Lucius Morgan — cold, heartless, and devastatingly handsome — yet still a bachelor. No woman ever dares linger near him. For as long as anyone can remember, his name has been whispered with equal parts fear and fascination. Ruthlessness burns behind those cold, black eyes.

  The rain came down in silver sheets over the city, slicking the streets and blurring the glow of the lamps. Inside his office — a fortress of glass and steel high above the chaos — Lucius stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back. The reflection that stared back at him was immaculate: sharp suit, sharper gaze, and not a trace of warmth.

  “Sir, the board is waiting,” came a hesitant voice from the doorway.

  Lucius didn’t turn. “They can wait.” His voice was smooth as ice and twice as cutting.

  The assistant lingered for a second too long, as if hoping for something — approval, perhaps. One look from Lucius sent her scurrying away. The sound of her retreating footsteps echoed down the marble hall.

  He turned back to the city below. Everyone wanted something from him — power, money, or favor — but no one dared to want him. And that was exactly how he preferred it.

  The boardroom fell silent the moment Lucius entered. Twelve men and women sat around a gleaming mahogany table, their confidence evaporating as his shadow fell across the room.

  He didn’t sit.

  “Report,” he said simply.

  A man near the end of the table — Harold, the financial director — cleared his throat. “W-we’ve seen a slight dip in the quarterly—”

  Lucius’s gaze cut to him, sharp and merciless. “Define slight.”

  Harold swallowed. “Four percent, sir. Market fluctuations—”

  “Excuses,” Lucius interrupted. He moved closer, each step measured. “Four percent is failure. Failure is unacceptable. And failure,” his voice dropped to a chilling whisper, “is contagious.”

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  He stopped at the head of the table, hands resting lightly on the polished surface. “By tomorrow morning, I want a recovery plan on my desk. Efficient, innovative, and profitable.” His eyes swept the room. “If you can’t deliver that, don’t bother showing up.”

  He turned to leave — but paused, glancing at the trembling Harold. “And, Harold,” he added, his tone almost polite, “pray that you’re not the reason we lose another percent.”

  The door clicked shut behind him. The sound lingered like a gunshot.

  Alexander Moore was once the cherished daughter of the Moore family — loved, admired, and surrounded by light. But that was before her elder sister returned. The sister who had vanished at the age of five reappeared one stormy afternoon, fragile and trembling at the family’s doorstep.

  From that day on, Alexander’s world began to fade. Every smile that had once been hers now belonged to her sister. Every praise, every glance, every treasure — taken, as if Alexander herself had been erased.

  She didn’t notice when people stopped calling her Miss Moore.

  She didn’t notice when her room was moved down the hall.

  All she knew was that somewhere between yesterday and today, she’d become a shadow — one her sister didn’t even see.

  The Moore estate was quiet — too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a storm.

  “Mother, Father—she did it!”

  Catherine’s voice sliced through the silence as she burst into the sitting room, tears glistening in her wide blue eyes. In her hands, she held a shattered porcelain vase, the one their mother adored — a family heirloom.

  Behind her, Alexander stood frozen in the doorway. “What are you talking about?”

  Catherine turned, trembling just enough to look convincing. “You know what you did! You pushed me, and the vase—” she broke off, her lower lip quivering as she looked to their parents for comfort.

  Mrs. Moore gasped, rushing to Catherine’s side. “Alex! How could you? This was your grandmother’s—”

  “I didn’t touch her!” Alexander’s voice cracked, caught between disbelief and desperation. “I just came in and—”

  “Enough,” Mr. Moore’s tone was ice. “You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Apologize to your sister,” he ordered.

  The room seemed to close in, the air thick with the scent of lilies and betrayal. Alexander’s hands trembled at her sides. Catherine sniffled softly, leaning into their mother’s embrace — the perfect image of an injured angel.

  Alexander looked at them — her family, her blood — and saw strangers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said finally, the words tasting like ash.

  Catherine smiled faintly, just enough for Alexander to see it.