The morning after Shack's death, the city woke to headlines that painted the sky in scandal.
Top Executive Shot Inside Imperial Crest.
Corporate Conspiracy or Internal Power Play?
Reporters crowded the front of the hotel, their cameras flashing like lightning. The empire that had once embodied luxury now pulsed with rumours of betrayal and blood.
John stood before the glass wall of his office, jaw tight, tie undone, eyes fixed on the skyline. Below, chaos churned. Inside, silence reigned. Shack's death had not only broken him — it had ignited something in him that had been buried since his father's death. The lion was awake again, and this time there would be no mercy.
Rita entered quietly, placing a folder on his desk. "These are Shack's personal effects," she said. "Security cleared them an hour ago."
John didn't look at it. "How many of the board members know what happened?"
"Officially, none. Dalton's keeping it under wraps for now. Unofficially…" she hesitated, "everyone."
John gave a short, bitter laugh. "Of course."
He turned to face her. There was exhaustion in his eyes, but also something sharper — a cold, steady purpose. "What about Harrison?"
"Interpol has no record of him since the rooftop," she said. "But I traced one of his shell accounts. Funds were transferred to a company registered in Zurich under a new name — Sovereign Holdings."
John's attention snapped to her. "Sovereign."
"It's a new luxury chain," Rita continued. "They've already purchased three hotels across Europe. The signature design, the architecture, even the slogan — all stolen from the Crest's unreleased branding files."
"So he's using what he stole to build a rival empire," John said softly. "He wants me to see it."
Rita nodded. "And he's not hiding it anymore."
John stared at the folder on the desk — Shack's last possession. "Did you check what's inside?"
She shook her head. "I thought you'd want to do that yourself."
He opened it slowly. Inside were a few personal items — Shack's old watch, a set of keys, and a flash drive. John held the drive between his fingers, feeling its weight. "Get the encryption team. Now."
Rita hesitated. "Do you really think—"
"Yes," he said firmly. "Whatever's on this, Shack wanted me to see."
An hour later, they sat in the darkened control room as the decryption ran. Lines of code flickered across the screen until the drive opened. Inside were two files — one labelled Legacy, the other Truth.
Rita looked at him. "Which one first?"
John's voice was low. "Truth."
The file loaded, revealing a video feed. Shack appeared on the screen, older, wearier, his face drawn. The timestamp was from a week before his death.
If you're watching this, John, Shack said, then it means I couldn't tell you myself. I've spent my life trying to fix a sin that cannot be undone. But before I die, you need to know what really happened that night.
John leaned forward, his pulse steady.
The accident that killed your father wasn't meant for him. The target was you. Harrison discovered your father had changed his will, transferring full ownership of the Crest to you when you turned twenty-one. He thought killing the boy would end the bloodline quietly. Your father found out and switched cars that night.
John's breath caught. "No…"
Your father died in your place, Shack said. He knew. He made the choice. And Harrison never forgave me for letting you live.
The screen flickered, and Shack's recorded voice grew faint. If you're still fighting him, remember — Harrison doesn't want your company. He wants your name erased. Finish what your father started.
The video ended.
Rita turned to him, her eyes wide. "John…"
He didn't speak. His gaze was fixed on the screen, every muscle rigid. The revelation hit him harder than any bullet ever could. His father's death — the thing that had haunted every step he'd taken — was never random. It had been a sacrifice.
He closed his eyes briefly. "Play the other file."
The second video opened. It was shorter — only thirty seconds. Surveillance footage from an airport in Zurich. A man in a dark coat, walking through the terminal surrounded by guards. The angle caught his face clearly.
Harrison West. Alive. Smiling.
Rita whispered, "He's really back."
John rose from his chair slowly, eyes burning. "Then so am I."
The next few days blurred into motion. He called in favours from every contact he had, traced shell companies, hired investigators, and rebuilt the Crest's inner circle with precision. Sleep became irrelevant. Revenge sharpened him more than rest ever could.
The media storm only fuelled him. Every article that questioned his control gave him another reason to tighten his grip. Under his direction, the hotel's revenue surged again. The Crest rose from the ashes, gleaming harder, colder, and more defiant.
Rita handled the press with ruthless grace, defending him in interviews, suppressing leaks, and quietly feeding information to the investigation unit John had set up under the table. Between them, a silent understanding grew — neither asked what the other was willing to sacrifice anymore.
But late one night, as the rain returned and the city shimmered with reflections, Rita found something that froze her blood.
She burst into his office, tablet in hand. "John, you need to see this."
He looked up from his desk, expression unreadable. "What is it?"
She placed the tablet before him. It showed an email sent from a secure Crest server to Sovereign Holdings — a transfer of encrypted data signed under Administrator Level Access.
John frowned. "Who has this clearance?"
"Only you," she said. "And Shack."
His voice turned cold. "So who's using Shack's ID now?"
Before she could answer, the lights in the office flickered. Then the screen on his desk lit up, unprompted. A message appeared — three words in bold white text.
You should have died.
Rita stepped back, her voice low. "He's here."
The window shattered.
A gunshot ripped through the air, hitting the wall inches from John's head. Security alarms wailed instantly. John grabbed Rita and pulled her behind the desk. Another bullet tore through the room, splintering the glass.
"Get down!" he shouted.
The door burst open. Two masked men stormed in, guns raised. John rolled across the floor, firing once. The first man fell. The second returned fire, driving him into cover. Rita reached for the panic button under the desk, pressing it hard. The building went into lockdown — steel shutters sealing every entrance.
John moved fast, disarming the second intruder with brutal precision. The man collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. John ripped off his mask.
The face beneath was unfamiliar — a mercenary, not a loyalist. But on his wrist was a ring engraved with a symbol John recognised instantly.
A lion's crest — broken in half.
John's stomach tightened. That emblem hadn't been used in years. It was part of the original Raymond family seal, one that his father designed.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded.
The man coughed, blood staining his teeth. "He sends his regards."
"Who?" John snapped.
The man smiled faintly. "The Sovereign."
Then he went still.
Rita stood, shaken. "The Sovereign… that's Harrison."
John wiped blood from his hand, staring at the ring. "He's not just building a rival empire. He's declaring war."
Alarms blared louder as the emergency team rushed through the corridor. John straightened, his expression carved from stone.
"Call Dalton," he ordered. "Tell him to convene the board. It's time they knew who we're really fighting."
Rita hesitated. "And you?"
He looked toward the shattered window, rain streaking the glass. "I'm going to end this — no matter what it takes."
Lightning cracked across the skyline, illuminating his reflection — the heir who had risen from humiliation to power, now standing on the edge of a blood feud that stretched beyond business.
And far across the ocean, inside a pristine office bearing a golden insignia of a lion's broken crown, Harrison West poured himself a glass of wine. The news feed showed the chaos at The Imperial Crest.
He smiled faintly. "Round two," he murmured.
Outside his window, the words SOVEREIGN HOTEL – GRAND OPENING glowed against the night.