Fire in the Veins

Max’s POV

The city pulsed beneath me like a living creature, its arteries glowing with streams of headlights, its heartbeat a constant thrum of engines and voices. From the penthouse windows of Blackwell Tower, I could see everything—skyscrapers clawing at the night sky, neon lights buzzing in the distance, the promise of power spread out like a map I could redraw in blood if I chose.

I pressed my palm against the cool glass, watching the fog of my breath stain the reflection. The man in the glass stared back, not the woman who had once believed in love, in friendship, in loyalty. She had died on a cold living-room floor, betrayed by her husband and her best friend. All that remained was this stranger—Max Blackwell. My new skin. My new weapon.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. Both of us bore the same name, but this Max had been forged differently. Scarred knuckles. Calloused palms. Eyes shadowed with exhaustion, with the hollow disappointment of parents who never saw him. A man who built empires just to prove himself worthy—and was told, again and again, that he was not.

A hollow man.

And now, he was me.

I turned away from the glass, the echo of my vow sharp in my mind. Alex. Emily. They thought they’d stolen everything from me—my life, my future, my heart. They had no idea what they’d unleashed. The old Max had died. This new Max? He would burn them down to ash.

The next morning, the driver collected me as always. I slid into the leather backseat of the sleek car, exuding calm I didn’t feel. Outside, the city unfolded in harsh daylight, stripping away the glitter to reveal cracks—homeless men hunched in alleys, peeling posters of forgotten campaigns, graffiti scrawled across forgotten walls. The city, like me, wore a mask.

“Today’s agenda, sir,” the driver said, his voice respectful. “You have a meeting with Senator Graves at ten. The rest of the day has been cleared at your request.”

Cleared at my request. Strange words, since I hadn’t requested anything. But perhaps this man—the real Max Blackwell—had already been planning something. A meeting with a senator. A cleared afternoon. A life thick with secrets.

“Understood,” I murmured.

The senator’s office reeked of power. Polished marble floors, flags hanging like guardians at the corners of the room, aides buzzing like flies around the carcass of government. Senator Graves himself was a broad man with a politician’s smile—too wide, too rehearsed, a shark pretending to be a saint.

“Mr. Blackwell,” he greeted, shaking my hand firmly. “A pleasure as always. Let’s discuss the infrastructure project.”

I nodded, forcing Blackwell’s confidence into my posture. I didn’t know the details of the project, but as the conversation unfolded, something remarkable happened. The man’s words, the numbers, the promises—they made sense. Not because I remembered them, but because I could read people, hear the hunger behind their voices, see the lies buried in the corners of their mouths. I had been a wife once, a friend, a fool. I knew betrayal when it stared me in the face.

The senator needed money. He needed Blackwell’s empire to polish his campaign and line his pockets. And Blackwell had been willing to play the game, no matter the cost.

By the end of the meeting, I leaned forward, clasping my hands the way I’d seen Alex do in boardrooms. “Senator, I don’t invest in promises. Show me results, then we’ll talk funding.”

The flicker of surprise in his eyes was worth the risk. A man like him wasn’t used to being denied.

I left the meeting with his false smile snapping at my heels and a realization burning in my chest.

This man’s life—Max Blackwell’s life—wasn’t just wealth and cold parents. It was power. Real power. The kind that could move senators like chess pieces, bend companies, shape cities.

I could use this.

I would use this.

That evening, alone in the penthouse, I sifted through Blackwell’s documents. Contracts. Investments. Properties scattered across continents like seeds thrown into fertile soil. My gaze caught on one file—photographs of a woman. Not a lover. Not a fling. A journalist.

Clara Hensley. Investigative reporter. The notes scribbled on the file made my blood run cold: Digging into offshore accounts. Persistent. Dangerous.

Had the real Max Blackwell ordered surveillance on her? Was she a threat to his empire? I traced the edge of the photo, staring at the determined tilt of her chin. This wasn’t my war. But the thought gnawed at me.

Because once, I had been naïve enough to believe people like her could be trusted. That truth mattered. That loyalty existed.

Now I knew better.

Sleep eluded me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Alex’s mocking grin, Emily’s syrupy voice. Pathetic. The sound of their laughter over my broken body. Rage twisted my insides until I was gasping in the dark.

I stumbled to the window, city lights winking like cruel stars. My reflection glared back at me. Blackwell’s face, my fury.

“They took everything from us,” I whispered to the glass. “So we’ll take everything from them.”

The glass fogged beneath my breath, a silent promise etched in condensation.

Victor’s POV

The burial was real.

I stood at the edge of the crowd, my tailored coat shielding me from the chill, my sunglasses hiding eyes that burned with something I hadn’t felt in years. Grief. Regret. The raw ache of knowing I had never spoken the truth when I had the chance.

The priest’s voice droned on, words about eternal rest and everlasting life, but they slid past me like water against stone. My gaze fixed on the casket, on the framed photo of Max perched beside it. The same smile I had carried in my memory for decades now frozen forever in glossy paper.

I should have been at her side. I should have told her. I should have fought for her before Alex ever had the chance to break her.

Alex.

The man stood across the graveside, his arm around Emily’s shoulders. They wept—beautiful, staged tears for the world to see. To anyone else, they looked like grieving friends. To me, something in the tightness of Alex’s jaw, the calculation in Emily’s eyes—it was wrong. All wrong.

I clenched my fists in my pockets, nails biting into my palms. Billionaire. Tycoon. Victor DeLuca, master of industries. And yet in that moment, I was just a boy again, powerless to stop the tide that had stolen Max from me.

But destiny had a cruel way of twisting back on itself.

I didn’t know how, or why, but deep inside, I felt it.

This wasn’t over.

Not for Max.

Not for me.

Max’s POV

The news of my own death reached me the next day, scrolling across Blackwell’s phone like a headline meant to mock me: Beloved wife and friend mourned. Tragic accident claims young woman.

My photo. My smile. The lie of their grief.

I stared at the screen until the edges blurred. The funeral had already taken place. I wondered who had attended. Did anyone come? The thought pierced me strangely, though I shoved it aside. This wasn’t about love. Not anymore. This was about vengeance.

I set the phone down, fingers trembling, then curling into fists. Let them think I was gone. Let them believe they had buried me.

Because I was back.

And this time, I wasn’t their prey.

I was the fire coming for them in the dark.