Alex's POV
I stepped out of my sleek black sedan, its engine purring to a stop behind me, and was instantly engulfed by the organized chaos that swirled around the Empire Building. The morning sun reflected off the mirrored glass, casting harsh angles of light that danced across the pavement.
People rushed in and out, their faces buried in phones, arms clutching folders and coffee cups, all moving with the precision and urgency of worker bees in a hive. Yet there I stood—motionless—at the entrance, as if time had suddenly slowed just for me. My feet were planted, but my mind drifted, caught in the quiet hum of anxiety and anticipation. Why did it feel different today? The same routine, the same building, yet something in the air felt heavier.
But this wasn't unfamiliar territory. This was DON EMPIRE. My second skin. The place I had given my hours, my talent, and in some ways, pieces of my soul. I worked here. I breathed here. And yet, as I crossed the threshold, I couldn't help but feel like I was walking into something more than just another workday. I came here everyday. Worked here.
Worked…under my father's personal assistant.
Not as the heir. Not as the king. Not yet.
"Sir? You okay?" Liah's voice broke through my thoughts. She stood behind me, a hint of concern in her tone.
I didn't answer.
Liah—my secretary. Curvy, confident, competent. She'd been working with me for two years. She was the woman who had the audacity to turn down my proposal. I offered her the world. She slammed the door on it. She knew what kind of man I was. She knew what I was capable of. I didn't care much for women—not in the way others did—but I needed one.
For the title.
For the inheritance.
To finally take what's mine from the clutches of my father's glorified errand girl.
My eyes rose to the words chiseled in steel above the towering glass. DON EMPIRE.
That name should be mine.
It was always supposed to be mine.
What the hell was Dad thinking? Making me jump through hoops just to claim what was already in my blood.
Footsteps echoed behind me.
Tony.
He didn't say a word, just cleared his throat. Loud enough to say, I know what's going through your mind.
I forced a grin and extended a hand. "Hey."
"You're just getting here?" he asked, one brow raised, smirking.
"Yeah… no… I mean—" I mumbled, looking down.
"Let's get inside," he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
We entered. Our shoes hit the polished glass floor like thunder.
"I'm heading to my office," Liah chimed in, peeling off toward the hallway. "I'll bring the papers in two."
I nodded absently.
My office sat directly across from hers. I stepped inside. Silence swallowed me whole. The room was luxury incarnated—gold-accented furniture, sleek surfaces, minimalistic decadence. But none of it mattered. I didn't want this office.
I wanted hers.
The CEO's.
That seat had my name on it—I just needed a ring on my finger to claim it.
"You're overthinking it," Tony's voice broke the stillness. "You already have a plan."
I laughed. A dark, hollow laugh. "Right. Thanks for reminding me."
No woman wanted to marry me? Fine. I'd found a solution. And it was already unfolding perfectly.
"You know that—"
Knock knock knock.
"Come in," I snapped, voice hard.
Liah walked in, carrying a fat folder. "The papers are ready, sir. You need to sign."
"Glasses," I said flatly.
She grabbed them from the shelf—the same spot I'd left them yesterday—and handed them over. I'd had hyperopia since childhood, and glasses were part of me.
I slid them on and flipped through the pages. "This is a damn lot."
"Are they all necessary?" Tony asked, leaning over my shoulder.
"Looks like it."
"You can go," I said to Liah. "I'll call when I'm done."
She nodded and moved to the door, then paused.
"Sir," she said, voice low, "a woman's outside… says she needs to see you."
"Who is she?"
"She said she's Sandra's friend."
That name.
Sandra.
The air in my lungs froze. Why would she send someone here? Unless…
Unless the plan was working.
I looked at Tony. He was grinning like he'd just hit the jackpot.
I narrowed my eyes. Why the hell was he smiling like that?
Or maybe I'm jealous because I never smiled.
I rose and strode toward the door. Tony followed.
Outside, a woman sat stiffly on the guest chair—a chair reserved for clients with power, money, status. This woman didn't belong there. Her face was streaked with dried tears, her clothes crumpled and worn like she hadn't changed in days.
"What do you want?" I asked, cool and calm.
She flinched at the sound of my voice, like she'd been jolted from a nightmare.
"I… I'm Maria. Sandra's friend," she stammered. "And… and…"
"What do you want?" I asked again—this time colder, more clipped.
She swallowed hard. "Sandra's in the hospital. It's bad. We need help. Money."
"Help?" I echoed, as if the word were foreign.
"Yes," she said, eyes begging. Her voice cracked. "Please."
I stared at her. "Do I look like a damn charity? Is this a soup kitchen? We don't fund pity projects here."
She didn't move. She barely breathed. Then, barely above a whisper, she said—
"Sandra said… you owe her."
My blood turned to fire.
"I owe her? I owe her nothing," I snarled. "She ghosted work. She's fired. I don't pay dead weight."
"But she's—she's dying," Maria cried, voice rising with desperation.
"And now you're yelling?" I barked, stepping closer. "Who do you think you're talking to?"
"You're a monster," she spat suddenly, voice trembling but full of something else—conviction.
"Tate!" I shouted, calling out to my guard.
She panicked, bolting toward the door just as the guard appeared.
I leaned in coldly. "You're gonna regret ever showing your face here."
She didn't wait to hear more. She tore through the lobby like a woman with hell on her heels.
"Run her down!" I shouted to the guard. "Don't let her get away!"
Her footsteps slammed against the marble floor, echoing down the corridor.
Behind her, Tate charged.