POV: CHASE
The conference room at Sterling Industries was exactly what you'd expect from a billion-dollar empire. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, a table that could seat thirty people made from a single piece of mahogany, leather chairs that probably cost more than most people's cars. Everything was cold, expensive, and designed to intimidate.
I sat at the head of the table because that's where Dominic had told me to sit. My father was to my right, looking older than I remembered. When had that happened? The lawyers were scattered around the table, shuffling papers, preparing for the reading of the will.
Except it wasn't really a will. Dominic wasn't dead. This was the official transfer of power, the inheritance ceremony that every Sterling heir went through at graduation. A tradition older than I was.
"Chase." Dominic's voice cut through the murmur of legal conversation. "Are you paying attention?"
"Yes, sir."
"This is the most important day of your life. Act like it."
I straightened in my chair, even though every muscle in my body wanted to walk out. I'd barely slept in three days. Couldn't eat. Couldn't think about anything except Vivian's face when I'd walked past her on that stage. The satisfaction I'd felt. The emptiness after.
And Sienna. God. I'd used Sienna like she was a prop in my revenge play. The look on her face when I'd pulled away haunted me almost as much as Vivian's did.
Almost.
"Mr. Sterling." The head lawyer, a man named Richardson who wore glasses that kept sliding down his nose, cleared his throat. "Shall we begin?"
"Begin." Dominic waved his hand like he was granting permission for the sun to rise.
Richardson opened a leather folder, pulled out documents that had probably been reviewed by a dozen lawyers before this moment. "The terms of the Sterling inheritance are as follows: Upon graduation from an accredited four-year university, the heir shall receive full controlling interest in Sterling Industries, including all subsidiaries, assets, and holdings. The current estimated value of said holdings is eight point seven billion dollars."
The number still didn't feel real. I'd known it intellectually, had grown up knowing I'd inherit, but hearing it out loud in this cold room made my stomach turn.
"Additionally, the heir shall receive the penthouse residence at Sterling Tower, the Connecticut estate, the Hamptons property, and the villa in Tuscany. All vehicles, art collections, and personal effects currently held by Dominic Sterling II shall transfer to Chase Dominic Sterling upon signing of these documents."
Richardson slid a stack of papers across the table to me. Contracts. Legal documents. My entire future reduced to signatures and notary stamps.
"You'll need to sign here, here, and here." He pointed to flagged pages. "Your father will countersign, transferring ownership officially."
I picked up the pen. It was heavy, probably solid gold knowing my father's taste. My hand hovered over the first signature line.
"What are you waiting for?" Dominic asked. "Sign."
I signed. Once. Twice. Three times. Each signature felt like a door closing, a choice made that couldn't be unmade.
Richardson collected the documents, passed them to Dominic for countersignature. My father signed without hesitation, without ceremony. Just business. Like he was signing off on a real estate deal, not handing over his entire life's work to his son.
"Congratulations." Dominic didn't smile. "You're now the owner of Sterling Industries. Try not to destroy it in the first year."
The lawyers shuffled more papers. Discussing tax implications, board meetings I'd need to attend, protocols for dealing with the press. Their voices blended together into white noise.
That's when the cold started.
It came from nowhere. One second I was sitting in an overheated conference room, the next I felt like I'd been plunged into ice water. The cold wasn't outside me. It was inside, spreading through my chest, wrapping around my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
"Chase?" Richardson's voice sounded distant. "Are you alright?"
I tried to answer, but the cold was getting worse. And with it came pain. A migraine that hit like a spike being driven through my skull. I gripped the edge of the table, trying to stay upright.
"Chase." Dominic's hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know." The words came out through clenched teeth. "Cold. It's so cold."
"The room is seventy-two degrees." Richardson looked concerned. "Should we call a doctor?"
"No." I forced myself to breathe. In and out. The cold was spreading, down my arms, into my fingers. The migraine pulsed behind my eyes. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
But I wasn't fine. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
The room tilted. I heard Dominic shouting for someone to get water, heard the lawyers talking in worried voices, heard the scrape of chairs as people stood. But all of it was distant, muffled, like I was underwater.
And then I heard something else. A voice. Female. Speaking words I didn't understand in a language that sounded like it came from another century.
"It begins."
I looked around the room. All men. No women. No one had spoken.
What the hell was happening?
The cold reached my heart. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack. Thought this was it, dead at twenty-four in a conference room, killed by inheritance and irony.
But then the cold settled. Became part of me. The migraine dulled to a constant ache. I could breathe again.
"Chase." Dominic crouched next to my chair, actually showing something like concern for the first time in years. "Should I call an ambulance?"
"No." I sat up slowly. Everything felt different. Wrong. Like I was wearing someone else's skin. "I'm fine now. Must have been stress."
"You just inherited eight billion dollars. That's stressful." Richardson looked relieved that he wouldn't have to deal with a medical emergency. "Perhaps we should take a break."
"No break." I stood, surprised my legs held me. "What else needs to be signed?"
They walked me through the rest of it. More signatures, more transfers, more legal language that meant I now owned everything Dominic had built. By the time it was done, two hours had passed, and I felt like I'd aged ten years.
"Gentlemen." Dominic stood, which meant the meeting was over. Everyone stood with him. "My son will be in touch regarding the transition timeline. Thank you for your time."
The lawyers filed out, probably relieved to escape the tension in that room. Dominic waited until we were alone, then turned to me.
"What happened earlier?"
"I told you. Stress."
"That wasn't stress. That was something else." He studied my face like he was reading a balance sheet. "You looked like you were dying."
"I'm fine now."
"Are you?" He didn't sound convinced. "You've been different since graduation. Colder. Harder. I'm not complaining, those are valuable traits in our world. But that episode just now, that concerns me."
"It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't. The board is already nervous about your age. They don't need to think you're also unstable."
Of course. His concern wasn't about me. It was about the company. About appearances. About making sure his legacy stayed intact.
"I'll handle the board." I grabbed my jacket from the back of the chair. "Is there anything else?"
"Yes." Dominic pulled an envelope from his briefcase. "This is for you. From your mother."
I stared at the envelope like it might bite me. "Helena sent something?"
"It arrived this morning. Marked urgent." He handed it to me. "I haven't opened it. Your relationship with her is your business."
I took the envelope. My name was written on the front in Helena's distinctive handwriting, all loops and flourishes. No return address. Just my name and "URGENT" underlined three times.
"That's all." Dominic picked up his briefcase. "I have a meeting. Your assistant will have your schedule. Try to get some rest. You look terrible."
He left without another word. No congratulations. No pride. No acknowledgment that he'd just handed over his entire life's work to me.
Classic Dominic.
I stood alone in that massive conference room, holding Helena's envelope, feeling the cold still settled in my chest like ice that wouldn't melt.
I should have gone home. Should have opened the envelope. Should have tried to figure out what the hell had happened during the signing.
Instead, I went back to my apartment. The one I'd shared with Ethan freshman year, the one I'd kept even though I could have lived anywhere. It was small, cramped, full of memories from when I'd pretended to be normal.
Full of memories of Vivian.
I stood in the doorway, looking at four years of my life packed into a space barely bigger than a hotel room. Photos on the wall. Books stacked on shelves. That stupid poster Ethan had insisted we hang up. And in the corner, a box I'd shoved there after graduation.
Vivian's stuff. Things she'd left here over two years. A sweater. Books she'd borrowed and never returned. The coffee mug she always used. A necklace she'd forgotten after staying over. Small things that added up to a relationship that didn't exist anymore.
I picked up the box, carried it to the center of the room, and dumped it out.
The sweater landed in a heap. Soft, blue, smelling faintly of her perfume even after weeks. I'd worn it once, after we fought, just to feel close to her. Pathetic.
I grabbed it, walked to the kitchen, turned on the stove.
The sweater caught fire easily. Synthetic material, designed to burn. I held it over the sink, watching the flames consume the blue fabric, turning it black and twisted.
One by one, I burned everything I could. The sweater. Her books, pages curling in the heat. Notes she'd left me, little reminders and jokes that had seemed important at the time. Photos of us, our faces disappearing into ash.
The necklace wouldn't burn. I threw it out the window instead, heard it clatter on the pavement four stories below.
The cold in my chest pulsed with each destroyed memory. Like it was feeding on my anger. Growing stronger.
Good. Let it grow. Let it consume everything warm and soft and weak inside me. I didn't need warmth. Didn't need softness. I needed to be hard. Cold. Untouchable.
I needed to be a Sterling.
When everything was destroyed, I walked to the bathroom. Needed to wash the ash off my hands. The mirror above the sink was small, spotted with toothpaste and water stains. I looked at my reflection.
And my reflection smiled back.
Not because I was smiling. I wasn't. My face was blank, exhausted, dead-eyed.
But my reflection smiled anyway. A cold, cruel smile that made my stomach drop.
I stepped back. The reflection stayed where it was for a second too long, then caught up with my movement. Like there was lag. Like it was operating on a delay.
"What the hell?" I whispered.
My reflection's mouth moved. Different words. I couldn't hear what it was saying, but its lips formed syllables I wasn't speaking.
I touched the mirror. The glass was ice cold. Frost spread from where my fingers made contact, creeping across the surface in delicate patterns.
My reflection smiled wider. Its eyes were darker than mine. Almost black.
I stumbled backward, hit the wall behind me, couldn't look away from the mirror.
This wasn't real. Wasn't possible. People's reflections didn't move independently. Mirrors didn't frost in warm bathrooms. I was losing my mind. The stress of the past few days had finally broken something in my brain.
But the reflection was still there. Still smiling. Still watching me with eyes that looked nothing like my own.
Helena's voice echoed in my memory. The voice I'd heard in the conference room.
"It begins."