London's weather is unpredictable.
A gloomy night sky, dark clouds grumbling like some background noise of a horror movie after 3 AM.
Standing on the 37th floor of Laurent & Cie, a 6'3", broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, muscular man stares down at the glimmering lights of London night, blinking like some distant starlight.
His jade-green eyes, filled with monstrous bloodlust toward one person....his older brother—make it obvious from how he's gone silent after his assistant informed him about receiving the dead bodies of ten of his loyal men within the company and underworld.
His office has black walls, open ceiling-to-wall windows, and automatic blinds. A long black wooden desk stands out as the main piece of furniture, crafted from a single piece of wood—a gift he received from a Qatari Sheikh.
On each side of the wall, there are five shelves. The right shelf is filled with neatly arranged documents by color; on the left, books on politics, economics, finance, and business are lined up. Six sets of black leather couches, sleek and neat, surround a long glass table.
The lights are dim, except for one single lamp that illuminates the dark, ominous room filled with the ashy smell of cigarettes and whiskey, paper and ink.
"What do we do with those dead bodies, Young Master?" A man in his mid-forties speaks cautiously, too scared to talk too fast or too slow.
Julian Alexander Laurent, the second son of Christophe Jean-Louis Laurent, lets his cold gaze linger on the skyline of London a bit longer.
His black hair, styled with gel, and his crisp black shirt, which fits his body like a second skin, make him look dangerous and ominous against the light.
"Burn and remove any trace of them being involved with me," he finally says, his voice void of emotion.
His assistant, James Adolf, nods obediently. James used to be the loyal bodyguard of Julian's father, and before Julian was sent to London, James was sent with him as a guardian-
or more like a hand to do Julian's dirty jobs.
"How many coffins got sent out of Chi Lou?" Julian prays. There's only one place in the United Kingdom where Julian can't interfere—Chi Lou, the Red Pavilion—under which Aaron has carved out his secret jail and torture cell.
"Thirty. Twenty have been taken to port, and from the information I gathered, they will be shipped to Germany," James says cautiously.
Julian raises an eyebrow. His cold reflection on the glass makes James shiver and lower his head.
"My uncle's twenty men got killed?" Julian's tone grows amused at the information.
It's no secret.
Currently, the Laurent family has been going through a cold succession war for a decade now.
Everything is happening under the surface since the Chairman is still in good health. But that doesn't mean blood hasn't been shed or dollars haven't been spent.
"Keep track of how my uncle reacts. Probably my brother is the only one with the guts to kill so many of his men," Julian says, taking a sip of his amber liquid.
"But, Young Master, the main problem is—the first Young Master has taken a break from work. For the last three days, he hasn't shown up at the company."
It makes Julian's ear twitch. Aaron is someone who attends meetings even with five bullets in his body, and now he's taken a break?
"Any trace?"
James shakes his head nervously. Julian's jade-green eyes sharpen, his grip around the rim of the glass tightens, veins popping on his forearms.
"Does the Chairman know?"
James shakes his head again. "I got word that the Davenport brothers are filling in for the First Young Master's post, both in London and Geneva."
Julian's jaw tightens....too hard, too painful. He feels cold rage loom in his chest.
Unlike Julian, Aaron doesn't have a huge network. Unlike Julian, Aaron doesn't hide behind sweet smiles and manipulation. Aaron has spread his people like a king spreading his generals across battlegrounds.
"Fuck! Out of everyone Alister has to be in Geneva!" Julian's voice turns rough and dangerous. He throws the whiskey glass against the wall—it shatters loudly, glass scattering and catching the faint light of the dim room.
"Aaron William Laurent…" Julian's bitter, venomous laughter echoes through the empty room.
"He sent Alister to Geneva to let him deal with Uncle's antics because Alister's father happens to owe debts to Uncle. So Uncle can't push him too hard without angering old Davenport."
James nods.
Julian throws his head back, inhaling sharply, trying to calm his mind—but it doesn't help. His head aches from the constant push and pull of the game he chose to be part of.
James's phone buzzes. He hurriedly rustles through his blazer to check who texted.
For a full minute, only the sound of rain on the glass, the hum of the air conditioner, and Julian's controlled breathing fill the room.
"Mark Weber has accepted your offer, Young Master," James says lightly, almost congratulatory.
But Julian doesn't smile.
"Isn't Mark Weber in M&A, which is under my brother's direct control?"
James nods, his lips twitching into a victorious smirk. "First Young Master thinks M&A is under him because of Felix Finch-Davenport. However, Mark Weber has been a strong candidate to take over Felix since he's being pursued by HQ to move to Geneva."
Julian's eyebrow twitches, though he shows no emotion. "Clean up my schedule. I'll visit M&A personally tomorrow."
James takes note and leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Julian stares at the broken glass pieces on the wooden floor, the amber liquid spilled over the carpet.
Julian feels a cold rush in his veins.
In his family, other than Aaron, no one sees him as a threat or potential successor.
Which is both a relief and headache because Aaron alone is enough to keep Julian on his toe.
His hand twitches as his eyes fall on the scar on his right forearm. The muscle there is still uneven even after decades.
Julian blinks coldly, murmuring half to himself, half to the ghost of the past.
"Fortunately or unfortunately, I don't plan to stop until I take away everything my brother thinks belongs to him."
Julian glances at the clock....it's 10:45 PM. He grabs his Ferrari key from the table and walks out of his cabin.
Everything from the 31st floor and above is exclusive and discreet....even the elevators.
Julian takes the elevator, his mind buzzing with the information he's received today. As soon as he steps out of the building into the parking area, rain starts to pour, drenching him—but somehow, the cold makes him feel a little calmer.
He turns his head slightly to look at the giant three industrial complexes of Laurent & Cie. There aren't many lights; most must have gone home.
Julian feels a familiar hollow in his heart but keeps his posture steady, as always, despite the heaviness in his chest.
He gets inside his sleek black Ferrari—something he bought two months ago after crashing his previous one with Aaron's.
A smirk dances on his lips at the memory of trying to kill Aaron that night, but Aaron turned out to be a better driver than Julian anticipated.
As the engine hums, Julian drives away, his window open, letting the cold rain-drenched air wash over him—but he doesn't care.
The drive is smooth, as always. On London Bridge, he slows down a bit due to unexpected traffic.
He turns on a random song from his playlist—
"Say Yes to Heaven" by Lana Del Rey.
He hums along with the beat. Contrary to his usual crafty, charming exterior and cold-hearted reputation among his inner circle, Julian likes listening to Lana Del Rey.
He looks at his watch, then around the bridge, and in that one moment… everything blurs.
His eyes fall on a woman inside a cab, earphones plugged in, her window rolled down like his.
Her scarf is wrapped lazily around her neck, her high cheekbones catching the traffic light. Even without makeup, her skin glows. Her chocolate-brown eyes look clear yet tired from a long day.
She takes a huge bite of a burrito and chokes on it. Another girl sitting beside her.....red-haired, with glasses....hands her a water bottle, scolding her.
And then… she smiles.
Her cheeks puff, eyes turn into half-moons, her expression mischievous like a child's.
Julian's lips part. His throat feels tight. His grip around the steering wheel hardens painfully.
His chest tightens with the memory of that one night—four years, six months, twenty-three days, two hours, and twenty-four minutes ago.
When he was standing in front of a restaurant, snow covering the London pavement white, wearing a black overcoat and white muffler, staring at people inside through the glass.
Families laughing, sharing New Year's dinner, warmth radiating from inside.... almost mocking him....
and then this infuriating woman, who mistook him for some sad poor guy, popped out of nowhere in an overcoat too big for her small frame.
"Oh, you seem lonely just like me. Want to share a New Year dinner with me?"
He still remembers how that simple dinner inside a Turkish restaurant became the first act of kindness and selfless offer he'd ever received.
After those two hours of laughter and ease....something unfamiliar to Julian—he knew, watching her small frame disappear into the London night…
If he met her three times, his entire life would change for good. And he'd let it.
She doesn't look around now, too busy eating and laughing with her friend.
Even from a distance, Julian can imagine her unfiltered laughter—the only sound that ever made his heart feel steady even when it was racing too fast.
A crack in his fortress that appeared four years ago creaks a little more tonight.
Cars start moving. Julian's face softens as he starts driving again, his eyes still on her.
Free. Wild. Unapologetically herself.
He whispers her name, softer than any word he's spoken in years.
"Jamila Hassan… You're still the same. Just prettier and livelier."
She can't hear his words.
Nor does he want her to.
As her cab disappears down the left turn and Julian takes the right, warmth spreads through his chest.
A warmth he has no intention of sharing with anyone.