Chapter 4: Ghost in the DNA

"Give me the phone, Craig," Brittany whispered, her voice trembling with a lethal edge. 

"You don't want to do this."

"Oh, I think I do." Craig stepped off the balcony railing, tossing the vibrating phone from hand to hand. 

The name NOAH flashed rhythmically, a digital heartbeat. 

"Is this why you ran five years ago? To go play house with some guy while my cousin was burning down the world to find you?"

"It’s not what you think."

"It looks like a five-million-dollar secret to me," Craig sneered, leaning in.

 "Think of the leverage. Houston would lose his mind. Or maybe... maybe I keep this to myself, and you make it worth my while?"

"Let her go, Craig."

The voice was like a guillotine. Houston stood in the doorway, a thick manila envelope in his hand. His presence turned the room’s oxygen into lead.

Craig didn't flinch. He tossed the phone onto the bed. "Just checking on the merchandise, coz. Your 'fiancée' has a very persistent caller. A little kid named Noah."

Houston’s gaze shifted to the phone, then to Brittany. The silence was agonizing. "The neighbor’s kid," Houston said, though it sounded like a question.

"Yes," Brittany choked out. "He’s... he’s attached to me. He doesn't understand why I’m not home."

Houston walked toward Craig, his eyes never leaving Brittany’s. 

"Get out. If I see you in this wing again, I’ll remind you why I’m the one holding the gavel.

Craig chuckled, a dry, nervous sound, and vanished into the hallway.

Houston turned to Brittany. He tossed the envelope onto the duvet.

 "The DNA results. Fast-tracked."

Brittany’s heart hammered. She knew what those papers should say. She knew the night they were conceived—the storm in London, the small flat, the way Houston had looked at her like she was his entire universe.

Houston ripped the envelope open. He scanned the page, his expression shifting from predatory to a cold, hollow blankness. He threw the paper at her.

Probability of Paternity: 0.00%

Brittany’s world tilted. "That’s... that’s impossible."

"Is it?" Houston’s voice was a low, dangerous growl. 

He stepped into her space, his hand gripping the bedpost so hard the wood groaned. 

"You’ve spent the last two hours looking like a condemned woman, and for what? To find out you were faithful to your new life after all?"

"Houston, I—"

"Shut up!" he roared. "I actually thought... for a second, I thought you might have been carrying something of mine.

That maybe there was a reason you left that wasn't just greed or cowardice."

"I told you! Your mother threatened to ruin you!"

"And you believed her? You thought I was that weak?" He laughed, a jagged, mirthless sound. 

"You haven't changed a bit, Brittany. Still the same intense eyes, still looking at me like I’m the monster when you’re the one who left me bleeding on the floor of that apartment. 

You left for 'nursing school'? No. You left because you couldn't handle the weight of a real man's love."

"I stayed away to keep you from losing everything!"

"You stayed away because you're a coward," he spat.

 "And now, I have proof. Those kids aren't mine. You’re just a girl who got sold by her father, and I’m the man who bought her. Remember that."

He turned to the door. "Wash your face. My Image Architect is waiting downstairs. Tonight is the Beryl Merger Gala. You will look perfect. You will be the envy of every man in that room. And you will not speak unless I command it."

The "Image Architect," a sharp-featured man named Andre, didn't treat Brittany like a human. He treated her like an oil painting. For three hours, she was scrubbed, painted, and sewn into a gown of midnight-blue velvet that clung to her curves like a second skin.

When Andre finally stepped back, Brittany looked in the mirror and didn't recognize the woman staring back. The "ghost of the girl she used to be" was gone. In her place was a queen—cold, elegant, and tragic.

She walked down the grand staircase. Houston was waiting at the bottom, nursing a drink. He was in a bespoke tuxedo, looking like a god of old money and new violence.

As she descended, he froze. The glass stopped halfway to his lips. His eyes traveled from her silver-stiletto-clad feet up to the diamonds at her throat. For a split second, the mask of the "Ruthless King" cracked. His pupils dilated, and his breath hitched.

"You look..." He swallowed, the word dying in his throat. He cleared it, his face hardening again. "Acceptable. 

*****

The Beryl Gala was a sea of sharks. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and ego.

"Ah, the man of the hour!" A man with graying hair and a predatory smile approached. "Houston, I believe you know my daughter, Seraphina."

A woman stepped forward, draped in gold silk. Seraphina Beryl—the heiress everyone expected Houston to marry to seal the merger. She was stunning, but her eyes were like shards of glass as they landed on Brittany.

"Houston," Seraphina purred, placing a manicured hand on his arm.

 "I heard you picked up something... interesting... at that auction. I didn't realize you were into charity cases."

Houston’s face remained a mask of stone. "Brittany is my fiancée, Seraphina. 

"A fiancée?" Seraphina laughed, her voice carrying across the ballroom.

 "How quaint. I didn't know the Vane Empire was being built on used goods. 

Tell me, Brittany, did you include the dry-cleaning bill for that red dress in your father’s debt?"

Brittany felt the eyes of the entire room on her. The high-society sharks were circling, smelling blood.

"My past is my own, Ms. Beryl," Brittany said, her voice steady despite the roar in her ears.

 "But tonight, I’m the one on Houston’s arm. I suggest you focus on your father's merger before you lose more than just your dignity."

Seraphina’s face contorted. She grabbed a glass of red wine from a passing waiter. "You arrogant little—"

With a calculated flick of her wrist, Seraphina "stumbled." The deep red liquid splashed across the front of Brittany’s midnight-blue velvet gown.

The room gasped. Brittany stood frozen, the cold liquid seeping through the expensive fabric, a dark stain spreading like a wound.

"Oh, goodness!" Seraphina gasped, her eyes dancing with triumph. "I’m so clumsy. But then again, a bit of wine won't hurt a girl who’s used to the gutter, will it?"

The silence was deafening. Brittany looked at Houston, expecting him to be embarrassed, expecting him to push her away.

Instead, Houston took his silk handkerchief from his pocket. He didn't wipe the dress. He grabbed Seraphina’s wrist—hard. The sound of her bones shifting was audible to those standing closest.

"You have ten seconds to apologize to my fiancée," Houston said, his voice a low, terrifying vibration that silenced the orchestra.

"Houston, it was an accident!" Seraphina squeaked, her face turning pale.

"Nine," Houston counted.

"Dad, help me!" she cried, looking at her father.

Mr. Beryl stepped forward, but one look at Houston’s eyes stopped him in his tracks. "Houston, surely a dress isn't worth the Beryl merger—"

"Eight," Houston said. "I will pull the funding for your shipping yards by midnight. I will buy your debt and I will liquidate your family’s legacy before the sun rises. Apologize. Now."

Seraphina was trembling. "I... I’m sorry, Brittany. It was an accident."

"On your knees," Houston added, his voice devoid of mercy.

"Houston, that’s enough," Brittany whispered, touching his arm. The intensity in him was frightening.

He ignored her, his eyes fixed on the heiress. "Everything in this room belongs to me, Seraphina. Including the woman you just insulted. If you ever look at her again, I’ll ensure you never see the light of day in this city."

He let go of her wrist, and she collapsed into her father’s arms, sobbing.

Houston turned to Brittany. His eyes were dark, a storm of conflicting emotions—rage, possessiveness, and something that looked dangerously like the love he claimed was dead.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing her forehead. "Go to the powder room. Fix it."

"Why did you do that?" she whispered. "You hate me."

"I do," he said, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, his thumb grazing her jaw. "But you are mine to hate. No one else gets a turn."

As Brittany walked away, her heart racing, she caught sight of a figure in the shadows of the balcony. It was a man in a black suit, holding a phone.

"It’s done," the man whispered into the receiver. "The DNA results were switched. Houston believes they aren't his. But we have a problem... Xander Thorne just arrived."

Brittany ducked into the powder room, her mind spinning. Someone had switched the tests. Someone wanted Houston to hate her. But who?

She looked in the mirror, cleaning the wine from her dress, when the door behind her clicked shut.

In the reflection, she saw the one man she feared more than Houston.

Xander Thorne.

"You look beautiful in blue, Brittany," Xander said, his eyes raking over her. "But you’d look much better in black. It’s more appropriate for a funeral. 

Tell me... did Houston tell you he’s the one who set your father up to lose all that money? That he’s the one who orchestrated this entire 'debt' just to get you back?"

Brittany’s world stopped. "What?"

"Ask him," Xander smirked. "Ask him why he was at the casino the night your father lost five million dollars. Ask him who signed the check for the house's marker."

The door flew open. Houston stood there, his eyes landing on Xander. The air in the small room crackled.

"Out, Xander," Houston said, his hand going to the inside of his jacket.

"Just telling her the truth, Houston," Xander laughed, walking past him. "Welcome to the game, Brittany. Try to stay alive."

Houston slammed the door and locked it. He walked toward Brittany, his face a mask of fury. "What did he tell you?"

"Is it true?" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Did you buy my life before I was even on the auction block? Did you destroy my father just to own me?"