Whether The World Burns or I do...

The air inside the office was charged before the door even shut.

Lucas was brimming with questions; his jaw tight, body thrumming with unspoken tension. But the confrontation he had prepared with so much fire was swiftly doused.

Because sitting on the edge of Luciano’s polished oak table like a king on his throne was Icarus Vasiliki with his legs crossed, blazer draped over his shoulders with casual elegance, a leather-bound book in hand like he had all the time in the world and owned every second of it.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Icarus didn't bother looking up immediately. Only when he slipped in a worn bookmark and closed the book with a soft snap did he lift his cool, amused gaze.

“Took you long enough,” he said lazily, setting the book beside him.

Luciano’s smirk was automatic. Polished. Dangerous.

“Well,” he replied smoothly, “every entertaining thing is high maintenance. My assistant needed… a little repairing. My apologies.”

Icarus chuckled, his voice rich, smooth as silk over a blade. “You’ve got a way with words, Richardson. Hopefully the repairs won’t take long.”

Then Luciano turned, gesturing toward Lucas. “Meet my little brother Lucas Richardson.”

Lucas, who’d been swallowing his fire since the moment they stepped inside, straightened with a professional grace. Every flicker of turmoil buried beneath a flawless facade. He extended his hand confidently. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vasiliki. I’m Lucas Richardson.”

Icarus stood up and shook his hand, firm and cool. “Ah, the famous actor. Lucas Richardson. Who doesn’t know you? It’s an honor.”

“You flatter me,” Lucas returned, voice composed, the kind of polite smile that barely reached his eyes.

They moved to sit Luciano behind his desk, Lucas to his left, and Icarus lounging across from them like a man too comfortable in foreign territory.

“Thank you both for arranging this on such short notice,” Icarus said. “Now, after seeing the metrics and public pull, I’m even more confident Mr. Lucas Richardson should be the face of our expansion across the continent. After all he’s the beloved face of every household, isn’t he?”

Luciano raised a brow, fingers steepled before his mouth. “Are you sure that’s the right choice? Aren’t you afraid of… nepotism backlash? I’ve shortlisted stronger candidates, if you’re open to reviewing.”

Icarus leaned back, one brow arching in amusement. “When I want something, Mr. Richardson, backlash is irrelevant. I can handle the frontlashes just as easily. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Then he turned to Lucas directly, smile curving like a challenge. “Do you have any objections, Mr. Lucas?”

Lucas hesitated for a breath.

He could still hear Luciano’s voice from yesterday, calm but firm:  This deal isn’t for you. Decline it. For your own good.

If it had been before  when his brother’s word was law  he might have obeyed without question. Might’ve trusted that Luciano always knew what was best for him.

But not now. Not after everything. Not when there was something in him that wanted  needed  to prove he wasn’t just  the little brother who gets handled .

Lucas met Icarus’s gaze squarely.

“No problem at all.”

There was a sharp, quiet shift in the room.

Luciano didn’t say anything. But the way his jaw clenched, the way his knuckles went white against the glass of his watch, said everything. A slow, cold storm brewed behind his eyes.

Icarus, on the other hand, grinned like a cat who’d just finished his meal. “Perfect. Then it’s settled. We’ll continue the details in the next conference.”

Luciano stood then. It wasn’t abrupt: it was deliberate, calculated. He stepped forward and offered Icarus a handshake. Firm. Too firm.

“I have some matters to discuss privately with my brother,” he said coolly. “So, I won’t be able to see you off, Mr. Vasiliki. Enjoy your stay in New York.”

Icarus tilted his head, unfazed. “Very well.”

With a wave, he signaled to his men outside the door. The heavy footsteps of bodyguards echoed as they stepped in to escort him.

Icarus shot Lucas one last look. Not quite a smile. Not quite a warning.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind Icarus, sealing the room in thick, brittle silence.

Luciano didn’t turn immediately. His back was stiff, eyes fixed on the wall ahead. When he finally did pivot, it wasn’t quiet. It was a growl, low and seething, like fire dragged across gravel.

“I warned you before not to get involved,” he snapped, voice like a blade barely sheathed.

Lucas didn’t flinch. “You're trying to control me again.”

Luciano’s jaw tensed. “Control? Lucas, this isn’t about control. It’s about not being a damn idiot.”

Lucas took a step forward, anger rising with each syllable. “It’s always the same with you, isn’t it? You throw your weight around and expect everyone to bend to it. This is my career. My decision.”

Luciano’s eyes flashed, ice-cold rage beginning to simmer. “So now it’s another tantrum. Just like always. The minute things don’t go your way, you stomp your feet and scream for attention.”

Lucas’s voice deepened, clipped with something rawer. “If you think this is a tantrum, then you’ve really lost the plot, Luciano. I’m not a child you can tame anymore.”

Luciano moved around the table like a storm circling its center. “You’re still a fool; still diving headfirst into things you don’t understand. You’ve always been too soft to handle the real dirt.”

Lucas barked a bitter laugh. “And you’ve always thought being cold made you wise.”

Luciano spun toward him. “You think I enjoy dragging myself through filth to keep this empire alive while you prance in front of flashing cameras?”

“You call it keeping things alive,” Lucas shot back, “but you’re just burning through everything. And if you won’t admit it, then maybe you should back off from Noora. Unless—”

Luciano slammed his palm against the desk, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot. “Unless what?” he hissed, eyes burning with fury.

Luciano’s nostrils flared. His voice was quiet now, deadly cold. “Let me tell you something, little brother. No matter what I want, I don’t wait for permission. I have the spine to do it. Whether the world burns... or I do... I’ll still do it.”

He took a step closer, looming.

“But you?” he sneered. “You’ve spent your whole life hiding behind smiles and scripts. Do you even know how to fight for something? Truly fight?”

Something in Lucas’s chest snapped like a wire stretched too far.

For the first time, he didn’t feel small beneath Luciano’s fire. He felt it match. Maybe he had been a coward. Maybe he had let fear hold him back. But not anymore.

Not with Noora.

Before he could answer, the office door burst open with a loud bang.

“LUCAS!”

Both brothers snapped their heads toward the doorway.

Cindy stood there, disheveled, a manic flush on her cheeks and panic written all over her face. Her lipstick was smudged, hair fraying from its pristine bun, and something wild clung to her posture.

“She slapped me!” she shrieked, voice trembling with fury. “That bitch slapped me!”

Lucas blinked. “What—what are you talking about?”

Cindy’s eyes darted between the two of them. “Noora! Your precious little pet! She hit me. You need to put her in her place before I—”

Luciano cut in, sharp and venomous. “Where is she?”

“She’s in the west room—your west wing!” Cindy gasped, almost hysterical. “You have to do something. Tell your sister to stay out of my damn face or I’ll—”

But both brothers were already moving.

They stormed down the corridor, sharp shoes hammering against marble, the mansion’s staff shrinking away from the force of their pace. Lucas’s heart thundered in his throat. He wanted to believe Cindy was exaggerating. That it was another performance, another lie.

But then they turned the corner and stopped cold.

Noora was lying on the floor.

Her body curled slightly in on itself, as if protecting her core. Her cheek was mottled with fresh, red slap marks, and a thin line of blood had bloomed across her temple, slowly trailing down from a bruise near her hairline.

Lucas felt the blood drain from his face. “Noora—”

Luciano was frozen, fists clenched, a terrifying stillness settling over his frame.

The only sound left in the hall was the subtle, horrifying drip of blood meeting tile.