VESPER
I can still feel the lips that touched mine.
Soft. Warm. Careful—yet impossible to forget.
It lingers—like a ghost, like a brand, like something I should be able to scrub off but can't. I barely slept, caught between replaying that moment and the confrontation that followed.
Silvan's voice had cut through the haze, sharp and demanding.
"You let him touch you."
Not a question. A statement. A judgment.
I hadn't answered. Not because I lacked words, but because none of them made sense. None of them would undo what had already happened. The words sat heavy in my throat, refusing to rise. My mind screamed for logic, for control, for something to grasp onto.
But I had nothing.
I had just stood there, staring, while my friends—oblivious to the storm brewing inside me—watched with quiet concern.
"Essie." Isla's voice pulled me back to the present.
I exhaled slowly, forcing a small smile as I met her gaze.
"You okay?" Lia asked, her voice laced with worry. Sera remained silent, but her watchful eyes missed nothing.
After last night—after Silvan left—I had told them everything.
I nodded. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
They didn't believe me. I could see it in the way they exchanged glances, their silent promise that they were here, no matter what. And despite everything, that comforted me.
But comfort wouldn't save me from this.
---
This was one of the biggest press conferences I had ever handled. The weight of it sat heavy on my shoulders, yet I carried it like second skin.
The moment we stepped through the entrance, the air outside crackled with anticipation. Reporters and photographers pressed forward, a wall of bodies and flashing lights, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of questions.
The guards moved swiftly, parting the sea of urgency, carving a path for us to slip through.
They would have to wait.
Every answer would come in due time.
I adjusted the deep wine-red silk of my blouse, the fabric smooth yet commanding against my skin. My tailored black pantsuit was sharp—razor-cut lines and an open blazer that spoke of control. The high-waisted trousers hugged my form like armor, each step precise, each movement intentional.
My heels clicked against the marble floor, a quiet but deliberate declaration: I was not to be overlooked.
A thin gold necklace rested at my collarbone, subtle yet weighted, while small diamond earrings caught the light as I moved. My hair, pulled into a sleek ponytail, left no room for distractions. A soft smoky eye framed my gaze, while my lips—painted a deep wine-red—whispered a silent warning:
Watch closely, but don't mistake me for something fragile.
Inside the conference hall, the tension thickened. Final checks, last-minute adjustments—I made sure everything was perfect.
"Can you handle this?"Isla asked, her voice steady, but I could hear the weight behind it.
I forced a smile. "Why not?"
But then her expression shifted. Her gaze flickered past me, a subtle arch of her brow.
I knew that look.
I didn't need to turn around. I could already feel him.
His presence filled the space before his voice even reached me—an undeniable shift in gravity, pulling everything toward him. Toward us. The air grew heavier, charged with something unseen but undeniable.
I braced myself, inhaling slowly, willing my pulse to stay steady.
I was about to turn—
But I didn't have to.
He was already there.
Behind me.
His hands settled on my waist, fingers grazing the fabric of my blazer as if testing the limits of what was his.
Isla coughed—pointedly.
I pulled away just as quickly, shoving down the restless flutter in my stomach, refusing to acknowledge its existence.
Turning to face him, I steadied my voice. "Before the press conference starts, I need you to read this."
I extended the carefully prepared script—anticipated questions, strategic answers, a controlled narrative. This had to go smoothly.
But he didn't take it.
Didn't even look at it.
My arm ached from holding it out too long, but still, he refused.
"I don't need it."
Final. Absolute. A statement carved from stone.
My brows knitted together. "No, you have to follow my plan." My tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.
Isla folded her arms, stepping closer, her gaze sharp as a blade pressing against his defiance.
"Rael, don't screw this up—again."
Her voice was laced with warning, her patience hanging by a fragile thread.
And yet, as Lucien met her stare with nothing but quiet amusement, I already knew—
He wasn't planning on following anyone's plan but his own.
---
The hall was already full—the weight of flashing cameras, murmured conversations, and expectant gazes pressing in from every direction. Every key figure was here, waiting.
But before stepping onto the stage, I grabbed Lucien's arm and pulled him aside.
"For once—just this once—can you cooperate?" My voice was low, firm, laced with the last strands of my patience.
He didn't answer. Instead, his gaze flicked downward—to my hand, gripping his arm too tightly. A smirk ghosted across his lips.
"Why so tense?" he murmured, as if my frustration was nothing more than entertainment to him. As if none of this actually mattered.
I exhaled sharply, rolling my eyes. "Can you not follow instructions for once? You're acting like you don't even care about your own company." I inhaled, steadying myself. "You're unfocused, Mr. Vale."
Something in his expression flickered. A crack in the mask—so quick, so fleeting, I almost thought I imagined it. But then, just as fast, it was gone.
His jaw tightened. He looked away for a beat, weighing his words. And when his eyes found mine again, the air between us shifted.
It wasn't just a look. It was a burn.
His silence had already answered me before his words even came.
"No one dictates what I do, what I say, or how I act." His voice was edged in steel. "Not them. Not my father. Not your brother." A pause. Then his gaze sharpened, dark and deliberate.
"And certainly not you."
The words struck like a blade.
I stilled, breath caught somewhere in my throat. Certainly not you. They echoed, sharp and unwavering.
Why did that sting?
Why did it feel like those words carved through something deeper than they should have?
I watched him, searching, but he only watched me in return—unshaken, unaffected. A closed book with no pages to read. His words were final. A verdict. A dismissal.
The moment shattered when Isla appeared beside us, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in disapproval.
"Are you two going to have a staring contest, or are you actually planning to start this press conference?" Her voice dripped with impatience.
I turned to her, silently conveying what I already knew—he wasn't going to follow the plan.
Isla sighed, clearly unsurprised, then took my hands in hers.
"Rael, come out when she calls for you," she said, flat and emotionless.
I didn't look at him again.
Without another word, I turned and stepped onto the stage.
The moment I emerged, the room erupted—bright flashes, murmurs, the sharp click of cameras capturing my every move.
I didn't falter.
Lifting the microphone, I took my place in front of the audience.
"Let's get one thing straight." I pause, letting the silence stretch, letting it settle—allowing the weight of my words to sink into the restless air. My gaze sweeps over the room, meeting every expectant stare, every camera poised like a weapon.
"Vale Industries does not run on whispers and speculation. It runs on truth. On facts." My voice is steady—controlled, yet sharp enough to cut through the murmurs.
"If you came here chasing shadows, hoping for empty words to fuel your theories, you're wasting your time." I let the statement linger, daring them to challenge it. "But if you came here for answers—real ones—then ask. And I will make sure that when you leave this room, you won't be walking away with uncertainty."
No smile. No unnecessary warmth. Just a quiet, unwavering command.
"This press conference will not spiral into noise. We will address what needs to be addressed. There will be no space for theatrics, no room for distractions." I take a breath, straightening, reinforcing the presence I refuse to let waver.
"So let's begin."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder, voices overlapping as reporters hurled their questions, hungry for answers. They wanted the truth—or at least, their version of it. But I wasn't here to feed into their chaos.
One voice cut through the noise.
"Ms. Holloway, as the one overseeing this press conference, can you clarify its purpose? What exactly does Vale Industries want to address?"
I met the reporter's gaze, my expression unreadable. I let the weight of silence settle before I spoke, ensuring my words held their own power.
"As I said, this press conference is not about speculation, nor is it about entertaining rumors," I said, my voice steady, slicing through the static of the room. "Vale Industries stands at a critical juncture, and the purpose of this gathering is simple: to set the record straight."
I took a measured breath, feeling the weight of a hundred eyes locked onto me.
"We are here to address the situation with clarity and transparency. Anything beyond that—assumptions, hearsay, distractions—will not be entertained."
I let my gaze sweep across the hall, letting them know I wasn't just speaking—I was making a statement. "Vale Industries has built its legacy on more than just power; it has built it on truth. And that is what we will uphold today."
The room fell into a hush, but the tension remained. They were waiting, calculating their next move.
"With the severity of the leak, why did Vale Industries delay addressing the public? Was this a strategic move?"
I tilted my head slightly, considering the weight of the question. Then, I met their gaze head-on.
"I understand that when the leak surfaced, it caused alarm—as it should. That reaction is valid." I pause. "but, when a storm strikes, you don't stand in the rain shouting—you assess, you strategize, and you act with precision. That's what Vale Industries did. Addressing a crisis isn't about speaking first; it's about speaking right."
My voice calm but edged with finality. "The delay wasn't hesitation. It was preparation. And now, you'll hear exactly what you need to." I let my words settle, my eyes scanning the crowd.
The questions kept coming, and I answered them all just as quickly—no sugarcoating, no unnecessary elaboration. Direct. Precise.
"With all due respect, Ms. Holloway, we appreciate your answers." One of the reporters spoke up, his tone polite but firm. I gave a curt nod, acknowledging his words. "But wouldn't it be better to hear directly from Mr. Vale? As the head of Vale Industries, shouldn't he be the one addressing these concerns?"
I hoped he read the script. I hoped, for once, he would follow it.
"Alright, no problem." My voice remained even, unreadable. "To answer all your follow-up questions, here's Mr. Lucien Rael Vale."
The moment I stepped aside, cameras flashed in rapid succession, capturing every second of the transition. But just as I moved away, a voice cut through the air, halting me in my tracks.
"Ms. Holloway!" A sharp call.
I turned, eyes landing on the female reporter who had spoken. A questioning look flickered across my face, and just like that, the attention that had begun shifting to Lucien snapped back to me.
"Ms. Holloway, one last question for you."
I nodded once. Fine. Whatever it is, I'll handle it.
"There's something circulating on social media right now."
What?
A strange feeling crawled up my spine, a sensation I couldn't quite place. The entire room stilled, all eyes fixed on me, waiting.
"There are pictures," she continued, pausing for effect. "Pictures of you... and Lucien Vale. Kissing. At a bar."
My breath hitched.
The words landed with the force of a bullet, ringing loud and clear, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
For the first time, I found myself without an immediate answer. Every question thrown my way, I met it head-on without hesitation. But now?
Now, my tongue refused to cooperate. My mind, usually sharp and calculating, seemed to stall.
The hall grew hotter, tighter, the air buzzing with anticipation. And then, as if to set fire to an already burning room, the reporter spoke again—adding fuel to the flames.
"Given your position in managing this crisis, don't you think your personal involvement with Mr. Vale—especially in such a public setting—raises questions about your objectivity? How can the public trust that your decisions are purely professional and not influenced by… other factors?" Sh#t.
I scanned the room, as if somewhere in the sea of faces, I would find the answer I needed. But my gaze caught something—or rather, someone—standing just beyond the crowd of reporters.
Familiar eyes met mine. A quiet smile, not quite full, yet filled with something deeper. Worry.
Mother.
But she wasn't alone.
Beside her stood a woman—elegant, poised, exuding an aura that felt strangely familiar, like a ghost of something I had seen before. Then, her gaze met mine.
Emerald eyes. Gleaming, yet laced with sorrow.
For a second, I felt the world narrow, questions forming before I even knew what I was searching for. But the moment shattered as the reporters pulled me back, their voices dragging me out of my thoughts.
I inhaled sharply, regaining my composure. Professional. Collected. But this time, there was a weight behind it—something heavier, something sharpened.
"Interesting." My voice cut through the air, calm but edged. "Tell me, if a man stood in my position right now, would you be questioning his ability to lead because of a personal matter?"
Silence. A quiet, stunned pause.
From the corner of my vision, I saw my mother's smile—small but filled with something unspoken. Pride.
I allowed myself the briefest smirk before continuing. "My role here is to ensure that this crisis is handled with precision and transparency. Personal speculation does not change the fact that Vale Industries is taking action." My tone was measured, unwavering, though inside, I felt as if something within me was beginning to unravel.
"So, with all due respect, I'll let Mr. Vale address the matter you actually came here for."
And with that, I stepped away, moving toward Isla's side.
She didn't speak, but her stare spoke volumes—like she was piecing me together, studying the cracks I thought I had hidden well.
Her eyes whispered what her lips did not: You handled it well, but you look wounded.
I exhaled, shaking my head slightly, as if that would be enough to push away the weight pressing against my ribs.
---
We stood on the sidelines, silent observers as the reporters fired one question after another. Luce, utterly composed, answered each inquiry with a sharp precision that left no room for follow-ups. It was as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times—unshaken, unreadable, in complete control.
"Your father, Magnus Vale, has remained silent on the matter. Can we expect a statement soon?"
"Will this incident affect your upcoming projects and investor confidence?"
Each question was met with a straightforward response, devoid of hesitation. His words carried a finality that made it clear—there was no room for doubt.
I had been about to slip away, a quiet retreat to the restroom, when a single question sliced through the steady rhythm of the conference, halting me mid-step.
"Vale Industries isn't the only thing the family keeps secret. Your mother disappeared years ago—any updates on her whereabouts?"
My breath stilled. My gaze locked onto him, waiting—watching.
I had always seen him as something unyielding. A man carved from ice, detached, terrifyingly in control. Heartless, even. But for a fleeting moment, something cracked.
A ghost of an expression passed over his face—so subtle it was almost an illusion. It wasn't just anger. It wasn't just disdain. Beneath the surface, there was something raw, something fragile. A boy lost in the shadows of a love that never returned to him.
The moment passed as quickly as it came.
His face hardened. The dangerous cold returned, smooth and absolute.
"No comment." Final. Unshakable.
I thought that was the end of it. But another question followed, sharper than the last.
"There are whispers that your family holds more secrets than the world realizes. Some claim you have an older brother—the unforgotten one. Is there any truth to this, or is it merely a rumor?"
A brother?
The world had always known Lucien Rael Vale as an only child. Even I had never heard whispers of anyone else. But something about the way he stilled—the way his fingers clenched into the table with an almost violent grip—told me this wasn't just speculation.
Then he spoke.
"Ms. Holloway told you once—we are here to address the situation, not to entertain assumptions and hearsay. You should know better than to ask pointless questions."
His voice was calm, but the weight of his words was suffocating. Without another glance, he rose and walked away. He didn't need to say more. The silence he left behind carried more gravity than any answer ever could.
I turned to Isla, only to find her frozen in place, her expression unreadable.
I nudged her. "What was that?"
She looked at me, her gaze shadowed with meaning I couldn't decipher. "If you value your sanity, don't ask questions you don't want the answers to." And just like that, she walked away, stepping forward to formally end the press conference.
And here I was, staring at my own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I had just cupped my hands under the cool rush of water, ready to drown the weight pressing against my chest, when I saw her.
Lilith.
She stood behind me in the mirror, her reflection merging with mine like a shadow that refused to be ignored.
"What are you doing here?" My voice was steady, but the question was laced with something heavier.
She laughed—sharp, edged, the kind that scraped against the skin rather than softened the air. "For someone who acts unaffected, it was all over your face when they brought up that picture."
That picture.
A slow realization clawed its way up my spine. I turned to face her fully, my gaze narrowing. "Was it you?" My voice, now edged with something darker.
She tilted her head, amusement curling at the corner of her lips, but her eyes—her eyes were unreadable. It was answer enough. Instead of confirming, she threw something else at me, something laced with mockery. "Funny, isn't it? You were staring pretty damn hard."
I stilled, feeling the weight of her words settle between us.
Her expression shifted, something almost cruel slipping into her tone. "Secrets always have a way of clawing their way to the shadows." A pause, calculated. "Be careful, Lenore. You might not like what you find beneath the surface."
The name—Lenore—was a blade against my skin, cutting through my defenses, dragging something unspoken into the light. She smirked, savoring whatever storm she had planted inside me, and then she was gone, leaving nothing but her words curling in the air like smoke.
I turned back to the mirror.
The reporters' voices echoed in my head.
Where is his mother?
The unforgotten brother—does he even exist?
Is any of this connected to what's happening to Vale Industries?
A thread was forming, one I wasn't sure I wanted to pull.
Then, the email. The one I had shoved into the back of my mind.
Who is that person?
Are they connected to the Vales?
"Some things can never be cleaned."
Lilith's words. Isla's cryptic looks. The way Lucien held himself together, as if his control was the only thing keeping something terrifying at bay.
What do they know that I don't?
I exhaled slowly, pressing my palms against the sink.
"You weren't supposed to think about this, Vesper." I whispered it, as if saying it aloud could make it true.
"You promised, no matter what, you wouldn't dig deeper into things that were never meant to be unearthed."
I shut my eyes, willing the thoughts away.
Then—
A soft creak.
My eyes snapped open, my breath stilling.
The door had opened.
I wasn't alone.
And then I saw her.
The woman from the conference. The one who had stood next to my mother.
She met my gaze, something too familiar swimming in her eyes.
"You should leave before it's too late."
Her voice was soft, distant—like a whisper slipping through time.
A shiver crawled down my spine.
I turned to ask her what she meant, but she was already gone.
---
LUCIEN
I left the press behind without a second glance. Their questions should have meant nothing to me. They should have known better than to think I'd be affected.
But when they turned to Vesper—when they asked her—I saw it. The way her breath hitched, the sharp rise of her shoulders. It was fleeting, but it was there. She felt it.
And then she looked at me.
There was something in her eyes when they questioned me about my family. Something unreadable. Something I didn't like.
I buried those ghosts a long time ago.
They should have stayed dead.
Stepping into my office, I immediately noticed the figure seated behind my desk. My father. He faced the floor-to-ceiling windows, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed on the city below.
"You're slipping, Rael."
His voice was calm, measured. Cold.
I didn't respond.
"There's no place for weakness in the Vale bloodline," he continued, still not looking at me.
My jaw clenched. Weakness? Is that what he thinks this is?
He exhaled slowly. "I thought you buried the past." A pause. "Tell me… when did the ghosts start haunting you again?"
I let out a low chuckle, stepping forward with unhurried ease. Ghosts don't leave shadows behind.
I met his stare as he finally turned to face me. "You." My voice was quiet but laced with ice. "You built that grave. You made sure there was nothing left but ruin."
His expression remained impassive. He didn't care. He never did.
Instead, he leaned forward, folding his hands. "And yet here we are." A pointed look. "A picture. A girl. A distraction you should have disposed of."
The corner of my mouth lifted—mocking, dark. Disposed of? As if she were nothing more than an inconvenience. As if she weren't already a part of something neither of us could control.
"And yet," I murmured, "you're the one bringing her up."
Silence.
I walked toward the window, looking down at the city—the empire I ruled. Everything was mine. Everything was under my control.
And yet…
Her eyes, the way she looked at me when they asked about my family—I should have hated it.
I should have ignored it.
Instead, it followed me here, settling in the space between my ribs, clawing for something I didn't want to name.
I took a slow breath, pressing my palm against the cool glass. There is no past. No ghosts. No shadows I cannot control.
But even I didn't believe that anymore.
I exhaled sharply, turning away from my father without another word. Let him sit there, drowning in his own self-righteous beliefs. Let him think he still had control over me.
My steps were steady as I walked out of the office. The moment the door shut behind me, I loosened my tie slightly, pushing away the remnants of that conversation—only to stop in my tracks.
There she was.
Hollow.
Stepping out of the elevator, ready to leave. Her expression unreadable, yet there was something in the way her brows drew together, the subtle shift of her lips—like she was thinking about something she shouldn't be.
But I saw it.
The tension in her posture, the way her fingers curled slightly at her sides, as if something had unsettled her.
She was lost in thought.
About what?
About me?
I moved toward her, my gaze drinking her in. She didn't notice at first—until she did. Her hair shifted slightly as she moved, and then she turned, her dark eyes meeting mine.
That familiar feeling settled in my chest—slow, insidious. A pull I wasn't meant to feel.
I stopped just close enough.
"You look tired, Hollow." My voice was low, cool.
She looked at me. Something flickered in her gaze—something she wiped away almost instantly.
"I'm fine." Her voice was steady, controlled. Too controlled.
My lips barely curled. "Are you?"
She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Thinking. Calculating.
Then she inhaled deeply, tilting her head up to meet my stare head-on. Unwavering. Brave.
And then—
"Why did you kiss me?"
I kept my gaze on her, letting her question settle, but before I could respond, my phone buzzed.
I glanced at the screen—unknown number.
Lifting it slightly, I let Vesper see. "I need to take this." She gave a small nod before turning away.
I pressed the phone to my ear. "Who is this?" My tone was clipped, leaving no room for pleasantries.
Silence.
Seconds ticked by. I pulled the phone away, checking if the call had dropped—it was still connected. My patience thinned, jaw tightening. "Either speak or stop wasting my time."
Then, I heard it.
A low, slow laugh—dark, taunting, almost amused.
A sound that dripped with something dangerous. Something familiar.
"Hello, brother." He paused, "I was watching. You walked out of that press conference like a king, but even kings have cracks in their thrones, don't they? Tell me, how did it feel when they asked about her?"
I clenched my jaw, fingers tightening around my phone. My patience was a thread ready to snap.
"What do you want?" My voice was cold, cutting, ignoring the venom laced in his words.
A low chuckle came through the line. "Your mother would be so proud. Oh, wait..." He paused, as if savoring something darkly amusing. "Do you ever wonder, Rael? If she ever thinks about you? If she regrets leaving?"
That laugh—low, taunting, threaded with malice—stoked something violent in me.
"F#ck you, Darius." The words left me like a growl, sharp and lethal.
"Tell me about Vesper..." His voice dipped, calculated. "Does she look at you with fear yet?"
The moment he said her name, something inside me ignited—fury, raw and unrestrained. My grip tightened, veins burning with rage.
"Don't you f#cking dare drag her into your game, you piece of sh#t!" My voice was steel, a warning laced with promise.
Another laugh, deeper this time. He was enjoying this.
"You don't break easily, Rael." A pause. "But I have a feeling... she just might."
The line went dead, but the fire in my veins was just getting started.
Darius thought he could touch what was mine. He'll learn soon enough—some lines, once crossed, are never forgiven.