2026-06-05 17:37:03I walked into my office with a deep scowl, my mind a rowdy mess of thoughts. Was Elara really going to send me a wedding invite? It would be the height of stupidity, given how ignorant they were of my new status. But then again, arrogance often blinded people to the truth.
“Bunch of fools,” I muttered, rounding my mahogany desk.
“Yeah, a real bunch of fools,” a sharp, feminine voice cut through the room, startling me.
“Christ, Helen!” I exclaimed, my frown deepening. “When did you walk in, and how the fuck did you even hear that?”
She shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. “I have a sleek way of walking, an incredible sense of hearing, and I doubt you would have heard a bomb go off over that intense brooding.”
I exhaled and sank into my chair.
“What’s the matter, Carter?” Helen asked, sitting opposite me. “Who were those ignorant people?”
I regarded her for a moment. Helen was striking, but she usually carried a mask of formal indifference. This was the first time I saw a flicker of genuine curiosity in her eyes.
“Personal business,” I replied shortly.
“Hmm. Seems like you’re far from handling it. If you have a problem, you can always tell me. Also, don’t disappear like that again without informing me. I’m responsible for the safety of one of the richest men on the continent.” She flashed a rare, quick smile.
I couldn't help but smirk. “Seems like you’re taking your job a bit too seriously.”
“I get paid to make a fuss when you go out of line—which I expect will happen frequently.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because you’re the boss. My grandfather told me all about the Van Alen men. You don’t stick to the rules. But why would I blame you? You have the world under your feet. You’re Mr. Van Alen.”
I turned those words over in my mind. A sadistic smirk formed on my face. I was Mr. Fucking Van Alen. Suddenly, I was looking forward to that wedding invitation. The day of the ceremony, they would finally understand exactly what I was capable of.
“You’re right, Helen,” I said. “I guess you have a lot of work ahead of you.”
She laughed softly. “I’m looking forward to it. By the way, you have a flight booked to New York. One of your private jets is fueled and waiting at the mansion. We leave by midnight.”
I blinked. “Hold on. When was this arranged?”
“I read your entire schedule to you this morning, Carter. I’m guessing you weren't listening,” she teased. “It’s a stakeholders' meeting at the global headquarters. It’ll be brief, and you’ll have two days off afterward to enjoy the city.”
“Bloody hell,” I sighed. “And you’ll be there?”
“Of course, sir.”
***
We arrived at the private hangar at thirty minutes to midnight. My eyes were heavy, and the world felt surreal. This was a customized wing of the airport where only the Van Alen fleet was housed. As we walked toward a sleek, shimmering jet, I stopped abruptly.
Encrusted in gold leaf near the boarding stairs were the words: CARTER VAN ALEN.
My jaw dropped. I turned to Helen, who was wearing a look of quiet pride.
“Yup. That’s your baby. Your grandfather had your name imprinted on the flagship of the fleet before he passed.”
I ran a hand over the cold metal, a surge of adrenaline cutting through my fatigue. “This is the fucking life,” I whispered. I had never even been close to a private jet, let alone owned one.
The pilot greeted us with a sharp salute, and the moment we leveled out at thirty thousand feet, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Helen, however, worked throughout the entire trip, sorting documents and legal briefs I would need for the board. By the time we touched down in New York, she looked exhausted, but every paper was in order.
A limousine was already stationed on the tarmac. As the engine roared to life, Helen finally drifted off. I picked up the file beside her and realized she had been working for six hours straight. She was incredible.
We arrived at the New York estate—a breathtaking penthouse mansion—just as the sun began to peek over the skyline. Helen woke up with bags under her eyes but didn't give me a second to admire the view.
“You look like the wrath of God, Helen,” I remarked.
“That’s what happens when I handle the affairs of a titan,” she shot back, already throwing orders at the household staff. “Quick shower, Mr. Van Alen. The maids have your suit ready. Breakfast is served in twenty minutes. The meeting is in two hours.”
I decided to be a bit cocky. “Why the rush? I own the company. We can go whenever I say.”
She stopped and turned, her eyes blazing with a mixture of surprise and begrudging admiration. “Didn't take you long to adapt, did it?”
Two hours later, we walked out of the mansion. I noticed about two dozen guards scattered across the grounds—more than I’d seen in Kingston. They were dressed in sharp suits, but I noticed the subtle weight under their jackets.
“Why do I have an army following me?” I asked as we settled into the limo.
“Protection. As a Van Alen, you are a target 24/7.”
“Because I’m rich?”
“Because you’re powerful. People will want to bring you down just to see if they can. Right now, your enemies are quiet because they don’t know a new heir has taken over. Once you step into that boardroom, they’ll start to surface.”
“That’s fucked up,” I muttered, my heart hammering.
“You’ll get used to it. Here, check this out.”
Helen reached under a hidden cabinet in the limo and pressed a button. A concealed wall slid back, revealing a specialized armory. I gasped. I recognized some from movies, but seeing them in person was different. There were tactical shotguns—a Mossberg 500 and a Benelli M4—and several high-end rifles.
She picked out the Mossberg with terrifying ease.
“Christ, Helen! Be careful!” I exclaimed, flinching.
“Stop whining,” she mocked. “This is my favorite. Easy to handle, high impact.”
“You... you actually know how to use that?”
“My grandfather trained me. The craziest thing he ever did was balance a target on his head and tell me to shoot it off.”
My eyes widened. “You didn't... did you?”
She smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I did. And I missed. I missed the target and his head. We both nearly had a heart attack.” She laughed, and the sound was so contagious I found myself laughing too. “Maybe one day we’ll try it with you.”
“I’ll kill you first,” I said, staring at the gun like it was a time bomb.
“No, silly. I meant you hold the target. I wouldn't let you touch a weapon yet, not with the way you’re shaking.”
I smirked, leaning back into the leather seat. “What if I offered you a million dollars to be the target?”
“At your service, Mr. Van Alen,” she replied instantly.
The power of money, I thought. It could buy loyalty, it could buy silence, and apparently, it could buy a person’s life. I was starting to like being a Van Alen.
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CHAPTER 224
The afternoon sun climbed higher, flooding the backyard of 412 Maple Street with a brilliant, golden warmth that made the changing leaves of the ancient maple tree seem to catch fire in the breeze. True to our newly established, profoundly unclassified civilian schedule, Elena and I had forgone all tactical responsibilities, opting instead for a pair of folding lawn chairs set up on the emerald-green grass beneath the sprawling branches.A light breeze carried the faint, distant scent of woodsmoke and autumn chill from somewhere deeper in the neighborhood, mingling with the rich, buttery aroma of pastries we had picked up from the corner bakery earlier that morning.Sloane was still stationed out in the garage, blissfully lost in the mechanical labyrinth of the Ford F-150’s engine compartment. Every few minutes, a rhythmic clank of metal against metal would drift across the lawn, punctuated by the muffled strains of 1991 classic rock playing from the truck’s stubborn cassette player.
CHAPTER 223
The following morning arrived with a cool, autumn mist clinging softly to the manicured lawns of Maple Street, blurring the edges of the neighborhood into a canvas of muted grays and pale gold. Inside 412 Maple Street, the house was already alive with the gentle, rhythmic cadence of domestic routine. Calvin had established his command post at the kitchen island well before sunrise, meticulously reviewing a spreadsheet detailing our projected utility consumption and grocery expenses for the upcoming quarter.I stood by the kitchen counter, wrapping my hands around a ceramic mug of dark roast coffee while watching the early morning light catch the rusted hood of our newly acquired 1988 Ford F-150 parked proudly in the driveway.A moment later, Sloane pushed open the kitchen door, wearing a heavy canvas work jacket and carrying a massive wrench he must have unearthed from the deepest recesses of the garage storage shelves."Morning, team," Sloane announced brightly, pouring himself a cup
CHAPTER 222
The triumphant, rumbling exhaust of the 1988 Ford F-150 echoed down Maple Street as Sloane proudly steered our newly acquired vehicular asset into the driveway of 412 Maple Street. With a final, dramatic rev of the engine that rattled the old side-mirrors, he threw the gearshift into park and killed the ignition.The neighborhood was bathed in the soft, golden light of mid-afternoon. A few houses down, Mrs. Gable was dutifully inspecting her prize-winning chrysanthemums, pausing only to cast a brief, curious glance over her hedge at the battered, midnight-blue truck that had just materialized in our driveway. Sloane offered her a theatrical, sweeping wave from behind the steering wheel, as if presenting a royal carriage to a visiting monarch. Mrs. Gable blinked twice, offered a polite, deeply bewildered nod in return, and went back to her flowers."Well," Sloane announced, pushing open the squeaky driver’s-side door and hopping down to the asphalt with the smug satisfaction of a conqu
CHAPTER 221
The short drive across the capital sector’s residential grid was a masterclass in domestic anticipation. Sloane spent the entire journey leaning forward in the passenger seat, expounding upon the mechanical virtues of late-eighties truck chassis while Calvin calmly fact-checked him from the back seat using an offline automotive database cached on his tablet. Elena sat beside me in the driver's seat, one elbow resting casually on the center console, occasionally offering a dry, witty counterpoint that sent Sloane into another round of animated theatrical defense.I kept my hands steady on the steering wheel, glancing occasionally in the rearview mirror to watch the peaceful neighborhood streets slip past. There were no surveillance tails, no encrypted radio pings, and no secondary escape routes to memorize. Just traffic lights turning green, pedestrians crossing at designated crosswalks, and the steady, reliable hum of a standard four-cylinder engine.Yet, beneath the easy banter and t
CHAPTER 220
The following morning broke with a crisp, brilliant clarity, painting the autumn sky in vast strokes of pale cerulean and soft apricot. The morning sun poured over the manicured lawns of Maple Street, chasing the overnight frost from the grass and warming the red-brick pathway leading up to the front porch of 412 Maple Street.Inside, the house was already humming with a quiet, purposeful energy. True to his word, Calvin had risen well before zero-seven-hundred hours, establishing his customary command post in the kitchen. The rhythmic, precise sound of the coffee grinder hummed through the air, followed by the familiar, aromatic blooming of freshly ground dark roast beans meeting hot water at precisely ninety-four degrees Celsius.I walked down the hallway just as Sloane emerged from the guest quarters, fully dressed in a rugged canvas jacket and jeans, looking less like a former intelligence operative and more like a rugged contractor preparing for a major structural overhaul."Morn
CHAPTER 219
The rich, savory aroma of slow-simmered chili lingered long after the dinner bowls had been washed, dried, and neatly stacked back into the wooden cabinets with military precision. Outside 412 Maple Street, the deep indigo of evening had settled over the neighborhood, turning the quiet suburban street into a canvas of soft shadows and warm, amber porch lights. A gentle autumn wind rustled the golden leaves of the ancient maple tree, sending dry whispers across the lawn and tapping lightly against the double-paned glass of the living room windows.We had migrated from the kitchen into the living room, trading the bright overhead glare for the soft, cozy glow of a small reading lamp beside the sofa. The room was spacious, comfortable, and mercifully devoid of tactical status boards, encrypted radio relays, or blinking red warning indicators.Sloane was sprawled out comfortably across the large armchair in the corner, idly flipping through a thick home-improvement magazine he had scaveng
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