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She’s going to hate me—more than she already does—but at least she’ll be interesting in a way the Tiffanys and Sarahs of my life never could.

I face the window again, looking over a kingdom built on lies and blood, determined to secure my throne. Seven days to trap a queen and save an empire. When I turn back to my brothers, I’m wearing a dark smile. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

Somewhere beneath the certainty and the cold calculation, there’s a dangerous spark of anticipation. For the first time in twenty years, I want something that has nothing to do with the empire. And that might be the one thing my father never planned for.

The silence in Roman’s office is stifling, coiling in the corners of the room, thick with the weight of a dead man’s ambition and the five sons he’s just shackled to it. Roman spent decades making sure none of us could ever escape him, and apparently, even in death, he is still pulling those strings.

I set my glass down on the polished mahogany sideboard, the sound a sharp, definitive crack in the suffocating quiet. “This is done for tonight. We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Noon. My office. Don’t be late.”

Kaden stops pacing, his head whipping in my direction. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Vance, we’re fucked. All of us. Because of you.”

A muscle in my jaw tightens, but I don’t rise to the bait. I don’t have time for his theatrics. “No. This bullshit is because of Roman. This was his last and greatest act of control. Don’t you see? He’s not just demanding we marry. He’s demanding we do it together. He’s turned us into a single point of failure. Your bachelorhood, Xander’s, Baldwin’s, Beckett’s, mine… We’re all in this together. It’s just my deadline that’s the gun to all our heads. So, yes, that is all I have to say tonight. Go home. Drink. Fuck. Panic. I fucking don’t care. But be in my office at noon tomorrow.”

I turn on my heel and stride out without waiting for a response. Making my way down the hallway, I find my mother standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room: a solitary, elegant figure against the glittering backdrop of the city she helped my father conquer. She doesn’t turn when I approach, but I know she’s been listening. “He always liked his games, didn’t he?” she muses softly.

“He’s played his last one now,” I reply, stopping beside her. The city spreads out below us, a carpet of light and life, oblivious to the storm raging in this penthouse.

She finally turns to me, her hand coming up to rest on my forearm. Her touch is light, but I feel the weight of her unspoken fears. “Be careful, Vance. The kind of woman you’d have to find on this timeline… She won’t be a simple solution. She’ll be a new kind of problem.”

I cover her hand with my own, a reassurance I don’t entirely feel. “I’m good with problems, Mom. I’ve been handling them my whole life.” I press a kiss to her cheek, tasting the faint salt of tears she refuses to let anyone see. “Get some rest. Everything is going to be fine.”

It’s the lie we tell ourselves when the ground is crumbling beneath our feet. She gives me a small, sad smile, her eyes searching mine. She knows I’m lying, but she also knows I’m the only one of her sons who might be able to manipulate that lie into a truth. “I know you’ll do what you have what is necessary.”

I will. Because that’s how my father raised me. Roman taught me that survival means doing whatever is necessary, no matter who gets hurt in the process. And if saving my family means being exactly the man he raised me to be, so be it.

I place another kiss on her cheek before striding toward the elevator. The ride to the lobby is a descent into my own hell, the soft chime of passing floors a metronome counting down the remaining seconds of my freedom.

The air is cool and musty when I reach the underground garage. The slap of my soles against the concrete echoes around me as I make my way to my Aston Martin. I swing up the door of the Valkyrie and slide into the cockpit, the leather hugging my frame. The engine roars to life, vibrating through my bones. The moment the door closes, I don’t hesitate. I slam my foot on the accelerator, and the car launches itself into the Chicago night. The city is a blur of neon and motion, a river of taillights flowing through canyons of steel and glass. I weave between traffic with precision, the world outside the windshield dissolving into streaks of color.

The drive to my own penthouse in the Gold Coast is a fever dream. I push the car, testing its limits, the G-force pinning me to my seat when I take a corner too fast, the tires screaming in protest. It’s not reckless. It’s a recalibration. Tonight, I finally understand what Roman was preparing me for. I’m going to be a dutiful heir and become the man he always intended me to be—a predator.

My building is a relic of another type of wealth, the kind that doesn’t need glass towers or flashing signs. It rises above the lake in limestone and brick; all French Renaissance details, carved stone, and old-world grandeur. The private elevator opens directly into my penthouse, where polished marble, dark walnut, and ornate architectural details give way to cavernous rooms and towering windows overlooking Lake Michigan. It should feel warm and inviting. Instead, with most of the rooms stripped of anything unnecessary, it’s like a museum after closing—beautiful, expensive, and utterly fucking impersonal.

I shed my suit jacket, tossing it over a chair. Loosening my tie, I head straight for my bar in the living room. I pour three fingers of Pappy Van Winkle into a crystal tumbler, the liquid amber a hopeful promise of oblivion.

I take the drink and my tablet to the couch, sinking into the cold leather before taking a long sip of bourbon. One advantage of being an Ashford is that information is rarely difficult to find, especially when your father didn’t trust a soul. The company has maintained private intelligence files on its employees for decades: background checks, financial records, family connections, legal documents, and anything that might become relevant someday. It’s invasive as hell, but then again, privacy was never something my father considered a right.

I log into the archive and search for the name I need—Bennett, Sophia.

When I open it, the screen fills with documents, a digital dissection of her life. Her credit report is first. It’s a masterpiece of mediocrity and struggle. Her student loans are nearly paid off, a testament to her discipline. She has a car loan on a seven-year-old Honda and a meticulously managed credit card balance that hovers just under thirty percent utilization. She’s responsible and careful. She’s living paycheck to paycheck, trying to build a life on a junior executive’s salary. Her debt isn’t crushing, but it’s a pressure I can apply.

I swipe to the next document. Guardianship papers for Kierra Bennett filed six years ago. I skim through the legalese. Sophia was twenty-seven when she petitioned the court for custody after their parents passed away in a car accident. Instead of continuing what would have been a lucrative career in New York City, she moved back to Chicago to become a parent. I pull up Kierra’s academic records to find she graduated from high school with honors and is on a partial scholarship at Crestwood. Even with it, the tuition is astronomical: a number that will make Sophia’s carefully constructed budget implode. I imagine Sophia would do anything to keep her sister in that school. Anything.

With the glass to my lips, I take another sip of bourbon, and the ice clinks softly in the quiet of the room. I’m starting to see the shape of Sophia. She’s built her life on ambition and sacrifice. Roman saw it, too. He saw the fire in her belly, the ruthless efficiency with which she handled her projects, not only meeting expectations but decimating them. He was grooming her, yes, but not just for a promotion. He was testing her, measuring her tenacity, to see whether she possessed the same instincts he spent my entire life beating into me and my brothers. He was looking for a worthy piece for his chessboard, but maybe he inadvertently found the queen for mine.

I spend the next hour getting to know a woman who, until tonight, has only existed in my mind as the ambitious executive who has repeatedly managed to aggravate the living fuck out of me professionally. And sexually…

Sophia’s professional record is impeccable. Page after page of glowing reviews, promotions earned faster than expected, projects she took over and somehow turned around.

Driven. Exceptional. Resourceful. Unusually perceptive.

The kind of words executives use when they’re trying to describe someone they know is going places.

The kind of person Roman knew was going places.

Her social media is almost painfully restrained. No drunken nights. No vacations. Just the occasional picture of a charity event, a company function, a book she’s reading, and Kierra’s milestones. Even online, Sophia keeps herself guarded.

When I find a photograph of Kierra’s high school graduation, I stop scrolling. Sophia is standing beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, her head tipped toward her sister as they both smile at the camera. It’s not the same polite, practiced expression from the company photographs. This one is real and unrestrained.