"Now, instead of a controlled, staged decline, we're forced to accelerate our timetable. You have to die tonight, Victor."
Through the encroaching darkness at the edges of his vision, Victor saw Adrian lean in closer, his features a chilling mix of satisfaction and contempt.
"Don't worry about your legacy, though. We've planned for this contingency. Your death will be attributed to your 'sweet' daughter, Elara.
Imagine the headlines: 'Valtor Heiress Murders Patriarch in Bid for Power.' It's almost Shakespearean, don't you think? The empire you've guarded so zealously will crumble under the weight of such a salacious scandal."
Victor wanted to rage, to roar his defiance in the face of this monstrous betrayal. He longed to tear the blade from his back and turn it on this viper who dared to claim his bloodline.
But his body, that vessel of titanic willpower, was failing him. The combination of blood loss, physical trauma, and the mandrake's insidious effect was dragging him into an abyss from which he feared he might never emerge.
As his consciousness began to fade, fragmented thoughts and images flashed through Victor's mind.
He saw his life's work—the buildings bearing the Valtor name, the boardrooms where he'd orchestrated financial coups, and the global industries that danced to his tune.
All of it, now poised to be perverted by this... this abomination masquerading as his heir.
Then, in his mind's eye, he saw Elara. His daughter, his true successor, was meticulously groomed to carry forward his indomitable spirit.
They had their differences, their power struggles, but never had he doubted her fundamental alignment with the Valtor ethos.
Now, Adrian's machinations threatened to cast her as a patricidal usurper, sullying her name and destroying her future.
In what he feared might be his final moments of lucidity, Victor Valtor—a titan of industry, architect of a modern empire—experienced something alien to his hardened psyche: a profound, almost spiritual despair.
Not just for himself, bleeding out in the very sanctum of his power, but for the dire fate awaiting his legacy. The Valtor name, synonymous with unyielding ambition and calculated supremacy, was on the brink of being rewritten as a sordid saga of incest, murder, and dynastic implosion.
As the darkness finally engulfed him, Victor's last conscious thought was a silent, desperate plea—not to any deity, for he had long since replaced such notions with self-deification—but to the intangible essence of his own legacy:
Do not let this be the end. Not like this. Not at the hands of these... these profane usurpers.
The Valtor spirit... it must endure. It must...
Then, just as oblivion was about to claim him, The doors burst open giving entry to Lucinda Valtor.
The heavy oak doors of Victor's chamber burst open with a thunderous crash, momentarily drowning out his fading heartbeat.
Through the encroaching darkness that threatened to consume him, Victor saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway—tall, imperious, radiating an aura of authority that seemed to momentarily dispel the room's deathly pall.
"Dear God... Victor!"
The voice, rich with a mixture of shock and commanding presence, cut through his delirium like a beacon.
Even in his dire state, Victor would recognize that tone anywhere. It belonged to Lucinda Valtor, his elder sister and the family's true matriarch in all but official title.
As she rushed to his bedside, the moonlight illuminated her features—regal, stern, yet now contorted with what appeared to be genuine concern.
Her silver hair, usually coiffed in an impeccable chignon, was slightly disheveled, suggesting a hasty summons.
She wore a luxurious silk robe over her nightgown, its deep burgundy hue almost masking the blood that now stained its edges as she leaned over him.
In his semi-conscious state, a flicker of hope kindled in Victor's eyes. Lucinda had always been his rock, his confidante in the cutthroat world they navigated. Surely now, in this most desperate hour, she would be his salvation.
Yet, as he gazed up at her through the mandrake's lingering haze, Victor saw something in Lucinda's eyes that chilled him more than his own encroaching mortality.
Behind her mask of concern, there was a calculating gleam, a cold assessment of the scene before her.
It was a look he knew intimately—the expression of a grandmaster realizing the chessboard had been unexpectedly rearranged.
His fragile hope withered as swiftly as it had bloomed.
Before he could even attempt to communicate, to warn her of Adrian's treachery, Lucinda's attention was diverted.
She strode across the room with purposeful steps and, without preamble, delivered a resounding slap across Adrian's face.
"You impetuous fool!" she hissed, her tone venomous. "You couldn't keep your carnal urges in check for even one night, could you? Now look—we have a bloody catastrophe to manage!"
Victor, through his haze of pain and narcotic confusion, could scarcely believe his senses.
Was his own sister berating Adrian not for this murderous act, but for some prior indiscretion? The implications sent a fresh wave of despair through him, compounding his physical agony.
Adrian reeled from the blow, more from shock than physical impact. "I... Am sorry
"Don't play coy with me, boy," Lucinda cut in, her words razor-sharp. "Your little tryst with Rosy, she had told me about it and how you let victor witness it .
Victor's mind reeled. Not only was Lucinda aware of Adrian's machinations, but she was also apparently complicit, concerned only that this botched assassination might derail their larger schemes.
The betrayal cut deeper than any physical wound, confirming his worst fears: the rot within his dynasty was not just deep but all-encompassing.
Rosy, who had been lurking at the door, now stepped into the chamber. Unlike earlier, when she had exuded theatrical distress, her face now showed genuine alarm.
"This... this wasn't part of our plan, Lucinda. Adrian was supposed to—"
"Silence!" Lucinda's command cracked like a whip. "Your sentimentality is what allowed this complication in the first place. Had you maintained proper distance, Adrian wouldn't have been so... tempted."
She turned back to Victor, her gaze clinical as she assessed his injuries. "At least you had the sense to use mandrake extract. Otherwise whole manor would be here ."
Adrian, regaining his composure, nodded. His voice was low, measured. "The puncture was precise—painful and debilitating, but unlikely to be immediately fatal. I planned for him to linger, to witness the family's dismantling before finally succumbing."
"Those plans are dust now," Lucinda spat. "We must adapt. Victor's survival would unravel everything." She paused, then added with chilling finality, "Finish it. Make it look like part of the initial attack."
Adrian reached for the stiletto still embedded in Victor's back, preparing to deliver the coup de grâce, a life left from victor as any movements stopped from his body.
"We withdraw for now," Lucinda declared, her tone brooking no argument. "Come morning, when my scream alerts the staff, we must all appear appropriately shocked. Our reactions will be scrutinized; one misstep could unravel everything."
With that, they departed, leaving Victor alone in his blood-soaked chamber, a broken king in a tainted castle.
As silence descended, he clung to consciousness by the barest threads, his mind a kaleidoscope of betrayal, agony, and a slowly crystallizing resolve.
Morning came, its pale light creeping through the manor's ancient corridors like an unwelcome intruder.
Wilfred, Victor's loyal butler, was already up, preparing to assist his master with the day's routines.
As he made his way toward Victor's chamber, a blood-curdling scream shattered the morning stillness.
It was Lucinda's voice, her performance impeccable—the right mix of shock, horror, and sisterly anguish.
Wilfred's face drained of color as he burst into the room. The tableau that greeted him was something out of a Gothic nightmare: Victor Valtor, the man he had served faithfully for decades, lay motionless on the bed.
Blood had soaked through the opulent bedding, staining it a deep, accusatory crimson. But most disturbing was Victor's gaze—open yet vacant, as if his very essence had been drained away.
"Mr. Valtor! Dear God, what has happened?" Wilfred's voice quavered, his composure shattered. "I... I must call for a doctor immediately!"
As he moved to Victor's side, other figures rushed into the room, alerted by Lucinda's strategic outburst.
Among them were Adrian and Rosy, their expressions masterfully crafted to convey shock and distress.
"Father! Who... who could have done this?" Adrian's voice trembled convincingly.
Rosy, her face streaked with what appeared to be genuine tears, added to the performance. "Oh, Victor! My darling, in our own home... it's unthinkable!"
Lucinda, seizing control of the unfolding drama, spoke up. Her voice was heavy with manufactured sorrow and accusation.
"I... I think I know who might be responsible. Late last night, I saw Elara heading towards Victor's chamber. She seemed... agitated."
A collective gasp filled the room. Even Wilfred, his concern for Victor momentarily eclipsed, looked aghast. "Miss Elara? But she's always been so devoted to her father. Surely there must be some mistake..."
"The evidence speaks for itself," Lucinda countered gravely. "We all know she's been resentful since it has been found out that Adrian maybe his successor. I feared she might do something rash, but this... this is beyond anything I imagined."
As the room buzzed with a mixture of genuine concern and expertly feigned dismay, Victor Valtor lay motionless, a silent witness to his own legacy's unraveling.
His wife, his sister, his supposed son—all had conspired not just against him, but against Elara, the one person he had always trusted implicitly.
In his attempt to groom her as a worthy successor, to instill in her the same relentless ambition that had propelled him to greatness, had he unwittingly painted a target on her back?
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