The penthouse shimmered with excess—crystal chandeliers, champagne towers, and the soft buzz of elite conversation. Strings played softly in the corner as tuxedoed men and jeweled women danced in a polite circle of money and manipulation.
Lia Virell glided through the crowd like a swan among ducks.
Her black gown hugged her figure with just enough elegance and danger. Diamonds—borrowed, not bought—glimmered at her ears and throat. She didn't need a name. She was a name, at least for tonight: Liana Vale, heiress to a fictitious mineral empire in Monaco.
A fabricated LinkedIn page. A fake luxury apartment. A dozen scripted answers to questions no one dared ask too deeply.
It was all so easy.
"Miss Vale," a man greeted, raising a glass.
She turned. Her smile bloomed like a well-timed firework.
Victor Harrow, CEO of Harrow Holdings, Lancaster's third-largest private real estate empire. Salt-and-pepper hair, a paunch hidden under a custom suit, and eyes too used to being obeyed.
"Mr. Harrow," she purred. "I heard you built the skyline of this city. Is it true you own the moon too?"
He laughed, pleased with the attention. "I'm working on it."
She tapped his glass with hers.
"Tell me how you got your start," she said, voice honey-smooth. "I adore stories of ambition."
Thirty floors below, in a basement that reeked of blood and sweat, Alex Virell stepped into a different kind of circle.
The warehouse-turned-arena roared with noise. Metal fencing surrounded a bare ring where two men fought bare-knuckled, blood splashing against concrete.
It was raw, primal. The kind of place where power wasn't inherited—it was earned in broken teeth and crushed egos.
Alex stood near the back, hood up, watching.
"They call him The Phantom," someone whispered beside him. "He's new."
"Looks soft."
"I heard he knocked out Cross with one punch."
Lies spread fast in the underground. Alex said nothing.
A short man in a leather vest approached, face scarred, eyes sharp.
"You wanna fight?" he asked.
Alex nodded once.
"Name?"
"…Ash."
A pause.
The man pointed to the next bracket on the board. "You're up in ten."
Back at the gala, Lia had Victor wrapped around her little finger. A touch here, a laugh there. His guards had lowered their alertness. His assistant was glaring from across the room.
Perfect.
"So, who's your biggest competitor in Lancaster?" she asked innocently.
Victor took a long sip of scotch, then muttered, "The Evermore Circle. They're not a company—they're a cabal. Old money. You don't buy them. You marry into them… or bury them."
Lia's eyes gleamed. There it is.
Before the conversation could go further, a young woman approached.
Blonde. Tall. Confidence in every step.
"Father," she said, coolly. "We need to talk."
Victor paled. "Ah—Clara, this is—"
"I know who she is," Clara said, eyes locked on Lia. "She's not on any of the guest lists. You're not even real, are you?"
Lia didn't blink. Instead, she stepped forward, gently brushing a strand of hair from Clara's shoulder.
"Darling," she whispered with a smile, "If I wasn't real, you'd still be irrelevant."
Clara's mouth opened—but Lia was already walking away.
The room watched. Some in admiration. Others in curiosity. One man near the balcony adjusted his cuff and sent a photo of Lia to someone unknown.
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In the warehouse, Alex stepped into the ring.
His opponent was massive. Tattoos snaked across his chest, a toothpick in his mouth. The crowd roared.
The bell rang.
Alex moved.
In ten seconds, the man was on the ground, choking on his own breath. A strike to the ribs, a twist of the wrist, and a quiet whisper:
"Stay down."
The crowd went silent.
Then erupted.
They didn't know who he was.
But they knew power when they saw it.
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That night, two messages were sent across Lancaster.
One through whispers in the underground:"Ash is rising."
The other through gossip among the elites:"Who was that woman in the black dress?"
Above and below, masks were slipping into place.
And the real game had just begun.