It’s the beginning of something ugly. Something sharp. Something terminal.
It starts like a whisper.
A breath in a quiet room.
A flicker at the edge of consciousness.
But it’s there. A splinter driven straight into the base of my brain, impossible to remove. A virus. A sickness. And her fucking mouth on my mirror just made it real.
It’s blooming now, slow and sure.
Like rot beneath lacquer.
Like heat building under skin until it blisters.
But soon…very fucking soon…it won’t be subtle.
It will consume me.
***
Five hours.
Five fucking hours since Camille walked out of my penthouse like she hadn’t broken beneath me the night before. Five hours since she branded my mirror with that lipstick, rosewood-stained proof of possession, a declaration I never fucking asked for, yet can’t shake loose.
Five hours, and the infection is already spreading.
I step into Rivera Holdings exactly at seven-thirty, earlier than usual. The private elevator glides upward, fifty-nine floors of steel, glass, and ruthless precision swallowing me whole. I’m not here because I want to be. I’m here because staying home would mean staring at the ghost of her mouth imprinted on my mirror until I lost my mind.
The elevator doors slide open onto the top floor, my empire, distilled to marble floors, glass walls, and cold ambition. Hanna, my assistant, greets me with a crisp nod, her heels clicking sharply as she recites today’s schedule, acquisition calls, legal briefings, negotiations with Tate Ashby.
I barely register her words.
Camille’s whispers still pulse through my veins. The echo of her pleas, her gasps, the way she shook apart beneath me, it all drowns out every rational thought.
“Sir?” Hanna’s voice sharpens, pulling me back to the present. “Mr. Ashby is waiting in your office.”
I nod curtly and head inside without another word.
Tate Ashby stands near the massive windows, framed by Manhattan’s skyline, confidence radiating from every tailored inch. He straightens his suit jacket, flashing a practiced smile as I enter. A snake wrapped in Armani, convinced we’re equals because his bloodline traces back generations of influence.
“Kane,” Tate greets, extending his hand.
“Tate.” My grip is firm, brief, detached.
We sit opposite each other, separated by fourteen feet of polished black marble, my territory, my rules.
“I want to revisit our agreement,” Tate begins, calm and diplomatic. “My people think…”
“Your people think wrong.” My voice slices through his politeness, clipped and brutal. “The terms stay.”
His composure falters just slightly. “I believe…”
“You misunderstood.” I lean forward, locking eyes with him, jaw tight. “You sign, or you leave. Your choice. I don’t renegotiate.”
He pauses, weighs my words, then stands, forcing another polite smile. “Understood, Rivera. My lawyers will reach out.”
“Good.”
