Trash to Throne

Chapter 3 – The Weight of the Crown

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering skyline. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive leather.

A conference table the size of his old apartment sat in the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs. "This," Grayson said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand, "is your war room."

Adrian stepped inside, running his fingers over the smooth table surface. "My what?"

"War room," Grayson repeated. "Every major decision for the Orion Consortium will be made here. You’ll meet with board members, sign contracts worth billions, and declare moves that could collapse or elevate entire markets."

Adrian gave a low whistle. "And they’re just… okay with me walking in and taking over?"

Grayson’s mouth twitched in something that might have been a smile or a warning. "They’re not. Which is why you’ll need to learn fast, and act faster."

The next hour was a blur of movement. Grayson led him through hallways lined with portraits of stern men and elegant women every one of them a former Orion Consortium leader. The last portrait was different.

An older man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes stared down at him from the canvas. The plaque beneath read: Orion Cole, Chairman. 1943–2025. Adrian stopped. "My grandfather."

"Yes," Grayson said quietly. "He built the empire you now control. But he also made enemies who don’t fade with time."They moved on. Adrian was shown vaults containing rare artifacts paintings, jewels, even a sword in a glass case that looked like it belonged in a museum.

"Everything you see is yours," Grayson said.

The words hit like a physical weight. This wasn’t just money. This was legacy. History. Power that could change lives or end them.

When they reached the executive garage, Adrian was nearly blinded by the reflection of polished chrome.

Lined up before him were cars worth more than any building he’d ever lived in Rolls Royces, Bugattis, a jet black Aston Martin that looked fast even when it wasn’t moving.

Adrian ran a hand along the Aston’s hood. "This is insane." "It’s Tuesday," Grayson replied flatly.

They were interrupted by a sudden buzz from Grayson’s phone. He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing. "We need to leave. Now."

"Why? What’s going" A thunderous crash echoed through the garage. A security guard’s shout followed, cut off mid-word. Grayson pushed Adrian toward the Aston. "Get in!"

The garage lights flickered. The air smelled faintly of burning rubber. From the far shadows, a figure emerged tall, dressed in black, face hidden behind a sleek mask. In their hand, a small silver device pulsed with a rhythmic red light.

Grayson’s voice was low, urgent. "Bomb. That’s a remote trigger." The masked figure tilted their head, as if studying Adrian… then tossed the device onto the hood of the nearest Rolls-Royce.

The beeping grew faster. Grayson grabbed Adrian’s arm. "Move!" They sprinted toward the exit, tires screeching as the Aston roared to life. Behind them, the masked figure pressed a button on their wristband.

Adrian glanced back just in time to see the Rolls erupt in a wall of flame the blast lighting up the garage like daylight. Through the fire, the masked figure didn’t flee.

They stood perfectly still, watching him, before lifting a hand… and making the Ace of Spades gesture in the air.