Chapter 3.

Adrian’s POV.

"One last thing, Elena."

My voice stayed calm as I spoke into the phone, but tension coiled behind it. The city spread below my office window, orderly enough to feel like a lie. Up here everything felt absolute. Down there, it never was.

"I’m reminding you that you signed an NDA about our night together," I said evenly. "If you go to the press with this pregnancy story, I’ll sue for every penny of the payout I gave you. Don't test me."

The line stayed silent. My pulse drummed a fast rhythm.

Pregnant. With my child.

Impossible.

Three years ago, a specialist had explained the word that killed that possibility. Azoospermia. Zero count. The report proving it sat locked in my safe. Elena Hart could not be carrying my child. Whatever this was, it had a purpose.

I waited for her voice and got a man instead.

"Mr. Voss, an NDA doesn’t really cover a pregnancy."

I froze.

"Who is this?" I demanded. "Put Elena on. If you’re some boyfriend she hired, tell her she’s wasting her time. My lawyers dismantle men like you for sport."

"I’m not her boyfriend." The voice was measured steel. "I’m her uncle, Richard Hartman."

The name dropped like a verdict. Richard Hartman was a tabloid king, a destroyer of reputations, and my oldest media enemy. And Elena Hart, the quiet mistake I’d thought disposable, was his niece.

By paying her off, I hadn’t ended trouble. I’d financed it.

"Mr. Hartman," I said, forcing my tone to stillness. "You’re standing on dangerous ground."

"And you, Mr. Voss," he said coolly. "You are out of time."

He recited my sins like a ledger. "You used her, bought her silence, and now she’s pregnant. The Cole family pulled their deal that was tied to her marriage with their son. My merger is gone. Fix this, or by sunrise every screen in this city shows your photo beside the words deadbeat billionaire. Your board will bury you alive."

The threat rang professional and effective. Yet he didn’t know my real weakness. He didn’t know the truth locked behind reinforced steel. To the world, Adrian Voss was a dynasty. To medicine, he was a dead end.

That truth could never surface. Dorian, my cousin and rival, would tear the company apart with it.

"We need to talk," I said. "Tonight."

"The Onyx Lounge. Private Room Four. Thirty minutes."

"Good," I replied. "I was hoping you’d say that."

The line went dead. The reflection of my own face stared back from the black screen. I was a man already calculating exits.

The night traffic smeared into rivers of red and white. Every stoplight felt personal.

The Warringtons were expecting a clean announcement by week’s end. There would be no noise and no rumors. It was supposed to be a perfect engagement between America’s favorite power heir and Isabel Warrington. She was the daughter of the dynasty that kept Voss Industries afloat.

If this pregnancy reached the press before I contained it, Isabel’s father would cancel overnight. The Warringtons didn’t tolerate scandal. Their withdrawal meant the loss of a two-hundred-million-dollar inflection point in our expansion portfolio.

Worse, the Everett estate’s dormant voting shares were still unaccounted for. That was the same twenty-percent block I’d been trying to reclaim since Everett’s death. Until I located the rightful heir and brought that stock back under corporate control, my position as CEO was exposed.

One whisper of weakness and Dorian, ever patient in the shadows, would make his move. He always did.

I pressed harder on the accelerator.

If I couldn’t neutralize Hartman tonight, everything would collapse before dawn. The merger, the Warringtons, and the empire would all be gone. My phone chimed with an incoming call from Isabel, jolting me out of my thoughts.

I let it ring out and typed a brief, perfect message.

Stuck at the office. Crisis with Asia. Doing this for us. I will see you later. Love you.

Then the phone hit the seat beside me and stayed there, silent and condemning. I was buying our future. Neutralizing Hartman was the only play I had left.

By the time I reached the Lounge, my mask had returned. Composure settled across me like armor. Inside, cigar smoke curled above leather booths and gold light. Private Room Four waited at the end of the hall with its door half-open like an invitation.

Richard Hartman reclined on the sofa with dark bourbon turning slowly in his glass. His smile could have sold sins wholesale.

"Sit," he said.

I did. My chest remained tight with tension.

"Your niece is lying," I told him. "That child isn’t mine."

He chuckled lightly. It was a journalist’s sympathy hiding a predator’s glee. "Every man says that. Elena has dates, receipts, and test results. The press won’t care about the truth. They’ll care about your reaction."

"It’s a scam, Hartman."

He shrugged. "Maybe. But it cost me millions when my deal burned. Someone has to compensate me for that."

"You’re blackmailing me."

"I’m negotiating," he corrected, his eyes sharp. "Five million dollars tonight. You pay, and the story disappears. No interviews, no lawsuits, and no test. Just silence."

The numbers lined up quickly in my head. It was five million against the collapse of everything I owned.

"Five million," I repeated. "And she never bothers me again?"

He nodded once.

"If a single word leaks," I told him, "I will spend every cent I have making sure you rot for extortion."

"Fair," he said with a smile.

My phone screen’s glow painted his glass amber. A few taps later, five million vanished. I wasn’t paying for paternity. I was buying peace.

"It’s done," I said as I stood.

"Good doing business."

I paused at the door. "Understand me, Richard. This payment ends today. Keep the girl and her pregnancy clear of my name."

"Understood." His grin turned razor-thin. "Don’t worry. I’ll handle her."

I believed him. That was my second mistake.

Outside, the air pressed heavy, tinged with rain and smoke. I told myself it was worth it. Five million for silence. A reasonable price to protect the Voss name. The crisis was contained.

*

The city had thinned into quiet avenues when I pulled up at Isabel’s building. Marble gleamed under security lights. Everything about the place whispered loyalty, safety, and future. I used my key card. The elevator carried me upward into a stillness broken only by a soft mechanical hum.

On the top floor, a pale strip of light glowed under Isabel’s office door. Relief loosened my shoulders. I’d tell her I’d fixed it all. I would explain away the rumor, the woman, and the potential scandal. We would toast to our survival.

Then glass shattered.

It was a loud, sharp crack like a warning. I pushed the door open. The vase on her desk lay in ruined pieces across the floor. Water pooled around the stems of roses. Isabel was pressed against the desk. Her dress was disheveled, her breathing uneven. Her head snapped toward me.

The man standing between her legs turned as well.

Dorian.

My cousin. My rival.

He didn’t flinch. He didn't even bother to hide. His tie hung loose, and his hair was a mess. His deliberate, poisonous smirk told me this wasn’t a mistake. He had planned it.

The room pitched once as gravity tore sideways. While I was across town buying silence to protect our shared future, Dorian was here redefining it.

The five million dollars, the lies, and the threats all funneled into one truth. I had spent the night protecting a future that never existed.

For the first time in years, I felt my control slip far enough to recognize real hate.

This wasn’t over. Not by any measure.