The echo of wine glasses and false laughter still haunted Nathan's thoughts.
Now back in his penthouse, he stood motionless in front of the black glass window, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, whiskey sweating in his grip. The city glittered like a thousand lies blinking back at him. The smirk Damien had worn at dinner clung to Nathan's mind like a bad taste. And Luisa—her hand resting so easily on Damien's arm, her lips parted in that same practiced smile she used to wear for him—was the match to his fury.
But it wasn't jealousy that burned in Nathan's chest.
It was the game. The betrayal. The act.
They all thought he was blind. That the orphaned heir would stay buried under ashes. But Nathan remembered everything. Every look. Every shift. Every word.
And behind Damien's smugness, Nathan saw guilt. Saw it twitch at the corner of his cousin's eye. Heard it in the tremble behind his laughter. Damien was hiding something. A secret. One his own father hadn't seen. But Nathan would find it—and expose it—before his twenty-eighth birthday. Before the crown returned to the blood it belonged to.
Across the city, Damien sat alone in the corner of his lavish bedroom, the shadows swallowing him.
His hands trembled as he stared at the framed photo of the Voss family—his uncle, aunt, and Nathan when he was just a boy. His father had insisted they keep it up for appearances. Damien had smiled at it for years.
Now, it made his stomach twist.
Nathan's eyes in that photo held innocence. Now, they held vengeance.
"Damn you," Damien whispered, pacing. "Damn you for coming back."
He stopped at the mirror. His own reflection stared back: rich, handsome, beloved—but unraveling. He gripped the sink and closed his eyes.
If Nathan remembered everything… it wouldn't just cost Damien the company.
It would cost him his soul.
In the heart of the city, on the seventh floor of Haven Dynamics, the fluorescent lights buzzed like angry wasps as Stephanie Quinn stepped into the conference office. Her heels tapped the tile, steady and defiant, even as her stomach tightened.
She wore a navy-blue blouse tucked into black tailored pants, her deep brown curls pulled back into a sleek low bun. Her golden undertone glowed against the fabric, and her eyes—dark, alert, unwavering—scanned the room with fire.
Nora Brighton waited inside like a spider.
The creative director stood behind her desk, arms crossed, frame rigid. Platinum-blonde hair cut into a flawless bob. Lips blood-red. She was stunning, cold, and cruel—all wrapped into one expensive suit.
"Quinn," Nora barked.
Stephanie stepped forward without flinching. "Brighton."
"Close the door."
The slam echoed like a gavel.
Nora circled her slowly, like a predator. "You've been very busy. Sketching after hours. Personal projects. Galleries."
Stephanie's jaw tensed. "That gallery was on my time."
"Your time?" Nora laughed, sharp and joyless. "Your time belongs to this company. And your little show wasn't just art—it was a billboard."
L
Stephanie narrowed her eyes. "That piece wasn't a billboard. It was a vision. An expression."
"It was a hook." Nora slammed a folder onto the table. "And the fish bit."
Stephanie opened the folder. A news headline stared back:
Vosstech Announces New Human-Tech Merge Project—Open for Interface Collaborations.
The HTM Initiative. Vosstech's biggest project to date—fusing neural signals with wearable tech. Emotion-based interfaces. Intuitive design. Billion-dollar contracts.
Stephanie looked up. "You want me to lead the pitch?"
"I'm giving you one chance to save your career," Nora sneered. "Vosstech wants something revolutionary. Something human. You paint machines like they feel, Quinn. You've got ten days to use that talent—turn it into a concept—and land the deal."
Stephanie hesitated. "Why me?"
Nora's smile was laced with acid. "Because one of the Vosses was at your gallery. He noticed you. Use that. Get in. Impress them. Whatever it takes."
Stephanie's spine stiffened. "That's not how I work."
Nora leaned in, breath sweet but venomous. "Then start working differently. Or pack up your paints and get out."
For a heartbeat, silence hung between them.
Stephanie stood straighter. Her voice didn't shake. "You don't scare me."
Nora chuckled darkly. "You should be terrified."
Stephanie turned to leave—but paused at the door. "That man at the gallery—he didn't look impressed. He looked like he'd survived hell."
Nora arched a brow. "Then give him a reason to believe again."
Stephanie's fingers trembled as she returned to her workspace, but her expression stayed firm. Her studio was filled with concept sketches—wings fused with wires, hands made of light, emotional pulses translated into design.
And at the center: the large canvas.
The boy in the flames.
The vision from her father's dream.
She had painted that moment long before she saw it.
And then he had walked into her gallery—cold, composed, powerful. Something in her had recognized him. Not his name. Not his face. But something deeper. The energy. The grief.
But she still didn't know who he really was.
She only knew this: that man—whoever he was—was the center of something bigger. And now, fate was pushing her straight into his world.
Back at the penthouse, Nathan stood at the blackboard wall again, eyes scanning names, numbers, documents. Red string connected companies to projects, betrayal to betrayal.
Then, he saw it again: Haven Dynamics. The name circled in red.
And beside it: Stephanie Quinn.
Her name. Her art. Her fire.
She'd drawn the moment he almost died. The one he never told anyone about. How?
He reached out and traced her name with one finger, as if touching it would bring clarity.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
But he already knew the answer.
She was the girl who had unknowingly drawn the wreckage of his soul.