The punching bag rocked on its chain, rattling just slightly with every blow.
Lucas hit it again—left, right, left, pivot, elbow. The rhythm was all he had at 4:12 AM. The penthouse gym was silent except for his breath and the low sound of a fan in the corner.
Sweat soaked through his tank. His fists ached.
But it was better than sleep.
Because sleep meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering her face on the screen just hours ago.
BREAKING: MYSTERY EX CLAIMS 'HAN HEIR' BROKE PROMISES
—"He told me we had a future. Now I'm just learning I was a footnote."
The photo was grainy, likely two years old, taken outside a small gym in Suzhou. Lucas had barely remembered the camera that day. He remembered the argument more clearly.
He hadn't even seen her in over eight months. They hadn't spoken since the week after his last game.
And now she was on broadcast.
Selling the past.
Lucas slammed one more punch into the bag, let it swing, and exhaled hard, resting his forehead against the leather.
Behind him, a sleepy voice broke the silence.
"Next time you want to start a boxing match with gravity, give me a warning."
He turned.
Rhea stood at the gym door in sweats, one sleeve sliding off her shoulder, hair loose from sleep. Her voice was rough with sleep and coffee withdrawal.
He blinked. "You're here?"
She yawned. "Couch. Your media team ran late. I crashed around midnight. Didn't expect your 4 a.m. cardio rage."
Lucas grabbed a towel and wiped his face.
She stepped further inside, frowning as she pulled up her tablet from the counter.
"You saw it?"
"Yeah."
"She's not wrong, exactly," Rhea muttered, scanning the article. "Just strategic. I've already flagged three platforms. We'll manage the spin."
Lucas didn't answer.
He tossed the towel over his shoulder and grabbed a water bottle.
Rhea eyed him. "So. What's the story?"
He paused. Then sighed.
"I dated her," he said simply. "But she wasn't a girlfriend. We weren't exclusive."
Rhea raised a skeptical eyebrow.
Lucas ran a hand through his damp hair. "I had one girlfriend. The only one that ever mattered. We were together on and off for seven years."
That caught Rhea mid-sip. "Seven?"
"She believed I'd make it big. Wanted to be there when I did. I think she thought she could wait me out while I figured out who I was."
He sat on the floor, back against the mirror.
"We tried. We really did. But… when the game ended for me, she left not long after. That was six months ago."
Rhea sat across from him, cross-legged, tablet still glowing in her lap.
"Seven years is a lot of history."
"I didn't bring any of it into this world," Lucas said. "Didn't want to drag ghosts into boardrooms."
"Well," Rhea muttered, swiping through another headline, "the ghosts are trending."
He rubbed his face. "Let me guess: I'm already the villain?"
"Not yet," she said. "You're still sadly romantic with bad judgment. That window will close by noon."
He chuckled under his breath.
Rhea stared at him a second longer, then stood.
"Alright. I'm calling in the soft weapon."
Lucas blinked. "What?"
She tossed him a protein bar from the kitchenette. "A profile spread. Human interest. Something warm. You talk about your mom, your knee injury, your regrets. You look vulnerable and strong at the same time. Maybe hold a puppy."
"I'm not holding a puppy."
"We'll circle back on that."
She stretched her arms overhead, sighed, and started heading toward the hallway—still barefoot, tablet in hand.
Lucas called after her. "Thanks."
Rhea turned back. Her face was unreadable. "Don't thank me. Just give me something worth defending."
Then she disappeared down the hall.
An hour later, Lucas was showered, dressed, and seated in his father's office when ATHENA chimed in.
"The scandal spike peaked at 5:07 AM. Current trend decay projects 78% mitigation within 36 hours, pending new distraction content."
Lucas nodded slowly. "Any signs she's working with Frances?"
"No direct link yet. But the timing is suspicious. Her appearance on that particular show required prior booking—likely planned before your first public interview."
"So someone tipped her off."
"Or offered a platform."
Lucas leaned back in the chair, staring at the blinking lights on the control panel. He tapped the desk once.
"She wasn't a mistake. Just the wrong timeline."
"That won't matter to the public," ATHENA said. "Narrative always outruns truth."
Lucas stood and crossed the room.
"Then it's time to start setting the pace."
Absolutely. Here's the continuation from:
"Then it's time to start setting the pace."
Lucas's voice was calm, but the decision sat sharp behind it.
He turned from the desk, grabbed the suit Rhea had laid out earlier—midnight charcoal, silk-lined, no tie—and buttoned it in front of the floor-length mirror. The man staring back didn't look like a teacher anymore. Didn't look like an athlete either.
He looked like someone with a target on his back—and something behind his eyes that said try me anyway.
"You will arrive at the gala in ninety-three minutes," ATHENA said smoothly. "I've filtered guest dossiers. You'll be introduced to fourteen individuals of interest. Nine of them are neutral. Four are potential allies. One is dangerous."
Lucas adjusted his cuff.
"Which one?"
"You'll know her by the way the room changes when she enters."
The car slid to a stop in front of the Eventis Pavilion—an ultramodern glass-and-light cathedral dressed tonight in sapphire tones and minimalist chandeliers. Outside, cameras flashed, drones hovered, and the queue of black cars snaked around the block.
Lucas stepped out alone.
No red carpet handler. No flashy smile. Just him—clean, quiet power in a well-fitted suit.
Within seconds, the crowd noticed.
He could hear the name ripple.
"That's him."
"Lucas Pan—the heir."
"Cyrus's son."
"Did you see the interview?"
Inside, the event space was curated elegance: textured glass walls, ambient jazz, digital art looping slowly above the bar. The crowd was a who's who of Asia's tech elite—VC magnates, algorithmic architects, fintech royalty, and an overrepresentation of men with inherited watches and borrowed convictions.
Lucas moved through them calmly. People parted. Some nodded. Some stared.
By the time he reached the center atrium, Rhea had appeared at his side, radiant in matte gold with sharp earrings and a clipboard disguised as a clutch.
"You're tracking like wildfire," she murmured without looking at him. "But keep the pressure even. No sudden statements. No drinking anything handed to you by someone who winks."
"Noted."
They mingled. Smiled. Shook hands. Lucas met the founder of a crypto-banking startup who was clearly high. A roboticist who insisted ATHENA was "a myth designed to inflate valuation." And a woman with an oil-slick bob and sharper cheekbones than necessary, who said she'd known Cyrus once—"before he forgot how to love people."
Lucas didn't flinch.
Not until he saw her.
By the far bar. Ice-white suit. Older. Regal in a way that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with posture. Her eyes met his.
"Target identified," ATHENA said.
Lucas moved toward her. Slowly. Intentionally.
She turned as he approached.
"You're taller than I remember," she said. Her voice was low and effortless. "But the mouth? That's definitely his."
Lucas stopped a pace away. "You knew my father."
"Intimately," she said. Then smiled. "In business."
"Name?"
She extended a hand. "Vivienne Xun. I was his partner on the South Asia intelligence project. Before Frances."
Lucas didn't shake her hand. Not yet.
"And you're here to tell me something?"
She laughed—like it amused her that he'd ask directly. "No. I'm here to see if you flinch. So far? Not bad."
Lucas studied her face. There was elegance in it. But also edge.
She leaned closer.
"Your father left a trail, Lucas. Not breadcrumbs. Traps. And not all of them were for his enemies."
She touched his chest—brief, almost affectionate.
"Let's hope you know which ones are meant for you."
Then she walked away.
Lucas watched her go.
"She's telling the truth," ATHENA said. "Partially. Her file confirms past classified projects with Cyrus. Redacted attachments suggest unresolved financial tension."
Lucas didn't move. He kept his hands relaxed at his sides, gaze still following Vivienne's retreating form through the glittering crowd.
"People only ever tell the version of the truth that pays them back," he muttered.
"Precisely," ATHENA said. "And most audiences only hear the version that flatters their expectations."
Lucas's jaw tightened slightly. "So what does that make her?"
"A reflection. She offers you a story that elevates her role and preserves her leverage. Whether it's truth or not is irrelevant. What matters is what others believe she is to you."
He let that sink in. The gala was full of eyes—not just watching, but inventing.
"Then let them believe something else," he said quietly.
"What narrative shall I project?"
Lucas's gaze cut across the room—toward the digital sculpture, the rising wall of mirrors, and the flashbulbs catching his name at every angle.
"Spin it like she came to endorse me. That we spoke about legacy, vision, continuity. The next generation of Han Global. No tension. No secrets."
"You're rewriting perception, not correcting fact."
"Exactly. They don't want fact. They want a story that makes sense with the lighting and the suits."
"Processing new media markers. Uploading soft rumor in thirty-eight minutes. Minor editorials will run with it by dawn."
Lucas nodded.
He moved back through the room, slower now. People leaned in. Smiles widened. Someone handed him a glass of champagne—he didn't drink it, just held it with purpose.
The game wasn't about telling the truth.
It was about choosing which version the room needed most.