The Broken Crown

​POV: Malia

​The news swept through the Australian underworld like a wildfire on a high wind. By mid-morning, the destruction of the ancestral Kilsyth estate was no longer a secret buried beneath granite rubble; it was a seismic shock that reordered every hierarchy from Melbourne to Sydney.

​I sat in the velvet armchair facing the expansive glass windows of Jarrah’s private study, sipping dark tea that did little to warm the cold ache in my bones. My body was covered in purple-black bruises, remnants of our narrow escape from the crumbling subterranean tunnels, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological weight settling over the room.

​Jarrah stood at his massive mahogany desk, dressed in a sharp dark suit that hid every trace of the warrior who had dug me out of the collapsed stone hours prior. Calaby stood across from him, laying out thick folders and tablet displays filled with urgent messages.

​"The heads of the five major syndicates are panicking, boss," Calaby reported, his voice crisp. "The O'Connors from Brisbane, the Perth cartel, and the remnant lieutenants from Alastair’s old council. They saw the smoking crater where the estate used to stand. They know Alastair is ruined, and they know you did it. Half of them are cowering; the other half are lining up downstairs demanding an audience to pledge their fealty."

​Jarrah didn't look up from his screen. His aura was suffocating, radiating power so cold it felt icy. "Let them wait."

​"They've brought tribute, Jarrah," Calaby pressed carefully. "Surrender contracts, territorial deeds, financial bonds. They want to swear allegiance before you decide to purge them too."

​"I said let them wait," Jarrah repeated, his deep voice carrying a razor-like authority. He turned his dark gaze away from the desk and looked straight at me.

​The coldness in his eyes dissolved instantly, replaced by a deep, unwavering intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs. He walked around the desk, stopping right in front of my chair. Leaning down, he placed one heavy, warm hand over mine.

​"You're not sitting in the back room today, Malia," he said quietly, his tone absolute.

​I looked at him, startled. "Jarrah, those men are syndicate bosses. They're traditional, ruthless, and arrogant. They won't take kindly to seeing an outsider at the head of the table."

​"They don't have a choice," Jarrah countered, his jaw tightening. He lifted my hand, pressing his lips to the back of my knuckles, his touch burning hot against my chilly skin. "You bled for this victory as much as I did. You stood beside me in the dark when the roof came down. I will not sit on a throne built on your sacrifices while you hide behind closed doors."

​"Jarrah..."

​"I refuse to meet a single boss, hear a single pledge, or sign a single treaty unless you sit beside me on the dais," he stated, his eyes locking onto mine with a fierce, unbreakable conviction. "As my equal. As the co-ruler of everything we take from Alastair's ashes."

​My breath hitched in my throat. In our world, power was hoarded, never shared. Yet here stood the most dangerous man in the country, refusing to claim his crown unless I wore mine next to him.

​Two hours later, the grand hall of the penthouse was transformed. Two high-backed, carved leather chairs sat on a raised marble platform. Jarrah sat on the right; I sat on the left, wearing a sleek black dress that masked my bandages but revealed the cold determination in my eyes.

​The doors swung open, and the syndicate bosses walked in, escorted by armed guards. Their eyes swept the room, freezing as they landed on me seated alongside Jarrah. Whispers broke out indignant, shock-laden murmurs.

​"Kilsyth," the eldest boss, Marcus O'Connor, stepped forward, his face flushed with anger. "We came to pledge our allegiance to you. To the rightful heir of the Kilsyth empire. Why is this girl sitting on the throne beside you?"

​Jarrah didn't move a muscle. He slowly tilted his head, his dark eyes fixing on O'Connor with lethal stillness.

​"You speak to her with respect, O'Connor," Jarrah's voice echoed through the vast hall, low and deathly calm. "Or you don't leave this room alive."

​The room plunged into absolute silence. O'Connor paled, stepping back as he realized the terrifying depth of Jarrah’s loyalty to me. One by one, the ruthless men who ruled the nation's underworld bowed their heads, kneeling before the dual seat of power.

​Yet, as the last boss dropped to his knees, Calaby rushed into the room through a side door, holding a secure satellite receiver. He hurried up the dais, bending down to whisper in Jarrah's ear.

​Jarrah’s face instantly darkened into a mask of brutal fury. He looked at me, his fingers tightening over the armrest until the wood cracked.

​"What is it?" I asked, my blood running cold.

​"It's Alastair," Jarrah growled softly. "He just made a move. And he's taken something we can't afford to lose."