the heir

The clock struck midnight. Its chime drifted through the Reynolds estate, splitting the silence open..

From his armchair, Cassian sat still, back stiff, a glass of whiskey in his hand untouched.

He hated this room. The smell of old paper and polished wood.The air felt heavy with decisions made by men long dead, and every breath he took tasted like obedience he resented. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, untouched by time and untouched by wonder. His grandfather’s study stood like a shrine to legacy. One he never volunteered to kneel before.

“Cass,” the old man said from across the room, voice slow and heavy. “You’ve been avoiding this long enough.”

“I haven’t avoided anything,” he replied, eyes still on his glass. “I’ve simply been uninterested.”

Grandfather grunted. “You’re thirty-two. It’s time you started acting like a Reynolds.”

Cassian smirked into his drink. “And what exactly does that mean? Cold, brutal, and bored to death of life?”

The silence that followed felt thick enough to sit in.

“You’ll marry,” his grandfather said finally. “Or you won’t take over the estate.”

Cassian let out a short laugh, more air than humour. “I don’t want your estate.”

His grandfather’s fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair. “You want the power. You want the empire your mother bled to protect. You think I don’t see it?”

Cassian’s hand tightened around his glass. The ice clicked once before settling. “She did it in your name, not mine.”

“Exactly,” the old man said. “Because you still carry your father’s surname like a stain.”

Cassian didn’t blink. The glass in his hand stopped moving entirely.

“I told her to let you take hers,” the old man went on. “Call yourself Cassian Wycliffe, like her. But she was sentimental. You were born a Reynolds, and now you carry the burden of that name whether you like it or not.”

Cassian rose slowly from the chair. “You speak of burdens like you didn’t disown your own son.”

His grandfather didn’t move. “And where is he now? Somewhere rotting in his own filth, drunk and forgotten. Don’t you dare compare yourself to him.”

Cassian didn’t answer.

Outside, thunder rolled low across the hills. Rain traced the windows in thin, steady lines.

A distant piano note drifted through the house. Soft. Familiar. The same melancholic phrase she always returned to when the silence grew too heavy.

Cassian’s jaw tightened.

His grip loosened slightly, then steadied again.

He turned his head away from it.

“I’m not marrying,” he said as he moved toward the door. “Not for this empire. Not for you.”

“And what will you do instead?” his grandfather called after him. “Fuck your way through half of the city?”

Cassian paused at the threshold.

A breath. Controlled.

“That sounds like a better plan.”

The door slammed behind him.

The air outside was heavy with rain, but he didn’t care. The driver already had the car running.

Cassian slid into the back seat, pulled out his phone, and scrolled without seeing anything until he reached her name.

Luna.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand mornings. Didn’t ask for promises.

You up? he typed.

A second later, Always for you, daddy flashed back.

He exhaled through his nose and leaned his head against the seat. The city lights smeared faintly across the window as the car pulled away.

His grip loosened on the phone, then tightened again.

A message. No expectation. No weight.

That was the appeal.

Maybe Luna was already there. Maybe the dark would swallow the rest. A drink. A body. Noise to drown out whatever his grandfather had stirred loose.

Cassian Wycliffe Reynolds. Billionaire heir. Son of a ghost. Grandson of a tyrant.

His fingers flexed once against the phone.

Some people inherited crowns.

He inherited a cage.

The hotel penthouse was silent but not peaceful.

Cassian shoved the door open, water still glistening on his coat from the rain. Luna was already on the bed, her black lingerie a deliberate trap. She looked perfect always did. Glossy lips, long legs, the kind of body sculpted for distraction.

He didn’t say a word.

He dragged her to the bed, her laugh light and eager, hands running down his chest. He didn’t kiss her. Just turned her around, hand pressing into her back as she gasped and arched. His belt came loose with a soft clink.

But his hands stopped.

He just stood there.

The air went still.

Luna twisted her head to look at him, frowning. “Did I do something wrong?”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. His pulse pounded not with lust. With something sharper.

“No,” he muttered, stepping back.

She straightened up, confused. “Then what is it?”

He looked at her then really looked. Her eyes were blank behind the seduction. He was about to use her like a pain killer.

“Get out.”

“Cass....”

“I said get out,” he snapped. “I’ll still pay you.”

Silence.

She gathered her clothes slowly, slipping on her coat, her heels clicking as she walked to the door. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”

He didn’t answer.

The moment the door closed, his fist slammed into the wall beside the bed. A raw grunt escaped his throat. He stared at the white paint cracked beneath his knuckles, blood threading across his hand.

His grandfather’s voice echoed in his head like poison: You’ll marry, or you won’t take over the estate.

He breathed out through his nose, flexed his bloodied fingers, then walked to the bathroom. Water ran cold and fast as he rinsed the wound. The reflection in the mirror stared back at him bored, bitter, lost.

A suit without a soul.

The club roared with bass and neon. Cassian walked in through the back, nodding at the security who didn’t dare stop him. The smell hit him first perfume, alcohol, sweat, desperation. He slid into his usual seat at the bar, back straight, eyes dead.

Then he saw her.

Stumbling off a stool, heels wobbling, cheeks flushed and lips parted in a half-confused smile. A guy held her. Not Luna. Not some dancer. Just… a girl. Hair wild, with crazy glasses, one hand poking the chest of a man Cassian knew very well.

His jaw clenched at the sight of him.

Lucian Reynolds.

Of course.

Cassian’s brow furrowed as he watched the scene. Her friend caught her before she face planted and walked her away, her head drooping to his shoulder. Her laugh was soft and messy.

The bartender stepped closer, wiping a glass. “You just missed it.”

“What the hell did you give her, Leo?” Cassian asked, voice low.

“Three shots of tequila. Nothing fancy.” Leo shrugged. “She’s new. First time drinking. First time in a club.”

Cassian blinked slowly, eyes still fixed on the space where she’d been. “She tell you her name?”

“Nope.” He leaned forward with a knowing smirk. “But she did tell me she had a rough day and trusted me to make it better.”

Cassian looked away.

Leo watched him, tone quieter now. “Lucian was here earlier.”

Cassian’s grip on the glass tightened.

“With friends,” the bartender went on. “Talking about the Reynolds estate. Your cousin said something that caught my ear.”

Cassian glanced sideways.

“He said: The empire has cracks. It was built by ghosts and pride. All I need to do is push a little… and it’ll fall…Then we rebuild!”

Cassian scoffed. “He thinks it’ll fall. I know it’ll rise.”

“Your grandfather would love to know his other grandson’s ready to tear it down.”

Cassian snorted, head tipping back as he laughed once cold and sharp. “He should’ve watched the fire he lit. Not everything born in a cage stays tame.”

Leo reached under the counter, brought out a bottle of whiskey, and poured. “Then why don’t you take the reins?”

Cassian raised a brow.

“If Lucian’s not fit,” the man added, “why not you?”

He took the glass, swirled the amber liquid. “Because I don’t want to get married. That’s the deal. No wife, no empire.”

“You think that’s about love?” Leo shook his head. “You don’t need to love her. You just need her signature.”

Cassian stilled.

“Find someone who needs money,” Leo said slowly, leaning in. “Make a deal. Six months. A year. Hell, eighteen months. You pay her, you keep the empire, and you both walk away clean.”

Cassian stared into the drink.

Then his eyes flicked to the bartender. “Where exactly do I find such a person?”

Leo smirked.

Cassian’s fingers tightened around the glass.

“Someone who needs cash,” he murmured. “Someone… to my liking.”

His eyes lifted, scanning the room.

She wasn’t in sight anymore.

But her voice is still in his head. That drunken fire. The wild hair. The way she poked his chest and called him evil.

Cassian Wycliffe Reynolds smiled into his whiskey.

“I like you, man,” he muttered to the bartender, the smile still tugging at his lips.