soaked a sponge in antiseptic. "This is going to hurt. A lot."

Victor clenched his jaw as the liquid hit the raw flesh. A low, guttural groan escaped his throat, his good hand gripping the edge of the marble counter so hard the stone seemed ready to crack.

"You're doing great," she murmured, her face inches from his. "Talk to me. Keep your eyes on me."

"About what? The weather? The stock market?"

"Tell me why you didn't call Lucius. Why me?"

Victor looked into those amber eyes, seeing the genuine flickers of fear behind her composure. "Lucius is being hunted. If I went to him, I’d lead them right to the rest of my team. I couldn't risk the 'Ares' data."

"So you risked your life instead? Coming to me?"

"I figured you’d either save me or finish the job. Either way, the suspense would be over."

Ariella paused, her hand trembling slightly as she threaded a surgical needle. "You think I want you dead? After all the work I put into getting you that chair?"

"I think you’re a Wicaksani. You’re bred to find the highest bidder."

"And right now, that's you," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. "Don't move. I’m starting the stitches."

The silence in the bathroom became heavy, punctuated only by the rhythmic pull of the thread and Victor’s shallow, ragged breathing. He watched her—the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the way a single stray lock of dark hair fell across her cheek.

"Why are you so good at this?" Victor asked, his voice a ghost of its usual roar. "Sutures aren't exactly a standard skill for a venture capitalist."

"My father didn't believe in hospitals for 'family matters,'" she said, her eyes never leaving the wound. "He thought if you were stupid enough to get shot or stabbed, you should be brave enough to watch it get fixed in the living room."

"Sounds like a charming man."

"He was a monster. But he was a practical one," she finished the last stitch and snipped the thread. She sat back on her heels, her white shirt ruined, her hands stained red. "There. You’ll live. Though you’ll have another scar to add to the collection."

"I’m running out of skin for them," Victor said, reaching out with his good hand. He brushed her cheek, leaving a faint smear of blood. "You're shaking, Ariella."

"It’s the adrenaline. Nothing else," she lied, though she didn't pull away from his touch.

"You’re a terrible liar for a professional spy."

"And you're an idiot for a genius," she countered, her gaze dropping to his lips. "You almost died tonight. Do you even care?"

"I’ve spent a year being a ghost. Dying didn't seem that different from living," Victor said, his thumb grazing her lower lip. "Until I saw you in that ballroom. Then suddenly, I wanted to be made of flesh and bone again."

Ariella let out a shaky breath, her hand coming up to cover his. "We’re both the same, aren't we? Just two predators looking for a place to stop running."

"I’m tired of running, Ariella."

"Then stop," she whispered.

She leaned in, the distance between them vanishing in a slow-motion blur. When her lips met his, it wasn't the violent collision of the office. It was something deeper—a desperate, aching need for connection that bypassed the lies and the corporate war. Victor pulled her closer, his good arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her between his knees as he sat on the edge of the tub.

"You’re hurt," she breathed against his mouth, even as her hands began to unbutton her ruined shirt.

"I’m alive," he corrected, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming heat. "Make me feel it."

The white silk fell to the floor, joining the remnants of his suit. Ariella moved with a fluid, predatory grace, her body a map of hidden strength and soft curves. She straddled him, mindful of his shoulder, her skin electric against his.

"This is a mistake," she murmured, her teeth grazing his neck. "We’re supposed to be negotiating a merger."

"Consider this a hostile takeover," Victor groaned, his hand sliding down the length of her spine, pulling her flush against him.

The heat in the bathroom rose until the air felt like steam. Every touch was a confession, every kiss a claim. In the quiet of the penthouse, the masks they wore to rule the city crumbled. There was no Chairman, no Heiress—only two people clinging to each other in the dark, trying to burn away the coldness of their lives.

Later, the moonlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedroom, casting long, silver bars across the rumpled silk sheets. Victor lay on his back, his breathing deep and even for the first time in months. The exhaustion had finally won, pulling him into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Ariella sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a charcoal robe. She watched him sleep, the moonlight highlighting the jagged scars on his chest and the fresh white bandage on his shoulder.

"You're a mess, Victor Maheswara," she whispered to the empty room.

She reached for his discarded trousers on the floor, intending to move them to the laundry, when something fell from the pocket. A small, crumpled photograph.

She picked it up, expecting a picture of his father or perhaps a blueprint.

But as she smoothed out the paper, the blood drained from her face.

The photo was old, taken at a dockside warehouse. In the center was Victor’s father, smiling. And standing right next to him, shaking hands over a crate marked with the Maheswara logo, was a younger version of her own father, Julian Thorne.

But it was the date on the back that made her heart stop. It was the night of the crash. And scribbled in her father’s distinctive, sharp handwriting were the words: The debt is settled. The boy is handled.

Ariella’s hand shook so violently the photo fluttered to the floor. She looked at Victor, still sleeping peacefully, unaware that the woman he’d just bared his soul to was the daughter of the man who had ordered his death.

"Oh, Victor," she choked out, her amber eyes filling with tears of sudden, sharp betrayal. "What have we done?"

She looked at the door, then back at the sleeping man. The fire they had started was no longer just a metaphor. It was a wildfire, and she was the one holding the match.

Carefully, silently, she picked up the photo and tucked it into her robe. She didn't go back to bed. Instead, she walked to the window, watching the sun begin to bleed over the horizon, knowing that when Victor woke up, the war wouldn't just be outside these walls.

It would be right here, in the heart of the only sanctuary he had left.