The fluorescent lights of the conference room felt oppressive, the harsh light reflecting off the soundproof glass walls that separated Gunner from the rest of the world. It was late. Outside the glass, the frantic energy of the corporate day had simmered into a low, rhythmic hum as the last of the staff prepared to head home.
Preparing to leave, he was ready for the peace of his home after a long day's work. Gunner stood by the head of the long table, a silent presence. He watched as his team moved with practiced precision, filing away the schematics in their specified cabinets and ensuring the off-network terminals were purged of active sessions. One by one, they offered brief nods of departure. Gunner watched them go, his eyes tracking every movement; even the slightest muscle twitch did not escape his view. This project was extremely classified, and any lapse in his focus could leave his project in chaos. He waited silently until the door clicked shut, leaving him in total silence.
He performed a final sweep, his boots thudding softly on the expensive tile. Satisfied, he approached the first filing cabinet. He placed his palms firmly on the matte sensors located on either side of the unit. A thin red line of light swept over his skin, mapping every ridge of his prints.
Chirr-clack.
The internal locks disengaged with a metallic groan. Slowly, the cabinet began to descend, sinking into the floor with hydraulic grace. As soon as the top cleared the floor level, a segment of the tile floor slid over the cavity, locking into place with a seamless hiss. Within seconds, the floor looked undisturbed—a perfect grid of stone. He repeated the process for every cabinet in the room.
Finally, he stepped to the wall panel near the exit. After punching in a complex alphanumeric string, a low hum vibrated through the ceiling. Heavy titanium plates descended from the rafters, encasing the central computer hub in a literal fortress. The shroud served a dual purpose: physical protection and an integrated Faraday cage. No wireless signal, no Bluetooth ping, and no remote exploit could penetrate that shell.
Gunner stepped out and pulled the door shut. The locking mechanism engaged with the complexity of a bank vault. Outside, he pressed his hands to a small, unassuming pedestal. The glass walls, once crystal clear, instantly clouded over, turning a deep, impenetrable opaque. He was finally able to relax and head home for the evening.
The elevator ride down was crowded. A few stragglers from the lower floors squeezed in, along with Jenna Moon, Gunner's assistant. She stood at his side, a silent barrier in a sharp blazer.
"Rough day, Mr. Westbrook?" chirped a young assistant from the marketing wing, leaning in with a look that was far too bright for the late hour. Her eyes trailed over Gunner's profile, her tone bordering on a practiced flirtation. "You know, there's a new lounge opening up two blocks over. It's a great place to relax and—"
"Mr. Westbrook has had an exhausting day," Jenna interrupted, her voice like a sheet of ice. "Please do not pepper him with your incessant, sycophantic behavior."
The girl's face went a vivid, stinging red. She recoiled as if slapped, turning her back to them immediately, trying to maintain her confidence while in this encased metal box. Jenna reached out and pressed the button for the very next floor. When the doors dinged open, she looked straight ahead, waiting silently before turning to look at the embarrassed woman.
"This is your floor," Jenna said flatly.
Mortified, the assistant scrambled out. The doors slid shut, leaving Gunner and Jenna in a heavy, peaceful silence for the remainder of the descent. When they reached the lobby, Jenna stepped back, allowing Gunner to exit first.
"Goodnight, Mr. Westbrook," she said softly.
"Goodnight," Gunner replied, his mind already miles away.
Outside, his Phantom sat idling at the curb, its dark paint gleaming under the streetlights. As Gunner climbed into the driver's seat, a semicircle of dark SUVs—his security detail—fanned out around him. He drove toward The Hill, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. He hadn't intended to take the North entrance, but as the gates of the Kane Estate appeared through the gloom, he realized his subconscious had made the choice for him.
He needed to see Conrad.
Gunner left his suit jacket on the leather seat of the Phantom and walked toward the towering front doors of the Kane mansion. Mr. Jameson, the ever-composed butler, opened the door before Gunner could knock.
"Good evening, Mr. Westbrook. Please come in," Mr. Jameson said, bowing his head.
"Is Mr. Kane home?"
"Yes. Please give me a moment to see if he has the time to receive you."
Gunner was shown to the sitting room. A maid appeared almost instantly with lemon water; he took it but set it aside, his foot tapping a restless, agitated rhythm into the plush carpet. He didn't have to wait long. The sound of approaching footsteps made him stand instinctively, hoping to ingratiate himself with his soon-to-be father-in-law.
"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening like this, Mr. Kane," Gunner said.
Conrad Kane entered the room, waving for Gunner to take a seat as he sat down. "Call me Conrad, Gunner."
"Thank you, sir. I wanted to speak to you about Vivian."
As Conrad sat, a maid appeared, handed him a whiskey neat, and quickly exited. Conrad sipped his drink, the sound of ice sloshing against glass as he spoke. "My daughter is normally very obedient."
He sloshed the whiskey in his cup, swirling the old vintage before taking another sip. Lifting his glass, he pointed to it with his free hand, looking at Gunner in offering. Gunner shook his head.
Conrad continued, "She's developed a wild, rebellious streak over the last two years. Wants to pretend she's independent. But cut off the money, take away her comfort, and she'll come crawling back within forty-eight hours." Placing his glass down on the stone side table, he leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile, as if expecting Gunner to thank him for his efforts.
Before Gunner could speak, Conrad continued, "Breaking in a new wife can be challenging, I am saving you some work."
Gunner felt a wash of disbelief and rising anger as Conrad spoke, unable to fully comprehend this man's utter coldness. He couldn't imagine speaking about his own son with the type of casual malice Conrad displayed so easily when discussing his own flesh and blood. It was sickening.
Burying any outward sign of disgust, Gunner said, "You make her sound like an animal, a cornered thing. I don't believe this tactic to be necessary. I could simply—"
Before he could finish, Conrad cut him off.
Conrad's eyes sharpened. Standing up, he smirked as he looked at Gunner, lifting his whiskey as he took another slow, long sip—the soothing alcohol dulling his growing irritation. He would have never guessed that a practical child would waltz into his home and try to tell him how to treat his daughter.
"I don't need parenting tips. I'll bring my daughter under control as I see fit," Conrad said.
Getting to his own feet, Gunner tried to soothe the unintentional slight. "I don't mean to offend. It's just—"
Conrad's sharp laugh cut him off. "It's just that you think you know better," Conrad said, letting out a dry, condescending chuckle. "Worry about the way you raise your bastard son. And how you control your new fiancée. Mr. Jameson, show him out. We're done here." Conrad smiled, leaving the Westbrook boy to be escorted out of his home. He had little patience for youthful exuberance.
The air left the room. "What did you call my son?" Gunner's voice was a low, dangerous vibration.
"What he is," Conrad said, casually tossing the comment over his shoulder as he walked away. "Don't take it to heart. We all have a bastard or two roaming around somewhere."
The surge of rage simmering just beneath the surface of Gunner's skin was ready to explode. But before he even had the opportunity, Mr. Jameson easily grabbed him by the arm, sensing the volcanic pressure radiating from the young man, and quickly escorted him off the premises. The large oak door slammed shut behind him with a resounding, deafening bang.
His fist connected with the reinforced metal of the car door with a sickening crack. He felt the bones in his hand fracture instantly. Skin split, and hot, slick blood began to leak between his fingers, splattering the interior panel. He lifted his hand, seeing the damage but not feeling it—his adrenaline was so high that the pain failed to register in his mind. His breathing came heavy and rapid as he warred with the internal urge to go back inside and pummel Conrad to death for speaking about his son that way. He stood staring at his car as if looking into empty space.
Ben, one of his security detail, got out of his vehicle and approached slowly. Seeing Gunner's bleeding hand, concern and confusion welled up in his mind, his eyes shifting back toward the Kane residence before looking at his boss once more.
"You're bleeding, sir," Ben said tentatively.
Gunner's breath came in ragged pants as he snarled, "Back off!" His tone was dark and resonant, the pent-up anger and blood pounding in his ears making it hard to maintain a rational thought process.
With one final look toward the Kane estate, he pulled his car door open until the metal cried as it was extended far past what was necessary, his bleeding hand painting the interior upholstery as he slammed the door shut.
He tore away from the curb, driving with a reckless, fueled fury back to his own estate. Ben stood for a moment, looking toward the other guards as they prepared to follow. Ben got into his car and fell into line behind Gunner Westbrook.
Arriving in front of his home, Gunner threw his car door open, leaving a trail of blood as he walked toward his front door like a man possessed. He ignored the startled looks of the staff, his steps thundering down the stairs toward the lower-level gym.
He didn't wrap his hands. He didn't put on gloves. He just began to swing.
Every strike against the heavy bag sent a jolt of agony through his broken hand, but he welcomed it. He hit the bag until the buttons on his shirt tore away, until his knuckles were raw, and his fingers went numb. Blood coated the leather of the bag, dripping down to form a small, macabre pool on the floor.
"Sweetheart!"
Aubrey's voice pierced the fog of his rage. She rushed forward, catching his forearm mid-swing. "Please, stop! Gunner, stop!"
Her touch was the only thing that could have halted him. He froze, his chest heaving, looking down at her tear-filled eyes. She looked over her shoulder at the terrified maid in the doorway. "Get the doctor. Now!"
She guided him to a bench, her hands trembling but expert as she used a cloth to dab at the carnage of his hand. The skin of his knuckles was shredded, a deep gash splitting the flesh by two inches.
"What were you thinking?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
Gunner didn't answer. He sat in the dim light of the gym, the anger still stewing in his gut—a silent, bleeding monument to a resentment that was only just beginning to boil over.
While Gunner was unraveling in a storm of physical pain and silent fury, the atmosphere on the other side of The Hills was eerily still. The frantic violence of a heavy bag being shredded stood in stark contrast to the rhythmic, clinical hum of the Kane grandparents' estate, where secrets were kept not with titanium plates, but with soft footsteps and sterilized air.
Grace sat in the shadows of the bedroom, the steady, even breathing of the woman in the bed the only sound in the room. She watched Vivian for a long moment, ensuring the exhaustion of the day had truly claimed her. When she was certain Vivian was deep in sleep, Grace rose from the rocking chair, her movements fluid and ghostlike.
She slipped out of the room and navigated the darkened corridors, heading toward the secluded East wing of the lower level. It was the part of the house that rarely welcomed visitors. Grace was thankful that Vivian was distracted by her own woes, meaning it didn't require her to lie to the poor girl. Unlike what she had told Vivian upon her arrival, Leonardo hadn't left the house at all. He was occupied with a different kind of issue—one that he did not want to burden his family with quite yet.
Reaching a heavy, nondescript door at the end of the wing, Grace entered a code into a sleek digital panel. As the door hissed open, she stepped into a small, white-walled vestibule. A pressurized mist sprayed from the ceiling—a cold, chemical cloud that disinfected her clothes and skin of any outside contaminants. Once the sterilization cycle chirped its completion, Grace pulled on a fresh surgical mask and a pair of gloves.
She stepped into the inner chamber.
The room was a symphony of medical engineering. Leonardo Kane lay at the center of it, connected to a dialysis machine that whirred with a low, mechanical pulse. In the harsh, artificial light, he looked nothing like the patriarch the world saw in photographs. He was gaunt, his skin a translucent, lifeless grey that seemed to cling to his bones. A litany of monitors tracked his fading vitals, each beep a reminder of how thin the veil had become.
His wife, Eleanora, sat at his bedside. She looked remarkably composed, a book resting in her lap and a cup of jasmine tea in her hand, the steam curling into the sterile air.
"What is it, Grace?" Leonardo's voice was a mere rasp, his eyes barely opening as he questioned the interruption to his treatment.
"Your granddaughter arrived a few hours ago, sir," Grace reported softly. "She's currently sleeping in her room. I came down to alert you of her presence."
Leonardo offered a weak, singular nod. "Thank you, Grace."
Her duty discharged, Grace turned and exited the room, offering a polite, professional smile to the rotating shift of doctors and nurses who stood watch over the dying man.
As the door sealed behind her, Eleanora set her book aside on the small medical tray. "What has Conrad done now?"
"I received an email earlier in the day," Leonardo said, his chest hitching with the effort of speaking. "The account we established for her was frozen by the trustee. It seems Conrad is attempting to teach 'Little V' a lesson."
Eleanora's eyes flashed with a cold, aristocratic fire. "She's not an easy woman to bully."
Leonardo's chest rose and fell in a slow, agonizing labor. A sudden fit of coughing racked his frame, and he pressed a hand to his sore ribs as the machines spiked in response. "Leave them be," he managed to choke out once the fit subsided.
Eleanora rolled her eyes with a grace that only decades of high-society breeding could produce. She picked her book back up, her thumb tracing the edge of a page. "I'll do as I please," she said, a small, defiant smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.
She didn't take kindly to her son playing power games with funds she had personally earmarked for her granddaughter. If Conrad wanted to play at being a tyrant, he was about to remember who had taught him the game.
Author's note:
It's been a minute, I'm working on another book 😂 😂 I can't think straight if my mind keeps wondering to other books.