The silence in Ethan's penthouse was unnatural.
He sat alone at the edge of his bed, still shirtless, staring at the message on his phone.
"Your father isn't dead."
He had read those four words at least a hundred times. Each time, they hit harder.
The man who had shaped his childhood through fear and ambition. The man whose mysterious death left Ethan in charge of an empire before he was ready. The man who, in both lives, had never once said "I'm proud of you."
Was he alive?
If so… where had he been for a decade?
A knock interrupted the storm inside his mind. He didn't answer. The door opened anyway.
Charlotte stood there, wrapped in one of his shirts, eyes shadowed with worry.
"You haven't said a word in hours," she whispered.
"I don't have words," Ethan replied. "I have questions. And no answers."
Charlotte stepped inside. "Do you think it's true?"
"I don't think anything anymore," he said, rubbing his temples. "But I'm going to find out."
She hesitated, then crossed to him. Gently, she sat on his lap, her arms wrapping around his shoulders.
"Whatever you find," she said softly, "you don't have to face it alone."
Ethan looked at her.
There was something in her eyes—something real.
And that terrified him more than the message.
Three days later.
Selina handed Ethan a dossier thicker than a novel. "You're not going to like this."
"Try me."
She tossed it on his desk. "Multiple sightings. An alias used. Hidden bank transfers routed through Switzerland. Someone matching your father's description was seen entering a private medical facility two years after his 'death.'"
Ethan flipped through the pages, each one tightening the knot in his chest.
"I also traced one of the accounts funding operations against Lu Corporations," Selina added. "Guess where the money came from."
He didn't answer.
She didn't wait.
"An old Lu Holdings subsidiary—shut down after his death. But the account remained active. And someone's been moving money through it for years."
Ethan stood abruptly. "So he faked his death. Left me everything to protect… what? Himself?"
"Maybe," Selina said. "Or maybe he never left."
That thought made Ethan's blood run cold.
"If he's alive, why hasn't he come forward?"
Selina's gaze was unreadable. "What if he's been watching you?"
That night, Ethan stood in the vault room beneath Lu Tower. It was a place few people knew existed, where only Lu blood could enter without triggering full lockdown.
He stood in front of an old wall safe—one his father always kept locked, even from him.
Using his fingerprint and a retinal scan, he unlocked it for the first time.
Inside was a single object.
A leather-bound journal.
He opened it.
The first page: "If you're reading this, Ethan, then either I'm dead… or you're not ready to hear the truth."
His breath caught.
The following pages weren't confessions—they were instructions.
A plan. A game. Layers of manipulation involving board members, rival corporations, and a secret holding company that controlled far more than Lu Corporations ever officially declared.
His father hadn't just run a business.
He ran a network.
And now Ethan understood: his rise was never an accident. It was engineered.
Meanwhile, Charlotte met someone she hadn't seen in a long time.
Alone in a private art gallery, she stood in front of a portrait of Ethan—painted when he was only twenty. Before the power. Before the coldness. Before the system.
The man who entered beside her had the same jawline.
But gray at the temples. Older. More tired.
"I was told you're still close to him," the man said.
Charlotte didn't turn. "Define 'close.'"
He chuckled. "You always were clever."
"Is it true?" she asked. "Are you really back?"
He stepped closer. "I never left."
Her fingers clenched. "You let him suffer."
"I made him strong."
She finally turned, eyes sharp as blades. "You made him hate."
The man's expression hardened. "Hatred is pure. It cannot be faked. He'll need that, if he's to survive what's coming."
Charlotte's lips parted in disbelief. "You're preparing him… for war?"
The man turned and walked away. "I'm preparing him to take my place."
Back at the penthouse, Ethan stood in front of the mirror, shirt unbuttoned, bruises forming on his knuckles after a late sparring session. He stared at himself—not the body, not the face—but the man within.
He remembered being fifteen. His father slapping him across the face for showing weakness after a failed deal.
"You'll never be good enough if you can't take pain."
That voice haunted him now.
The journal felt like a curse in his hands.
The door opened behind him.
"Rough day?" Charlotte asked softly, placing a hand on his back.
He didn't respond.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"No," Ethan said. "I found what I feared."
She pressed closer to him, her body warm, grounding. "Then let me remind you of something else."
Their lips met, slower this time. Less hunger, more ache.
Her robe slipped. His hands found her skin. The tension melted into need. Into want.
But just as the moment burned brighter—
His phone vibrated.
Unknown Number: "You're not ready to take his throne. But he's watching. Always watching."
Ethan pulled away, breath ragged, fingers trembling.
Charlotte saw the message.
"Who is this?" she whispered.
Ethan's voice was hollow.
"My father."