William Conrad lingered in the dim hallway that led to the dressing rooms, hands buried in his pockets, his composure as calm as a night sea. He was twenty-eight next month, tall, striking, with a precision to his movements that mirrored his mind. A Harvard graduate in computer engineering, he had left behind a trail of honors and shattered expectations. The app he'd built out of boredom now sat as the third most-used platform in the country, and one of the top ten globally.
William Conrad was the kind of man who never chased — things simply came to him. Money, recognition, women. He had once charmed Tracy Donovan back when she was still a Moretti, back when her name could buy the world. Now, his eyes were set on a different prize — Jennifer, the model who had stolen every gaze tonight without trying. And William wanted her with every deliberate, calculating fiber of his body.
The soft rhythm of heels echoed against the polished floor before she appeared — Jennifer. Her steps were quiet but carried a composure that unsettled men who expected compliance. She had no idea who awaited her, nor why he smiled like a fox that had cornered its prey.
"I'm here so you can return my heart," William said easily, his voice smooth, teasing. "I don't approve of people stealing my things… unless they intend to make it worth my while."
His grin was artful, his tone perfectly timed. Everything he said sounded rehearsed, not out of practice, but instinct. The warm light brushed over his dark skin, making it gleam like polished mahogany. His suit clung flawlessly — a man who knew his angles, his power. His teeth were almost too white, his charm too refined.
Jennifer's expression stayed unreadable. Her pulse, however, stuttered beneath her skin. She had walked out with her nerves stretched thin, fearing she'd see Voss—or worse, one of the Morettis. She wasn't prepared for this.
"Thank you," she managed finally, her tone flat, polite, empty.
He laughed quietly. That lack of enthusiasm only intrigued him more. Usually, the first line melted the ice — but she didn't even blink. His smile deepened. He liked challenges.
"I almost didn't come tonight," he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "But I've invested a fortune in this place—and in you." His gaze swept over her, deliberately slow. "You're the first investment that's ever made me excited."
Jennifer said nothing. Words felt heavy in her mouth. Instead, she looked down at her fingers, folding and unfolding them as if searching for composure.
William's amusement flickered into something else—curiosity. "Felicity's always dreamed of making The Garden of Grace and The Sands of Time a reality," he continued, tone now more measured. "I made sure the obstacles were cleared. After tonight, the country will be watching—and they'll all be watching you."
He took another step closer, the air between them tightening. "So…" his eyes gleamed, "are you ready to show the world what you're made of?"
A deep, commanding voice cut in from behind him.
"She already did."
The sound froze Jennifer where she stood. Her breath caught—relief and fear clashing all at once. Vincent.
He appeared at the end of the hallway, composed as ever, his presence cutting through the air like a silent decree. He moved past William without a word, placing himself squarely between them.
Jennifer's composure crumbled. Just his nearness made her body betray her—her heartbeat, her breath, her calm—all lost. When he extended his arm, she took it, and he led her away, leaving William staring after them, his foxlike grin slowly fading.
At the lobby, the Attorney General was in quiet conversation with Carlos, but their words drowned under the chaos outside. Flashbulbs exploded against the night—camera lights firing in dozens, capturing every look, every whisper, every possible headline.
And when Vincent stepped through the glass doors with Jennifer by his side, the world seemed to still. Eyes turned. Lenses locked.
Jennifer could feel them—the foxes watching, the wolves hungering, the vultures circling. Yet none dared to move. And she wondered, glancing at the man beside her, Was he the reason? Was he the king they all feared?
She slipped into the backseat of the car; Vincent followed. The doors closed. The chaos outside became a blur. The night seemed to chase them as they drove away.
***
By morning, the world had erupted.
News outlets screamed headlines. Social media was aflame with clips, images, and wild speculation. The entire city wanted to know who the mysterious woman beside Vincent Moretti was.
It was everything Tracy had wanted.
Almost.
Her face appeared on every screen in her mansion, but the words on the headlines burned. She'd meant to destroy Jennifer's image, to turn her into a scandal—but the Attorney General's tweet twisted everything.
"I witnessed a woman unravel with emotions I didn't know mankind still had. Today, I miss my darling Michelle more than ever."
Just one remark—soft, unexpected—yet it carried weight that unsettled everything. It wasn't what he said that mattered. It was who said it. If the Attorney General could find compassion for Jennifer, then others would follow. Public sympathy was shifting. Tracy felt it.
Her hands trembled as she crumpled the newspaper and hurled it at a maid. "Out!" she screamed.
She stood in the center of her grand lounge, breath shallow, fury coiling like smoke in her chest. She had wanted Vincent off balance, shaken. She had succeeded in court, cracked the armor—but what if that girl… that thing… was his tether now?
The thought burned through her. The idea of Jennifer healing the man she'd worked so hard to break was unbearable.
Then, a darker memory surfaced—Voss's offer. His proposition. His voice echoing in her mind like a serpent's whisper.
Her throat tightened. What he'd asked was unthinkable, but desperation has a way of turning boundaries into suggestions.
Tracy closed her eyes. The plague had reached her—desperation, a sickness that devoured reason and made monsters out of victims.
She reached for the phone.
It rang once. Twice. Then a curt, disgusted voice answered, "He's busy. What do you want?"
She hesitated for only a moment. Then, quietly:
"Tell him I'm in."
She replaced the receiver—and for the first time that morning, she realized how cold the room had become.
***
At the Moretti's estate the morning after the show was not made of light.
It was made of noise—relentless, biting noise. Reporters flooded the gates of Moretti Homes. Drones hovered over the estate like hungry ravens. And beneath the hum of chaos, someone had started the fire.
Vincent Moretti stood before the long window of his study, unmoved, a cup of untouched coffee growing cold by his side. The screen before him showed the trending feed: his name splashed in bold white against red backgrounds, "Priest Found Dead: Billionaire's Past Reignites Scandal."
It wasn't a story—it was a weapon.
Carlos rushed in, a phone in hand. "They've dragged Tracy into it," he said. "She's on a live broadcast… it's all over the feeds."
Vincent's jaw tightened. "Put it up."
The large screen flickered to life. The studio light caught Tracy's trembling fingers as she held a tissue to her face. Mascara bled down her cheeks, her expression that of a woman hollowed by grief—or what the world would think was grief.
"—I never wanted to speak," Tracy's voice cracked on cue. "But I can't keep quiet anymore."
The host leaned forward with the sympathy of a vulture. "You're saying you spoke to Father Andrew before his death?"
She nodded weakly. "He was a kind man. I went to him when my marriage was… falling apart. I thought he could help me make peace with Vincent." She took a deep, shuddering breath, eyes glistening as she stared down at her shaking hands. "But he asked me questions—about Jennifer, about rumors I didn't even believe. And when he confronted Vincent about it… Vincent said…" She broke off, her voice hitching into a sob. "He said Father Andrew would regret it."
The studio fell silent except for her soft cries. Then Tracy looked up, voice trembling like the last thread of innocence.
"I didn't know… I didn't know he'd actually order him killed…"
The host gasped audibly.
The clip cut to a flash of Father Andrew's body on the sidewalk outside Moretti Homes, police lights flashing blue and red.
Then it cut back to Tracy—folded over herself, shaking, whispering, "God forgive me for not speaking sooner."
The comment section below was a battlefield—half the country condemning Vincent, half defending him. But the damage had already been done. Emotion always outran logic.
Vincent's reflection darkened on the glass. His voice came quiet, dangerous.
"She's reading from someone's hand."
Carlos nodded. "Voss."
The name cracked through the air like a curse. The same man who'd always hidden behind masks, who'd waited for the perfect chaos to strike. Voss was not the kind who yelled his victories—he wrote them in blood and headlines.
Carlos pressed, "The police are watching this too. They'll come."
"I know." Vincent turned from the window. "He wants me reactive—panicked. He wants me to choke."
"Then what will you do?"
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. "What I do best—let the storm come."
***
Across the city, in a penthouse dripping in shadow and glass, Voss watched the broadcast too. He was seated behind his desk, a chessboard before him. The black king gleamed under the lamplight, standing upright beside a toppled white bishop.
Tracy's voice leaked from the TV—each sob rehearsed, each hesitation measured.
When she finished her segment, her phone buzzed. It was him.
"You did well," Voss said, his tone velvet and venom. "The world believes tears more than truth. Now, we let the wolves feast."
Tracy's voice trembled. "You promised me this would only hurt his reputation."
A low chuckle filled her ear. "Reputation, my dear, is just another name for life."
The call ended before she could speak again. She looked at her reflection in the mirror—painted, ruined, and beautiful. A part of her wanted to scream. Another part… felt alive.
***
By evening, the air around the estate had turned heavy. Jennifer had not left her room since morning; the media noise made her sick. She sat by the window, still in her robe, her hands clasped around her phone. Every few minutes, she opened the news feed and shut it again. It didn't matter how many times she read the words—they cut deeper each time.
Vincent Moretti Under Investigation in Priest's Murder.
Her chest ached with something she couldn't name. Guilt? Fear? Or the old ache that came whenever she realized how far pain could travel—how it always found its way home.
The knock at the door came softly. Then again, firmer.
"Jennifer," Vincent's voice said.
When she opened it, his eyes were unreadable. Not angry. Not afraid. Just tired. The kind of tired that came from being hunted in silence.
"They'll be here soon," he said.
She froze. "Who?"
"Police."
"Vincent, no—" she stepped forward, her breath trembling. "You didn't—"
"I know." His voice was calm. "But they don't."
Her hand found his wrist, gripping tight. "Then let me say something—"
He stopped her with a faint shake of his head. "Not yet. You're the reason they're coming."
Her heart stuttered. "Me?"
"Because you're what they want to use. You, me, and a priest who tried to save you."
Jennifer's throat tightened. She wanted to speak, to tell him she was ready to stand beside him this time. But before she could—
the sharp echo of engines roared outside the gate.
Then—the knock.
Heavy. Official.
When the butler opened the door, a wave of uniforms poured in—dark, deliberate, carrying the weight of accusation.
"Mr. Moretti?" The lead detective stepped forward, voice coldly polite. "You're wanted for questioning in the case of Father Andrew's murder."
Jennifer's world tilted. Flashlights spilled across the marble, footsteps echoed down the long hall. Vincent's eyes met hers once—soft, unwavering.
"It's just a game," he whispered.
Then he turned to the officers, his voice calm and low:
"I'll come quietly."
And as they led him out into the night, blue and red lights flashing against the stone walls of the Moretti estate—Jennifer stood frozen at the doorway, the silence inside her louder than the sirens outside.
A shadow watched from a distance.
Cigarette smoke curled in the wind.
Voss smiled.
The king was finally in check.