The black Bentley slid through Crestwood's morning traffic like a shard of night that refused to melt in daylight. Inside, William Halvern sat motionless, eyes fixed on the tinted glass as the city seethed around him like something alive and angry.
Beyond the barricades, hundreds pressed forward—signs raised high, throats raw from chanting, faces twisted with righteous fury.
"Cancel the Halverns!"
"Crestwood isn't for criminals!"
"William is Azaqor!"
Each cry struck the car's shell like thrown gravel, sharp and relentless.
The driver glanced at him through the mirror, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Sir, should we—"
"Keep going," William said. His voice was calm, controlled, but the knuckles on his hand were white against the leather seat, bones pressing through skin.
The Bentley crept through the mob at a crawl. Someone spat against the hood; another hurled a paper cup that slid down the windshield in a brown streak, leaving a trail like dried blood. William's pulse hammered in his temples. Parasites, he thought bitterly. They feed on outrage because they've built nothing of their own.
Yet a quiet, traitorous thought slipped through the cracks in his armor: And if they're right?
If Azaqor really did crawl from the filth beneath his family's empire, what did that make him? Heir to a legacy, or inheritor of a curse?
He shoved the idea away as the car curved toward the Halvern Consortium Tower—twenty-seven stories of glass and pride his father once called our kingdom of steel.
Today it looked like a mausoleum waiting to swallow him whole.
The Boardroom
The top-floor conference hall was colder than he remembered. Air-conditioning hummed like a restrained hiss, clinical and unforgiving. Twelve directors ringed the long table, all pearls and cufflinks and carefully neutral expressions, their faces carved from ice.
At the far end sat Aunt Mallory, her perfume heavy enough to choke on, her eyes sharper than her painted smile. Beside her lounged Augustine, her son—William's cousin—dressed in a tailored suit a shade too smug, a shade too perfect.
Mallory tapped a manicured nail against a folder, the sound sharp in the silence. "Theodore Halvern built this house with discipline and vision," she began softly, her voice like silk hiding steel. "But vision can rot when the heir mistakes arrogance for leadership."
Her gaze slid to William, cool and assessing. "You've become the scandal, dear. And scandals don't lead."
William's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "I've held this company through four investigations, three market crashes, and two union strikes. You think a few protestors define me?"
Vincent Rowe, his father's oldest friend, cleared his throat uncomfortably. "This isn't about protestors, William. Investors are withdrawing. The press connects every Azaqor victim to our subsidiaries. Conspiracy theories are trending worldwide. We can't afford your name anymore."
Something inside William cracked, a hairline fracture spreading through his composure. "My name built this consortium!"
Mallory's sigh was theatrical, practiced. "And now it will bury it. We move for a vote of removal."
Hands rose. One after another, like dominoes falling in slow motion. Twelve voices sealing a tomb with the casual efficiency of executioners who'd never touched a blade.
Vincent avoided William's eyes when he said, "Motion carried."
The room tilted. For a heartbeat, William thought he might actually laugh—a wild, bitter sound that would shatter whatever dignity he had left. So this is how empires die—paper, ink, and cowards.
Mallory folded her hands, the picture of gracious victory. "As interim chair, I nominate my son, Augustine Halvern, to assume the role of Chief Executive Officer."
The vote passed before William could draw breath.
Augustine stood, smiling with the ease of a man who had rehearsed this moment in mirrors for years. "I'll make certain our family's legacy endures," he said, every word polished to perfection. "Security will escort my cousin from the premises. It's better for everyone."
Two guards approached. Not hostile—simply inevitable, like the tide coming in.
William pushed back his chair, the scrape of wood against marble unnaturally loud. "You think this is over?" he said quietly, dangerously. "You've just crowned yourselves over a pyre. When it burns, don't beg me to put it out."
He walked out before anyone could answer, before they could see the tremor in his hands.
The Descent
The hallway outside stretched forever, mirrors on either side catching his reflection again and again—each one smaller, thinner, more ghost than man. A gallery of diminishing returns.
Staff paused in their routines as he passed. Conversations hushed mid-sentence. Computer screens dimmed as faces turned away. Whispered fragments followed him like ash settling after an explosion.
"Is it true?"
"They voted him out."
"Guess power finally changes hands."
Every word a pin driven deeper into flesh he'd thought was armor. He kept his chin up, pace steady, measured. Never let them see you crawl. His father's voice, echoing from the grave.
Past reception, a secretary dropped a stack of files, papers scattering across the marble. She offered a quick, fake smile—pity disguised as decorum, the kind that cuts deeper than contempt. He ignored it and pressed the elevator button with more force than necessary.
Inside the chrome box, his reflection stared back—gray at the temples, eyes sunken and shadowed, rage simmering just beneath the surface. He almost didn't recognize himself. When had he started looking so much like his father in those final days?
Father warned me, he thought bitterly. Mallory waits for weakness; Augustine waits for orders. I thought I could leash them both.
The elevator chimed, cheerful and oblivious.
The Fall
When the doors slid open, the lobby's sound crashed into him like a physical wave—cameras clicking in rapid-fire succession, voices clashing in discordant harmony, the roar of the mob filtering through the glass atrium. Daylight poured across the marble, bright and cruel, exposing everything.
Employees lined the edges like spectators at an execution, phones raised, watching their king exiled in real-time. Tomorrow's social media content. Tonight's dinner conversation.
Reporters surged forward as he stepped outside, a pack of wolves scenting blood.
"Mr. Halvern, are you resigning?"
"Did the board vote you out?"
"Are you connected to the Azaqor killings?"
"Do you have a statement for the families of the victims?"
He didn't answer. Every flash from a camera felt like another bullet through the remnants of his reputation, each click a nail in his coffin.
The protestors spotted him. The roar sharpened into concentrated hate, a wall of sound that had weight and presence.
"Down with the Halverns!"
"Murderer!"
Bottles and words flew together, indistinguishable in their violence. The driver stood ready beside the Bentley, door open like an escape hatch. William walked through the barrage, glass crunching underfoot, and slid into the back seat with the mechanical precision of a man on autopilot.
The door shut, and the world outside dulled to a distant roar, muffled by luxury leather and reinforced glass. His breath came slow, deliberate, each inhale a conscious act of will. A thin line of blood traced his palm where his nails had cut too deep, half-moons of red against pale skin.
They think it's the end.
He looked once at the tower shrinking behind them, sunlight glinting off its mirrored surface like fire on ice, like a beacon or a funeral pyre—he couldn't tell which anymore.
Let them celebrate the fall, he thought, something cold and dangerous settling in his chest. They'll never see the rise coming.
The Bentley merged into traffic, swallowed by the noise of the city—leaving behind only the echo of a throne cracking to pieces, and the memory of a crown that had never fit quite right.
Behind the tinted glas
s, William Halvern's expression was unreadable.
But his eyes—his eyes burned.