Chapter 4: The Ice King’s Throne

POV: Darian Volkov

The boardroom of Luminaire Corp was silent. It was the kind of silence that usually happened right before an execution. I liked it that way. Silence meant people were afraid to breathe, and if they were afraid to breathe, they wouldn't dare make a mistake.

I sat at the head of the long, mahogany table. My fingers were steepled in front of my face. On the sixty-five-inch monitor at the end of the room, a graph showed a downward dip. It was a small dip. Just one percent. To most people, one percent was nothing. To me, it was a failure.

"One percent, Miller," I said. My voice was calm. It was too calm. I saw the directors around the table shift in their expensive leather chairs.

They knew my calm was more dangerous than my shouting. When I shout, I’m annoyed. When I’m quiet, someone is losing their career.

"Darian, please. It was a port strike in Marseille," Miller said. He was twenty years older than me, but he was wiping sweat from his forehead like a guilty schoolboy. "It was completely outside of our control. The unions…"

"Everything is within our control if you are smart enough to anticipate it," I interrupted. I didn't want to hear about unions. I didn't want to hear about strikes. I stood up and adjusted my cufflinks. They were platinum. Cold and Heavy. "I don’t pay for excuses, Miller. I pay for perfection. You have ten minutes to clear your desk. Security will meet you at the door."

"You can't do this!" Miller stammered. He looked around the table for help, but everyone else was looking at their laps. "I’ve been with this company since your father started it. I helped build this!"

"My father is no longer the CEO," I said. I leaned over the table, getting close enough to see the broken capillaries in his nose. I wanted him to feel my breath. "I am. And in my world, there is no room for the weak. You’re dragging down the numbers. That makes you a liability."

The heavy oak doors of the boardroom swung open. The sound of a cane hitting the marble floor echoed through the room. Thump….Click….Thump.

My father, Sergei Volkov, walked in. He was seventy, but he still looked like he could kill a man with his bare hands if he had to. He carried an aura of blood and old money. Behind him, looking smug as always, was Xavier.

The directors scrambled to stand up. They looked like they were greeting a king. I didn't move. I stayed leaning over the table, staring at Miller until he finally looked away.

"Leave us," Sergei commanded. He didn't even look at the directors. He didn't have to.

The room cleared in seconds. Even Miller hurried out, his fear of my father outweighing his anger at me. He probably thought Sergei would save him. He was wrong. Sergei hated failure even more than I did.

"You’re firing Miller over a rounding error?" Sergei asked. He took a seat at the side of the table. He didn't look at me; he looked out the floor-to-ceiling window. He was looking at the city like it was a game board.

"I’m maintaining standards," I replied. I sat back down and crossed my legs. "What are you doing here, Father? I thought you were in Zurich for the winter."

"I grew bored of the Alps," Sergei said. He turned his head. His gaze was sharp. Judging. It always felt like he was looking for a crack in my armor.

"And I grew tired of waiting. It’s been three years since you took the helm, Darian. The stocks are up. The rivals are crushed. But the Volkov line is stagnant. Empty."

I felt a muscle in my jaw twitch. This again. "We’ve discussed this. I’m busy."

"We’ve passed the stage of discussion," Sergei snapped. He hit his cane against the floor. Crack. "The board is restless. They see a cold, brilliant man with no legacy. If something happens to you tomorrow, the company goes into a blind trust. The Volkov name disappears. I won't allow it."

"I don’t have time for a wife," I said. The thought of a wife made me feel annoyed. A woman in my house, touching my things, wanting "feelings" and conversation. "Women are distractions. They are liabilities. They want too much."

"Then don't get a wife," Sergei countered. He gestured to Xavier. "Xavier has been doing the legwork I requested. We have found a way to fix your... distaste for emotional entanglements."

Xavier stepped forward. He placed a thin, black leather file on the desk. He looked far too happy about it.

"The 'Genetic Contract' is ready," Xavier said. "A surrogate. No marriage. No shared assets. No feelings. Just a biological transaction. She gives us the heir, she receives a payout, and she disappears. Clean. Precise. It’s a business deal, Darian. Nothing more."

I stared at the file. I hated that they were right. Without an heir, my father still held the "Founder’s Clause" over my head. It was a legal loophole. If the bloodline was in jeopardy, he could remove me. He was just looking for an excuse to take back the power.

"And if I refuse?" I asked. I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear him say it.

Sergei stood up. He leaned heavily on his cane, but he didn't look weak. "Then I invoke the Clause. I’ll bring Xavier onto the board as your successor. He’s already shown more interest in the family legacy than you have. At least he knows how to follow an order."

The threat was clear. Xavier was my father’s "right-hand man." He was a shark. Giving him the company would be like giving a wolf the keys to the vault. I wouldn't let that happen. Luminaire was mine.

"I’ll look at the candidates," I said. My voice felt like ice.

"Do more than look," Sergei said. He headed for the door. "Pick one. By the end of the week, I want the contract signed. Or I start the paperwork for your replacement. Don't test me, Darian."

They left the room. The silence came back, but it didn't feel good anymore. It felt heavy.

I looked at the black file. I felt a surge of disgust. This was what my life had come to. Ordering a child like I was ordering a new private jet. A biological transaction. It sounded so mechanical. So dead.

I flipped the file open.

There were dozens of photos. High-society girls with perfect, white teeth. Ivy League graduates with high IQs and boring faces. Models with flawless bodies who looked like they’d spent their whole lives in front of a mirror. I flipped through them. They all looked the same. Plastic. Greedy. They all wanted the Volkov name.

Then, I hit the final page.

It wasn't a professional photo. It was grainy. It looked like a surveillance feed or a quick snap from a background check. It was a girl in a faded pink waitress uniform. She was standing in a hospital hallway. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were wide. She looked terrified, but there was something else there. A fierce, unbreakable strength.

I froze.

I recognized those eyes. Hazel. Sharp.

I remembered the rain,I remembered the girl standing on the curb. She was soaked to the bone. She looked like the world had already chewed her up and spit her out. And yet, she hadn't bowed her head. She had stared at my car. Not with hope. She didn't want a savior. She looked at me with a silent defiance. It had actually made me feel something for a split second….mostly annoyance, but it was something.

I looked at the name typed beneath the photo: Liora Hayes.

I ran my thumb over the grainy image. She was beautiful, but it was a raw, haunted kind of beauty. She was the only person in that entire file who didn't look like she was for sale. Even though Xavier had clearly found her because she was the most desperate person in the city.

She needed money. I had too much of it.

I picked up the phone and hit the speed dial for Xavier.

"Yes, Darian?" Xavier answered. He sounded like he was expecting the call.

"The Hayes girl," I said. My gaze was fixed on those hazel eyes. "Cancel the other interviews. Throw the rest of the file away. Bring her to the office tomorrow morning."

"Are you sure?" Xavier sounded surprised. "Her background is... messy.

Her father had some history with your father’s old rivals. She’s got nothing. She’s basically a beggar, Darian. There are better options."

"I don't want a girl with a name or a pedigree," I said. My voice dropped to a low growl. "I want a girl who has everything to lose. She’ll be easier to control. If she’s desperate, she won't fight me."

I hung up. I didn't want to explain myself to him. I looked back at the photo.

"Liora," I whispered. The name felt strange in my mouth.

I told myself I was picking her because it was a smart business move. She had no family to cause trouble. She had no money to hire lawyers. She was a "clean" transaction.

I didn't know then that I was wrong. I didn't know that she wouldn't be easy to control at all. I didn't know that by choosing the girl who had nothing, I was inviting the only person into my life who could actually take everything from me.

I stared at the photo until the sun started to come up. She looked so small in that hospital hallway. So fragile.

I'm going to break you, I thought. I'm going to buy your life and use it to keep my throne.

It was a simple plan. But as I looked at her fierce eyes, a small, messy thought crossed my mind.

What if I can't?

I shook the thought away. I was Darian Volkov. I bought whatever I wanted. And I wanted her.