The city glowed like molten glass under the morning sun, as if the storm had never happened. From the top floor of The Imperial Crest, John Raymond watched the light spread over the skyline. It looked peaceful from a distance, but peace, he knew, was just a pause between wars.
Two days had passed since the rooftop confrontation. The police had searched the surrounding streets and riverbanks, but no body was found. The official report called Harrison West "missing, presumed dead." John did not believe it. The man had built his life on surviving ruin.
He turned from the window as Rita entered. Her arm was bandaged, her expression calm but wary. "The board just arrived," she said. "They're waiting for you in the main hall."
John nodded, adjusting his cufflinks. "Let's finish what he started."
The boardroom gleamed again, restored to perfection. Dalton stood at the head of the table, flanked by senior members. Shack sat quietly to one side, hands clasped. The room buzzed with tension as John entered.
Dalton spoke first. "Mr Raymond, after reviewing all evidence and testimonies, the board unanimously agrees to reinstate full ownership of The Imperial Crest under the Raymond family trust."
Applause rippled through the room. John's jaw tightened slightly. He nodded once, his voice steady. "Thank you. The Crest will continue to stand as a symbol of integrity and excellence."
Dalton smiled. "We believe it's in good hands. Mr Shack will remain as liaison for the transitional phase."
John's gaze flicked toward Shack. The older man looked calm, even proud. But something about the way he avoided direct eye contact unsettled him.
After the meeting, Dalton shook his hand. "You've done what many thought impossible, Mr Raymond. But remember, power attracts shadows. Keep your light close."
John offered a faint smile. "I intend to."
Later that afternoon, workers cleared the last debris from the sub-level where Harrison's bomb had gone off. John walked through the space slowly, the smell of damp metal lingering. He stopped beside the scorch mark on the wall — the same place where he had dragged Collins out of the fire.
The man had not survived. His death had been ruled accidental, but the guilt still lingered. Collins had betrayed him, yes, but he had also been a victim of fear — and of Harrison's reach.
Footsteps echoed behind him. Rita approached, holding a tablet. "We've restored most of the hotel's systems," she said. "Bookings are back to seventy percent. Public trust is rising."
He nodded absently. "Good."
She hesitated. "You should rest. You haven't slept properly since that night."
He looked at her then, his expression softer than it had been in weeks. "Rest is for the content, Rita. I'm not there yet."
She studied him. "What will you do now?"
"Rebuild," he said. "And find out who helped Harrison."
Her brow furrowed. "You think someone else was involved?"
"He couldn't have accessed our systems alone. He knew too much about the Crest's structure — things only a few men alive would know."
She swallowed. "You mean Shack."
He didn't answer, but his silence was enough. She bit her lip. "He saved you more than once."
"And yet Harrison said his name before trying to kill me," John replied. "That's not coincidence."
She nodded slowly. "Then I'll help you find the truth."
John glanced at her tablet. "What's that?"
"Financial archives," she said. "I've been combing through old merger records. Something strange came up — a transfer from Raymond Holdings to Shack's personal account twenty years ago. The memo line says consultancy fee."
He frowned. "Twenty years ago? That was the year my father died."
Rita lowered her voice. "Maybe you should ask him."
He looked toward the ceiling as if he could see the floor above, where Shack's office was. "I will."
That evening, the hotel buzzed with renewed life. Guests filled the lobby again. The scent of fresh flowers replaced the tang of smoke. Cameras flashed as John attended the reopening ceremony, shaking hands with investors and dignitaries. His smile was measured, his words precise.
"The Imperial Crest," he said in his speech, "was built on vision. That vision does not burn, does not break. It evolves."
Applause filled the hall, but behind the mask of success, unease coiled tighter in his chest. Shack stood among the crowd, clapping with quiet pride. When their eyes met, John felt a flicker of something he couldn't name — gratitude, suspicion, maybe both.
After the event, Shack joined him on the balcony overlooking the city. The wind carried the faint hum of music from the lobby below.
"You've done well," Shack said. "Your father would have been proud."
John studied him. "You knew him well?"
Shack smiled faintly. "Better than most. He was a visionary, but he trusted the wrong people."
"Like you?" John asked quietly.
Shack's eyes flicked to him, unreadable. "Careful, John. There's a difference between curiosity and accusation."
"Then answer it," John said. "What was the consultancy payment he made to you twenty years ago?"
For a moment, Shack said nothing. Then he sighed. "I advised him on risk management during the merger with Harrison's group. He insisted on taking the deal despite my warnings."
"Warnings about what?"
"That Harrison's interest wasn't financial," Shack said. "He wanted the Raymond name. Your father refused to believe me. Two weeks later, his car went off the bridge."
John's hands clenched. "So you worked with Harrison."
"I worked against him," Shack said sharply. "But I knew how he thought, which made me useful. Your father didn't understand what kind of man Harrison really was. I did."
John's voice hardened. "Then why did Harrison mention your name before he tried to kill me?"
Shack's expression darkened. "Because he wanted you to doubt me. That's how he wins — through suspicion."
"Or through truth," John said coldly.
They stared at each other for a long moment. The air between them vibrated with unspoken tension. Finally, Shack turned away. "You're your father's son. You see betrayal in every shadow."
"Maybe because that's where it hides," John said.
Shack gave a weary smile. "Then keep watching the shadows. One day, they'll watch back."
He walked away, leaving John alone on the balcony. The city lights glittered below, bright and distant. Somewhere out there, Harrison was still alive — and now John wasn't sure whom he could trust inside his own walls.
Later that night, long after the guests had gone, John sat alone in his office. The sound of rain returned, soft and steady. He opened his father's old briefcase, the one he had taken from the vault, and began reviewing the remaining papers.
Most were familiar: contracts, shares, handwritten notes. But one document caught his attention — an old letter sealed with wax. The seal bore a crest he hadn't seen before, half-faded, half-burned. He broke it open carefully.
Inside was a short message written in his father's hand.
If this reaches you, it means the circle has turned. Trust no one who knew me before the fall — not even those who claim to protect you. The man who guards your future once guarded my death.
John froze. The letter slipped from his hand, fluttering onto the desk.
The words echoed in his mind. The man who guards your future once guarded my death.
He rose slowly, his pulse steady but cold. Outside his office door, footsteps approached — calm, deliberate. Shack's voice followed.
"Still awake, John? There's something we should discuss."
John's gaze fell on the letter again. His father's words glowed faintly under the lamplight.
He slid the paper into his pocket, straightened his jacket, and said quietly, "Yes. Let's talk."
The door opened.
And for the first time since reclaiming his empire, John felt the lion inside him bare its teeth again.