Content Warning

This chapter contains graphic violence, torture, and death that may be disturbing to some readers. These scenes are included for storytelling purposes and do not glorify or promote harm in any way.

Reader discretion is strongly advised. If you are sensitive to such themes, please proceed with caution or skip this chapter.

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A/N: I've included a marker with underscores, you can scroll down to the safe zone, darlings. Happy Reading. 🖤🖤

- Third POV -

Greg knew the room he was in.

The dark, but not pitch-black. A single overhead light cast a dull glow, pooling onto the concrete floor—just enough to illuminate him, slumped in the steel chair. His wrists were bound behind him, shoulders shaking with exhaustion. Regret and hopelessness clawed at his insides.

Greg's breathing was ragged and shallow, but the silence around him felt heavier than the pain searing through his body. Pain was better. Pain meant he was still alive.

The air was thick with the scent of copper and sweat, a familiar scent from the very sessions he once used to conduct.

He knew how this worked. He had been the one asking the questions. He had dragged men—and, in rare cases, women—into rooms just like this. He had pushed them past their limit and listened to their voices crack as they gave in.

And now?
Now he was the one waiting to break.

A metallic table sat just a few feet away, littered with cold instruments—pliers, blades, a branding iron long since cooled. They weren't even arranged neatly. Whoever placed them there hadn't cared what was used first.

Water dripped from a leaky pipe in the corner.

Plink... plink... plink...

The slow, rhythmic sound gnawed at his sanity. His heartbeat fell into sync with it, each drop marking the countdown to his end.

He swallowed hard.

He had always known this was coming. But not this soon. It had happened too fast—as if, the moment he stepped into betrayal, the walls had collapsed around him. Like a trap.

A sharp creak cut through the silence. The heavy door groaned open. And then he saw him.

His suit was immaculate, untouched by the filth. His presence alone filled the room with something colder than steel—something that made Greg's body tremble harder than pain ever could.

Zayne walked in at a measured pace, his polished shoes barely making a sound against the concrete. Behind him, Josh and Miles followed, and the door clicked shut, sealing the room in a vacuum of silence.

Greg's breath stuttered, his swollen eyes darting between them, but it was Zayne his gaze always returned to. The man who decided whether he lived or died.

"Mr. Lanston—please," Greg's hoarse voice cracked as he jerked forward, only for the chains to jolt him back against the chair. His breathing came fast, panicked. "Maxwell—he threatened my family! I had no choice!'

Zayne didn't respond.

He silently reached into his pocket, retrieving a pair of black gloves. Slow. methodical. Sliding them on like he had all the time in the world.

Greg's desperation deepened. "Please, sir, you have to understand. I never wanted to betray you!"

Still, Zayne said nothing.

Miles, standing off to the side, casually flipped open a folder. "That's interesting," he murmured, his tone smooth, almost bored.

"Because, according to our intel, your wife and son flew to Switzerland last week. First-class. Fully paid for. Very generous for someone under threat."

He snapped the folder shut.

"You planned your escape, Greg. You just got caught before you could take it."

Greg paled.

Josh, who had been leaning lazily against the table, let out an unimpressed chuckle.

"Man, at least pretend to be original," he muttered, shaking his head.

Greg turned back to Zayne, eyes wild. "I—okay, yes, I gave them something! But, it was just small things! But—but it was just small things! Your schedules, your land acquisition bid—minor details! Nothing—nothing that could hurt you."

Zayne finally looked at him.

Greg stopped breathing.

Because those hazel-green eyes weren't angry.

They weren't anything at all.

"My schedule?" Zayne echoed, voice low. "The acquisition bidding plan?"

He tilted his head slightly. "So, you confirmed it now."

Greg's stomach dropped. Fuck. He had given away those confessions when they tortured him for two days. And now, he had just hammered the final nail into his coffin.

Zayne never showed mercy to those who betrayed him.

Never.

Not when they jeopardized his business—compromised his safety.

Zayne's lips quirked. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. He took a step closer, crouching slightly so that Greg could see him properly in the dim light.

"Your betrayal wasn't unexpected," he said conversationally. The indifference in his tone sent a deep, primal chill down Greg's spine.

"In fact, I encouraged it."

Greg's breath hitched, trembled uncontrollably.

Zayne's voice lowered, soft. Gentle. "Every word, every crumb you thought you were feeding my enemies—they ate it up. But all they got was poison."

Greg's eyes went bloodshot-wide. "You... you fucking used me?"

Zayne said nothing—simply smiled. A polite, charming, perfect gentleman's smile, he stepped back.

Greg barely had time to blink.

The shot was clean.

The suppressor muffled the crack of the bullet, but not the way Greg's body jerked, his head snapping back before slumping forward—silent.

Josh whistled, twirling the bloodied pliers between his fingers before glancing at Zayne. His tone was casual, almost amused. An observation.

"So, you knew all along."

Zayne said nothing. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them on the table beside the scattered tools. Greg's betrayal, he had predicted at some point. His expression remained cold, but his mind already shifting to the real problem.

Maxwell.

Like every Lanston, his uncle had always been ambitious, but ambition alone didn't make a man stupid. Maxwell had never crossed family interests this openly before.

So what changed?

Zayne's gaze flickered toward the corpse. This wasn't just greed. Either Maxwell had grown reckless... or someone was backing him.

The question was—if so, then who?

Josh let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he glanced at Miles. "See? That's why I keep telling these rookies—never piss off the boss." He gestured toward Greg with a smirk. "Generous paycheck aside, you gotta be a special kind of dumbass to test luck."

Miles remained unimpressed. He barely spared a glance at the head of the security as he adjusted his glasses.

"Touching insight," he said flatly, then turned his focus back to Zayne. "What do you want done with him, sir? Buried, burned, framed for a crime he didn't commit?"

Zayne rolled his wrist as if shaking off the stiffness.

"Frame him," he said. "Let him be useful for once."

Josh snorted but said nothing, already dialing a number for cleanup. As Miles stepped forward to handle the next steps, Zayne's gaze lingered on the lifeless man strapped to the chair. Then, without looking up, he spoke.

"Send my uncle a gift."

He turned, already heading for the door.

"An eye should do."

________________

- Zayne -

The heavy oak door clicked shut behind me.
Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling window, streaking the glass like frantic veins. Thunder rumbled low in the distance, a simmering growl over the hills.

The dim glow of the bedroom outlined the cold elegance of my space—dark wood, black marble. A steel-framed bed. A sleek fireplace. An imposing bookshelf lining the far wall. Modern. Minimal. A place that felt lived in, but never truly lived.

I exhaled, fingers working the buttons of my shirt. The fabric slid from my shoulders and discarded onto the armchair.

The bathroom tiles were cool underfoot as I stepped into the en suite. Steam curled into the air when I turned the water on, stepping under the spray, unflinching as the heat seared against my skin. My muscles tensed, but my mind remained calm—detached. Analytical.

Another betrayal. Another lesson.

Nothing new.

My family taught me the rules of this game early.

Caroline once played the doting aunt, showering me with warmth and gifts when I was a kid. A careful touch in a house of knives. But the moment my intelligence became evident—the moment the chairman took notice of me—she saw me as a threat.
I was twelve when she orchestrated my first assassination attempt.

Her own nephew.

Not out of malice, but strategy. If I disappeared, if I was out of the equation, her son—Aaron, the second male heir—could step into the chairman's favor. No competition.

I learned, even then, not to mistake affection for loyalty. That the family I was born into was fucked up. Affection could be manufactured. Loyalty had a price.

By fifteen, I'd stopped giving a damn.

The heat from the water numbed into nothing. My mind cataloged it all with the same detachment I honed after years of sitting at the family's table, listening to grown men turn business into war.

Like wolves sinking their teeth into the biggest kill.

When the water ran cold, I stepped out, reaching for a towel. The storm outside had settled into a steady rhythm, the crackling sound of fire from the hearth filling the quiet.

I tied a robe loosely around his waist, running a hand through my damp hair as I stepped back into the bedroom. The storm's rhythm was a steady pulse against the glass, the crackling sound of fire licking the timbers.

A familiar knock.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Miles entered, a tablet in one hand, his gaze flickering briefly to the untouched whiskey on the bar before settling back on me.

"Josh finished handling the cleanup, sir," he reported, stepping closer. "As for the land deal—Maxwell took the bait. Word is, he's moving forward with the bid."

My lips curled slightly. "How much did he throw into it?"

"Upwards of eighty million." Miles adjusted his glasses. "All for a site that'll be unusable for anything other than grain storage."

My eyebrow lifted, amused. "Expensive lesson."

Miles closed the tablet. "Do you want to let him figure it out on his own, or should we be charitable and break the news?"

I reached for my whiskey glass, tilting it lazily in my hand as I weighed my options. Then, in a tone smooth and cold as the liquid inside the glass, I spoke.

"Why bother? He'd figure it out when everything goes up in smoke."

"Understood." Miles lingered by the door. "There's... another matter."

I turned slightly, I didn't speak, waited.

Miles stepped forward. "Helen Blake has requested a private meeting. Says it's an informal matter, but given who her husband is the senator—David Blake—I thought it required your attention."

I swirled my whiskey slowly, watching the amber liquid catch the firelight. David Blake. The aspiring puppet master of the right-wing machine. "Charming. And what does she want?"

"She called it a simple courtesy. But with Helen, nothing is ever just that." Miles' tone was dry. "Could be leverage. Could be a peace offering." A beat of hesitation. "There's also a personal angle."

I arched a brow. Personal?

Miles cleared his throat, clearly entertained by what he was about to say. "She's related to a Miss Yara Levine."

I blinked once, slowly. Then, it clicked.

The charity function. The sharp gasp. The unmistakable sensation of cold wine dripping down my suit.

Blonde. Blue-eyed. Doll-faced but sharp-tongued. A body that—if she weren't such a nuisance—I'd have taken my sweet time appreciating.

My jaw tightened slightly. I had only stepped in to defuse a situation. Some middle-aged man had been pawing at a girl barely older than his daughter. So I had intervened—nothing more, nothing less.

Yet, somehow, I had ended up wearing the wine meant for the bastard.

I had been covered in worse things before—blood, sweat, and other fluids that came with more satisfying encounters. But a petty, misdirected tantrum? That had been irritating... and a little amusing.

And then today. At the university, when I was checking out the environment personally before my little sister started. That girl had been the one to show me around.

Bright-eyed. Talkative. A little eager to help.

Did I like that? No. I found it... misplaced. People like her who saw the world in bright colors—they didn't last. She had mistaken my politeness for warmth, my presence for security. Yet—she had looked at me. Attracted. Curious. Mistaking me for something I wasn't.

Miles smirked slightly. "That the same girl who doused you in liquor, sir."

My gaze flicked up. "Your memory is irritatingly sharp."

"Your mood that night was even sharper," Miles replied. If he wasn't loyal and effective, I might have fired him for his cheeky sarcasm. But I had to admit, he kept my life a little more interesting. "So, Helen wants you to meet with her formally. Probably to smooth things over with her niece. What should I tell her?"

I leaned back, pressing the rim of the glass to his lower lip.

An apology meeting?

That meant a few things in my world. Compensation. A bridge. A peace offering. A message. And I doubted Helen wanted me as an enemy.

"Schedule it," I said, voice cool. "But not until after the board reconvenes."

Miles inclined his head. "Understood."

As the door clicked shut behind him, I let my gaze drift to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.

An apology. How quaint.

My fingers tightened briefly around the glass before I brought it to my lips, washing down the heat with the burn of whiskey.