The Warlord Comes Home

Chapter 008

The slap echoed through the plaza like a gunshot.

Chief Hawkins staggered back, clutching his cheek, utterly bewildered. The sting was sharp, but the confusion was worse. "Mr. Tucker... why? Why did you hit me?"

"Why?"

Zane Tucker’s face was a mottled mix of purple rage and pale terror. The veins in his thick neck bulged as he roared, "Do you have any idea what you almost did? You nearly assaulted a man you couldn't afford to look at wrong! You want to die? Fine! But don't bring my entire livelihood down with you!"

Hearing the sheer panic in Zane's voice, Chief Hawkins felt a chill shoot down his spine. He looked closely at his boss. The trembling wasn't just anger; it was fear. Raw, unadulterated fear. Zane Tucker was a tycoon, the landlord of The Zenith Tower. If he was this terrified... who on earth was the man standing in front of them?

The realization hit Hawkins like a freight train. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees with a heavy thud, ignoring the burning pain in his face.

"Mr. Tucker... I... I didn't know! I didn't know this gentleman was a VIP! Please, boss, it's my first offense. Have mercy!"

"Hmph."

Zane Tucker snorted, trying to regain his composure, though his hands were still shaking. "It doesn't matter if I forgive you. It only matters if he forgives you."

With that, Zane turned toward Conrad Stone. The transformation was instantaneous. The rage vanished, replaced by a smile so ingratiating it was painful to watch. He bowed low, his ample belly compressing.

"You must be Mr. Stone. Conrad Stone, sir?"

Twenty minutes ago, Zane had received a call that froze his blood. An individual of astronomical power had purchased The Zenith Tower. He was told that the initial buyer was merely a proxy and that the true owner, a Mr. Stone, would be arriving shortly. Zane had rushed downstairs to curate a perfect welcome, hoping to secure his future by impressing the new overlord.

Instead, he walked into a security disaster.

Conrad nodded almost imperceptibly. "That is me."

Zane bent even lower, practically folding himself in half. He produced a business card with two hands and offered it like a religious offering.

"Mr. Stone, your presence brings light to my humble establishment. I am the property manager, Zane Tucker. Please, feel free to call me Little Zane, Little Tucker... or even use my nickname, Meatball. Whatever pleases you, sir."

The security guards and Hawkins, still on his knees, gaped in stunned silence. "Meatball" was indeed the derogatory nickname the staff used behind Zane's back. To hear the tyrant boss offer it up willingly was surreal.

Conrad glanced at the man. There was a rule in the world: you don't hit a smiling face. Zane had humbled himself completely. Conrad took the card and gave a curt nod. "Pleasure."

Zane looked as if he had just won the lottery. He wiped the sweat from his brow and then turned his gaze back to Hawkins, his eyes hardening. "Mr. Stone, this subordinate has eyes but no vision. He is ignorant. Since you are a man of great stature, surely you wouldn't lower yourself to haggle with such a small person..."

"Eyes but no vision? Ignorant?"

Conrad let out a cold chuckle that dropped the ambient temperature by ten degrees. His expression was granite. "If I weren't a 'man of great stature,' as you say, would this scene have played out differently? Would those batons have broken my bones?"

He took a step toward Zane. "Do you think acting as a rabid dog for those in power is an honorable profession?"

Whoosh.

The blood drained from both Zane’s and Hawkins' faces. Zane looked at Hawkins and shook his head slowly. He had tried to save the man's job, but Conrad was implacable.

"Go upstairs. Write your resignation letter," Zane said, his voice flat. "You are no longer fit for this job."

"Mr. Tucker..." Hawkins pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.

"Go!"

Zane didn't wait for a response. He hurriedly ushered Conrad into the lobby, leaving the disgraced security chief kneeling on the concrete.

"Mr. Stone, sir, are you also here to observe the bidding conference?" Zane asked, trotting to keep up with Conrad's long strides.

"Not interested," Conrad said, looking straight ahead. "I'm just here to inspect the building. To get familiar."

"Ah, of course, of course..." Zane mopped his forehead again with a handkerchief. "Since you've bought the place... perhaps we should hold a handover ceremony? A gala? I can organize the press, firework—"

"No need."

Conrad cut him off instantly. "I dislike superficial pomp. As for The Zenith Tower, you can remain the nominal administrator. Keep running it as you see fit. I only bought it for... amusement."

Amusement.

Zane’s admiration skyrocketed. To buy a multi-billion dollar skyscraper just for fun? This was true capital. This was power. Low profile, invisible, yet absolute.

As they toured the lower levels, the building buzzed with activity. Female employees from various companies clicked through the halls in white blouses, pencil skirts, and professional stockings. It was a vibrant ecosystem of commerce.

Whispers followed the odd pair—the round, sweating Zane Tucker and the tall, imposing stranger.

"Isn't that Mr. Tucker? Who is that young guy next to him?"

"Maybe a CEO from a major firm here for the bid?"

"Could be. Too bad I don't work for Regency Global. I heard President Lynn is fierce. She hates men and works women to the bone. A real ice queen."

Gossip swirled like dust motes in the light.

Nearby, Caroline and Martha stepped out of a restroom, refreshing their makeup. Martha frowned, squinting down the corridor.

"Caroline, look. That back... doesn't that look like Conrad walking with Mr. Tucker?"

"Where?" Caroline spun around, scanning the crowd. But the figures had already turned a corner.

"They're gone." Caroline laughed, shaking her head. "Mom, you're seeing things. That loser probably got chased off by security ten minutes ago. How could he possibly be walking with the owner of the building?"

"You're right," Martha sighed, relaxing. "My eyes must be playing tricks on me."

Zane continued his enthusiastic commentary on every floor, but Conrad suddenly stopped.

"I'll walk alone from here," Conrad said quietly. "Go do your work."

Zane knew when to vanish. "Of course, sir. Take your time. Call if you need anything at all." He bowed and retreated.

Conrad stepped into a private elevator and pressed the button for the 88th floor.

The top ten floors of the tower belonged to Regency Global, the dominant corporation in the building. And the 88th floor was the sanctum of the President.

As the elevator climbed rapidly, the city below shrank into a toy model. Conrad felt a sensation he hadn't experienced in years: nervousness. His heart rate, steady through gunfire and bombardments, began to flutter.

He was the Supreme Commander, the God of War. But right now, he was just a man terrified of facing the woman he had failed for five years.

Ding.

The doors slid open. Conrad stepped onto the plush carpet of the executive floor. It was silent up here. He walked toward the President's Office.

He raised his hand to knock.

He froze.

His hand hovered inches from the mahogany wood. The man who faced death without blinking couldn't bring himself to rap his knuckles against a door.

"Exhale..."

He stood there for a long minute, composing himself, before finally knocking gently.

"Who is it?"

The voice came before the door opened. It was crisp, like a silver bell, instantly soothing the turmoil in his chest.

But Conrad frowned. That wasn't Celeste's voice.

The heavy door creaked open. Standing there was not the woman he expected, but a tiny, porcelain doll of a girl. She looked up at him with wide, curious eyes that held the innocence of the world.

Their eyes met.

Conrad felt his breath hitch. His pupils contracted. He recognized those eyes. He recognized the shape of her face.

The little girl didn't seem afraid of the tall stranger. She tilted her head, studying him intensely.

"Papa? Is that you?"

The word was soft, tentative. But it hit Conrad with the force of a nuclear warhead. His entire body shuddered.

"Papa!"

Seeing he didn't answer, the girl called out again, louder this time, her voice laced with sudden, desperate hope.

That second "Papa" shattered Conrad’s defenses completely. The walls he had built around his heart to survive the horrors of war crumbled into dust. Gratitude, guilt, overwhelming love—it all came rushing out like a broken dam.

This was his daughter.

His and Celeste's child.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

Conrad, the man who commanded armies, dropped to his knees. He pulled the small girl into his arms, burying his face in her small shoulder, whispering apologies over and over again as tears streamed down his rugged face.

Men do not cry easily, but only because they have not yet reached the depths of their heartbreak.