"The Q2 revenue has grown by 8%, but margins declined due to higher logistics costs. Should we revise our pricing strategy or optimize supply chain expenses?” Mr. Rhodes asked.

He has been a constant presence since the beginning of this company—for many years he has been responsible for oversight and strategic direction.

“Both options need to be evaluated carefully. The margin pressure is primarily driven by a temporary spike in logistics costs—fuel prices and distribution inefficiencies have contributed significantly this quarter, and the time we have for this is by the end of April..."

The rest is fully blacked out. I can’t hear anything my CFO, Evan, is saying. The only words stuck in my mind are the end of April—the 30th.

The date doesn’t echo—it sinks in. Hooks into something buried. Something I spent ten years suffocating. The day everything broke. Or maybe—The day I did. The kind you don’t come back from.It’s been a decade—ten years to be exact. I have never turned back after that. Never allowed myself to even think about it for too long. But this time… it’s different.

I can’t do what I did before—hide, disappear, bury it deep enough that it stops breathing. Hoping everything would go back to normal. Nothing ever went back to normal. If I had been a bit more careful…

if I had stayed…

She might—

“Mr. Voss, what do you think about this?” My head snaps slightly, the room coming back into focus.

Evan is watching me carefully. Not concerned—he knows better than that—but observant. My CFO. The man I trust with my company. Not my life—never that—but enough. I tolerate him. That’s more than most people get. I can spend an entire day with him without imagining his death in detail. That counts as trust in my world.

“I asked for your opinion.” Of course he did.  I lean back slightly, folding my hands together, expression neutral.

“Optimize logistics first,” I say calmly.

“Raising prices invites unnecessary attention.” A pause. Attention is dangerous. People nod. Agreement spreads like obedience. I could tell them anything. They would follow. They always do.

My penthouse overlooks Los Angeles—high enough that everything beneath it feels… insignificant. Small lights. Small people. Small lives. I own pieces of this city. Enough to break it, if I wanted. Sometimes I wonder how long it would take. Not long. Control isn’t given. It’s taken. Built. Maintained. Enforced. And I am very good at enforcement. But it’s not the same as what I used to feel cack then. That kind was warmer. Stronger. Powerful. Before everything turned cold. Here, I am a gentleman—dressed in suits from top to bottom, perfect, no imperfections.

No past.

No weakness.

It’s been 12 years since I founded my company. Twelve years disguised as a sheep in a suit. The kind people trust. The kind that hides the wolf well.

The lift to my penthouse beeps with a soft ping, announcing the arrival of a guest—reminding me I’m not alone.

Still playing the part.

Sara . She has been here more than a couple of times—she knows the way. No hesitation. No questions.

For a model like her, she carries herself effortlessly. Lean, elegant—long limbs, subtle curves, a kind of poise that makes even stillness look intentional.

She walks toward me and falls to her knees without wasting a second. She knows the rules. Everyone does, eventually. She starts to unbutton my pants, her touch practiced, detached.

It’s been a long day—board meetings, phone calls, negotiations that require smiles and lies in equal measure. I like everything organized, controlled, predictable. People are none of those things. That’s why I manage them.

I spent my entire day talking, thinking, calculating. I need release pleasure, not connection. Just silence in my head, even if it lasts a few minutes. Sara is good for that.

No strings.

No emotions.

No history.

No ghosts.

In the end, we both get what we need without anyone getting hurt. Or at least, without anything that matters getting hurt. After a long, exhausting session, she leaves. Just like she always does. No lingering. No looking back.

Smart girl.

I walk out of my ensuite to the liquor cabinet, and I pour bourbon into a glass. Watch the liquid settle.

Dark.

Smooth.

Deceptive.

Like everything else in this city, Like me. the glass feels heavier than it should. Or maybe my thoughts are. I walk toward the large, covered window. Floor-to-ceiling glass, tinted. The city stretches endlessly beneath me—alive, loud, untouchable, fake. It shines, even in the middle of the night.

It reminds me of Kings Land. Beautiful on the outside. Rotting underneath. It never stops pretending. Staring out, I let my thoughts wander—something I usually avoid. It’s been a complicated week. A dangerous one.

My phone beeps from the side table. One look at the screen—and something shifts. Without effort, without thought… I smile. The first real one in a long time.

It’s my brother.

“Well… to what do I owe this great honour? You calling me first? Must be something serious.”

Lucian chuckles on the other end, smooth as ever.

We’ve always been close. Just two years apart. After I left home, he followed not long after.

Started fresh—just like me. Or at least, tried to.

The three of us—me, Lucian, and Ronan. Always together. Two-year gaps, but no distance between us.

We shared everything. Even the things we shouldn’t have. Being away from them… it leaves something unfinished inside me. Something restless. So even this—this simple call—it steadies me.

But this time… this time of the year—

I already know. Before he even says it.

“I was thinking… maybe this time we all go back. Together. To Kings Land.”

There it is.

A pause. Then he continues quickly—

“And before you shut it down—I was planning to propose to Mira. I want you there. Both of you. You and Ronan.”

Mira.

The only constant he never let go of. She stayed in Kings Land. Even after everything. Even after we left.

I thought distance would break them. It didn’t.

She stayed. She belongs there.

We don’t. Not anymore.

I know what this really is. Not just a proposal. Not just a visit.

It’s a return.

To what we left behind.

To what was taken.

To what should have been ours.

They want it back.

But they won’t move without me.

They never do.

Because I’m the one, kings land is mine. I am the king

“You know what my answer is,” I say, my voice colder now.

“Take her somewhere else. Anywhere else. I’ll be there. But not Kings.” Too sharp. I hear it myself. But I don’t take it back.

“I talked to Ronan before calling you,” Lucian says, quieter now.

“He’s in. But without you… I’m not doing this. You know what she means to me.” Yeah. I know. I know what it means to lose someone in that place. I know what it costs. My grip tightens slightly around the glass.

For a second—just a second—I see it again.

A door half open.

A voice calling my name.

And me… walking away.

I blink, and it’s gone.

“I can’t,” I say finally. Lower this time. Not sharp—just final.

“Not there.”

A pause stretches between us. Heavy. Familiar. We talk a little longer after that—about nothing important. Business. Random things. Anything but the past.

Anything but April 30th.

Anything but there.

The next day begins the same—tiring, boring, long. I used to like this schedule. I built it this way on purpose. If I kept myself busy enough, I wouldn’t have to think about the past… or the regret that comes with it.

But today—

No matter how much work I drown myself in, I can’t focus. I can’t push it away. It sits there. Like a dull ache—no… not dull. Sharp. Persistent. Growing stronger after yesterday’s call. I tried to sleep last night. Sleep never came.

Only flashes.

Broken ones.

Mostly black.

But somewhere in between—

Red.

A knock on the door pulls me out of it. I don’t look up. I don’t need to. Evan. No one else has the courage to walk in like this. No one.

No one knows my origin—but they feel it. It’s an unspoken understanding.

To them, I am something… wrong. Dangerous.

The devil dressed in control.

And I try—God knows I tried—to be the sheep in the suit. But I never am.

Maybe it’s the way I carry myself. Maybe it’s the way I look at people—like I already know how they’ll fail. Even Evan has mentioned it before.

“You seemed a bit disturbed yesterday during the meeting,” he says, stepping in, voice careful but steady.

“So I brought you a summary. You can review what you missed. I’ve also arranged a phone conference and a lunch meeting with—” He keeps going.

Listing. Organizing. Filling the silence. Usually, I like this. Structure. Control. Noise that drowns everything else.

But today—

Every word feels distant.

Pointless.

Because my mind is somewhere else.

April 30th.

 Kings Land.

Her

The moment I get even a sliver of time alone, I pick up my phone. The number sits there.

I’ve been thinking about calling it all day. I do it anyway.

Richard Voss.

My uncle.

The man who runs Kings Land in my absence. My father’s consigliere.

He picks up on the first ring. Of course he does.

“My favorite son,” he says warmly. Too warmly.

“You know I never liked calling you nephew. You’re my son too. I’ve missed you. How are things in LA?”

A smile almost forms. Almost. He plays the role well. Always has. But I’ve never trusted him. Not him. Nor my father.

And I know—he’s never trusted me either. We just… never say it.

When I walked away from the family legacy, he was the happiest man alive. Finally stepping into a place that was never his to begin with.

My brothers?

They would never take it. Not while I’m alive. They know it’s mine. And they would follow me into hell without asking why. That kind of loyalty…

It doesn’t exist with men like my uncle.

We exchange a few empty words before I get to the point.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, my tone neutral, controlled.

“About expanding my company. Opening a branch in Kings Land.” Silence.

Not long—just enough. Enough to feel it. This isn’t what he wants. If I come back… even partially… it changes things.

It questions his position. His control.

His crown.

Then he speaks again, voice smoother now—but tighter beneath it.

“It’s your parents’ memorial day soon,” he says.

“Nothing would make them happier.” A pause.

“That means you’ll be in town?” There it is. Not a question. A confirmation he wants.

“I guess so,” I reply. Then firmer—more for myself than for him,

“Just for a week. Lucian will be there as well as Ronan. I have things to handle here. I’ll be coming back.”

I don’t mention the proposal. That’s not his to know.

We talk a little longer—business, territory, the usual. He complains about my cousins, calls them incompetent. Says they’ll never reach my level.

For a man like him—No one ever does. Because he’s the only one he believes in. When the call ends, the room feels… heavier.

Quieter.

Like something has already begun. I stare at my phone for a second. Then open our chat.

The three of us. After all these years—it’s still there.

Still active.

Still us.

My fingers hover over the screen for a moment. Then I type.

Message:

Damien: I’m in.

Lucian: …you’re serious?

Damien: Don’t make me repeat it.

Lucian: I’ll take that as a yes.

Lucian: You have no idea what this means.

Ronan: I do.

Damien: Of course you do.

Ronan: Took you long enough.

Damien: Don’t push it.

Lucian: When are you coming?

Damien: Before the 30th. Not staying long.

Ronan: You say that now.

Damien: I mean it.

Ronan: We’ll see.

Lucian: I’ll make the arrangements.

Lucian: And Damien…

Lucian: Thank you.

Damien: Don’t.

Ronan: Kings Land missed you.

Damien: I didn’t miss it.

I lock the phone and set it down.

Kings Land.

I’ve been there before in the last ten years—quietly, unseen. For memorial days. For functions.

But this time…

This time it’s different.

This time—

I’m not going back for the dead. nor for some unwanted parties

I’m going back for my brother.

By the time I finished my rounds, the hospital had quieted. The sterile hum of machines faded behind me as I stepped into the evening air. I hadn’t eaten all day. Not that I noticed. Or maybe I did—and chose not to. Control isn’t just about actions. It’s about needs. Suppressing them. Redirecting them. Still… hunger eventually demands attention.

The small restaurant a block from my apartment had become routine. Predictable. Safe. I ordered pasta—and, against my better judgment, the milkshake everyone seemed obsessed with. A mistake. I stared at the glass in mild disgust.

How do people drink this?

“You know you don’t actually have to drink it.” The voice cut through my thoughts. I looked up. And paused.

She was composed—but not obviously so. Hers was quieter. Intentional. The kind of presence that didn’t demand attention… …but held it anyway.

“I was trying to be polite,” I said dryly. “But since you mentioned it—this is terrible.”

She laughed. Real. Unfiltered.

“I’ve been telling my parents that for years. They refuse to take it off the menu.” Ah. So this was her place. Noted.

“I owe you an apology,” I said. “The food is great. The drink just… declares war on taste.” She laughed again and slid into the seat across from me.

“I’m Mira.”

“Aria. New in town. Still making questionable decisions, apparently.”

“Like ordering that?” she nodded toward the milkshake.

“Exactly.” A pause. She studied me. I noticed. Of course I did.

“You’re alone on a Saturday night,” she said. “That explains it.”

I raised a brow. “You’re here too.”

“Difference is,” she leaned back slightly, “I own the place.” Fair.

“I don’t know anyone here,” I admitted.

“That can be peaceful,” she said softly. “Or lonely.”

“Depends on the person.”

“And which one are you?” I held her gaze.

“Still deciding.” The conversation shifted somewhere between my untouched milkshake and her stealing it to prove a point.

“You’re a doctor?” she asked.

“Recently started.”

“That explains it.”

“What does?”

“You notice everything.” I didn’t answer. Because she was right. Instead—deflection.

“And you?”

“Professional disappointment,” she said lightly. “Socialite, apparently.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” she admitted. “…pretending not to notice things you definitely notice.” There it was. A crack. Real.

“You’re better at it than you think,” I said. Her eyes flickered. Caught. Then she smiled—smaller this time.

“You too.” Time passed. Unnoticed. Or ignored.

“You don’t feel like a stranger,” she said softly. Something tightened in my chest. Dangerous. Connections always are. But instead of pulling back— I leaned in.

“Neither do you.” Silence settled. Not empty. Full.

“Friends?” she asked, extending her hand. Simple. I looked at it for a moment. Then took it.

“Friends.”

Warm. Real. Temporary.

“Well,” she said, standing, “now that we’re friends… drink?” I tilted my head, studying her. Casual tone. Intentional invitation. Interesting.

“Do you even have to ask?” I said. “I’m in.” Her smile softened—less practiced now.

“Good. I was going anyway. You just saved me from boredom.”

“Glad to be useful.” The bar was wrong the moment we stepped in.

Too loud.

Too crowded.

Too unpredictable.

No control.

Mira leaned closer. “Yeah… no. This isn’t it.”

“Agreed.” She looked at me for a second. Then smiled—decision made.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Plan B.”