Alpha Jaxson

LUCIEN ROTHFORD

The Rothfords’ empire was built on fear. Lucien had inherited that fear, sharpened it into a weapon, and ruled the city with silence sharper than steel. His rivals called him the Devil in a Suit; women called him a god. None of them knew the truth—that beneath the polished glass of his empire, he lived in chains.

The pain came like it always did, without warning.

In the boardroom, thirty floors above the restless city, Lucien’s hand stilled mid-gesture. He had been eviscerating a proposal, voice precise, words like bullets. The directors held their breath, too afraid to interrupt. Then his chest seized.

He drew a sharp breath, his vision blurring at the edges. Not here. Not now.

His grip tightened on the papers before him until they tore. He tasted smoke, though no cigarette burned in his hand. His pulse hammered as though trying to break free of his ribs.

“Sir…?” one of the men ventured.

Lucien lifted his gaze. Cold, perfect, merciless. “Get. Out.”

Chairs scraped against marble as the board scattered. None dared to question him. None dared to see.

The moment the doors slammed, he dropped the shredded papers and lit a cigarette with steady fingers. He inhaled deeply, the smoke burning his lungs, covering the tremor in his hands.

She was crying again. He didn’t need to see her face to know it.

Whoever she was, wherever she was, she had the power to break him—Lucien Rothford, who broke everything he touched.

And that, he thought with a bitter exhale, made him want to destroy her.

 SERAPHINA VALE

At the Whitlock estate, Seraphina stood in the hall with her arms full of firewood. The logs bit into her skin, rough splinters digging deep, but she held her chin high as she passed the guests. They barely glanced at her, assuming she was a servant.

Her aunt had insisted she fetch the wood in plain sight, of course. Nothing delighted Beatrice Whitlock more than reminding Seraphina what she had become.

“Be quicker next time,” her aunt hissed, her jeweled fingers digging into Seraphina’s shoulder. “Or I’ll lock you out in the cold.”

“Yes, Aunt.” Her voice was neutral, even, stripped of resistance. It was the tone she had perfected—the one that neither submitted fully nor fought openly. It infuriated her aunt more than rebellion ever could.

Her cousin Clara, lounging on a velvet sofa, smirked. “You’d look prettier if you smiled while serving us, cousin. Perhaps one of the gentlemen would take pity on you.”

Seraphina didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Silence was her rebellion.

That night, when the house slept, she collapsed into her narrow attic bed, the tears coming hot and fast against her will. She hated crying. Hated giving them that victory, even in secret. But the grief of her parents, the cruelty of her relatives, the weight of loss pressed too heavily.

She wept until her pillow was damp.

And far above the city, Lucien Rothford crumpled to his knees on polished marble, one hand clawing at his chest, a growl of rage tearing from his throat.

LUCIEN

The world blurred. He couldn’t breathe. Every sob dragged him further into the abyss.

It wasn’t weakness. He wasn’t weak. But the pain was too much, his body betraying him in a way his enemies never had. His knees struck the marble with a hollow crack, the cigarette slipping from his fingers.

Lucien Rothford—the man no one dared to cross, no one dared to touch—was on the floor, helpless against a stranger’s tears.

A bitter laugh scraped his throat. Pathetic.

And yet, as darkness tugged at the edges of his vision, the laugh turned to a whisper.

“Don’t cry… whoever you are… stop crying.”

Then the darkness claimed him.

SERAPHINA

The next morning, Seraphina carried trays of breakfast up the grand staircase, her arms shaking from the weight. She passed portraits of her ancestors—faces painted in oil, gazes stern and noble. Once, she had belonged among them. Now, she was invisible in her own bloodline’s shadow.

She caught her reflection in a gilded mirror: tired eyes, hair braided simply, skin pale from work and hunger. Not the girl she had been. Not the girl her parents had loved.

And yet, beneath the exhaustion, her mind burned. She read by candlelight when the Whitlocks slept, stealing books from the library. She memorized ledgers, contracts, numbers. She might have been robbed of power, but her intelligence remained hers to wield.

They underestimated her. For now.

But every night, when the house was quiet, the tears came again. For her parents. For the girl she had lost. For the life she had been denied.

And every night, Lucien Rothford felt them like fire in his veins.

LUCIEN ROTHFORD

The whiskey burned down his throat, but it wasn’t enough to cleanse the image seared into his mind. Her face.

For years, she had been a blur in smoke and shadow, faceless but ever weeping. Tonight, he had seen her clearly.

And she was exquisite.

Not perfect—not polished like the socialites who clawed for his attention—but fragile in a way that stirred something violent inside him. Pale cheeks glistening with tears. Eyes wide, brimming with sorrow. Lips soft, trembling, begging for comfort she would never receive.

Lucien leaned back in the leather chair, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. His jaw flexed as he replayed it again, and again, and again.

The pain had almost killed him. Yet the sight of her face had left him hungrier than he had ever been.

“Who the hell are you?” he muttered, grinding ash into crystal.

The city roared beneath him, but for once, Lucien didn’t feel like its master. Somewhere in that endless maze of lights and shadows, she existed. Real. Breathing. Crying. And though he did not know her name, her sorrow had already chained him body and soul.

For the first time in years, Lucien Rothford—coldest man in the city—felt powerless. And he hated it.

SERAPHINA VALE

The Whitlocks’ mansion glittered with wealth stolen from others. Seraphina knew it as she carried trays of crystal goblets through the dining hall, her arms aching, her breath shallow. The men at the table laughed too loud, the women’s jewels caught the candlelight, but no one saw her.

No one, except Clara.

“Careful, cousin,” Clara purred, leaning back in her chair. “One slip, and this champagne will cost more than your life is worth.”

The table erupted in cruel laughter. Seraphina’s grip tightened, her knuckles whitening against the silver tray. She said nothing. She never said anything. That was how she survived.

But inside, her thoughts sharpened like glass. She knew these people. Their greed. Their secrets. One day, she would use it all against them.

When the feast ended, she climbed to her attic room. Her body ached from work, but her mind burned too bright to rest. She sat at her tiny desk, pulling a stolen book from beneath the mattress. Numbers, accounts, contracts—things she devoured in silence.

And then, when exhaustion broke her, she let the tears fall.

Alone, she could not keep the mask. Alone, she wept for her father, for her mother, for the home she had lost.

Her sobs shook her small frame. She pressed a hand to her chest, as though she could hold her broken heart together.

And far away, in his penthouse, Lucien Rothford clutched his chest in perfect synchronicity, collapsing against the edge of his desk. His teeth sank into his lip until blood ran.

He felt her. Again.

 LUCIEN

The pain was unbearable tonight. It wasn’t just stabbing—it was dragging. As though invisible hands reached inside him, trying to rip his heart out with every sob she spilled.

Lucien’s vision swam. He fell hard into the leather chair, sweat slick on his temples. The cigarette burned down to ash between his fingers, forgotten.

He should have called Dr. Carter. He should have summoned anyone. But no. This wasn’t something a doctor could cure.

It was her. Always her.

His breath came ragged. He pressed a hand over his heart, furious at its frantic pounding.

“Enough,” he snarled into the empty room. “Enough!”

But her crying didn’t stop. And with it, his pain didn’t either.

Lucien’s body jerked once, twice, before darkness surged up and swallowed him whole.

SERAPHINA

Her tears dried eventually, leaving only swollen eyes and the taste of salt on her lips. She curled under the thin blanket, staring at the cracked ceiling beams above.

Tomorrow would be the same. The mocking, the labor, the endless humiliation.

But still, her mind whispered: *endure.*

If she endured long enough, there would be a way out. There had to be.

Unaware, she drifted to sleep, her lashes damp.

In the skyscraper across the city, Lucien Rothford lay unconscious on the marble floor of his penthouse, his hand still pressed over his heart.

And as the city slept, a single word tore from his lips in a strangled whisper—

“…Mine.”