The words hung in the air like smoke after an explosion.
I have cancer.
Adrian felt the blood drain from his face—a physical sensation, like someone had pulled a plug somewhere deep inside him and everything warm was rushing out. His mother. Cancer. The two words didn't belong in the same sentence. They didn't belong in the same universe.
He'd already lost one parent. A wound that had scabbed over but never truly healed, the kind of absence that echoed through every milestone, every achievement, every moment when he'd looked around a room and realized there was one face that would never be there to see him.
He couldn't lose another. He wouldn't.
Adrian reached across the table and took Maria's hands in his. Her fingers were cold. Delicate. He squeezed them gently, as if he could transfer some of his own strength through his palms.
"We're here, Mom." His voice was steady—steadier than he felt. "We're all here. And we're going to get you through this. Every treatment. Every appointment. Every single step. Together."
Maria's eyes glistened. For a moment—just a moment—something flickered across her face that looked almost like guilt. But it was gone before anyone could catch it, replaced by the warm, grateful expression of a mother touched by her son's devotion.
"My sweet boy," she whispered.
St. Stark leaned forward, his weathered hands folded on the table, his ancient eyes sharp with concern. "How far along are you?"
Maria took a shaky breath. "Stage three."
The words landed like stones in still water. Stage three. Not early. Stage three meant it had spread. Meant it had plans. Meant the road ahead was going to be long and painful and uncertain.
"But," Maria continued, her voice strengthening, "my doctor said that with consistent treatment and good care, I could make it." She looked around the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "And I really want to make it."
She sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a cloth napkin.
The family sat in stunned silence—all except Christine.
Christine's face was a mask of careful neutrality, but behind her eyes, calculations were running at full speed. She'd known Maria for decades. She'd watched this woman scheme and manipulate and claw her way into this family with the precision of a chess master. And now, conveniently, she had cancer? Stage three cancer that no one had heard about until this exact moment, when Christine had backed her into a corner about telling Adrian "the truth"?
"Maria," Christine stood, her chair scraping against the marble floor. "Can I have a word? Outside?"
Every head at the table turned. Frowns deepened. This was not the response anyone expected to a cancer diagnosis.
"It's okay," Maria said smoothly, rising from her seat. She followed Christine toward the French doors that led to the garden, her heels clicking against the floor with measured confidence.
***
The morning sun painted the garden in shades of gold and green. Fountains burbled in the distance. Somewhere, a bird was singing like it didn't have a care in the world.
Christine walked until they were well out of earshot from the house, then spun around, her eyes blazing.
"What?"
The word came out flat. Defiant. Maria's mask of the tearful, grateful mother was gone, replaced by something harder. Colder.
"You're really pathetic, do you know that?" Christine's voice was low but sharp enough to cut. "You'd do anything just to keep your grip on Adrian, wouldn't you?"
Maria scoffed, folding her arms across her chest. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." Christine stepped closer, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You and I both know that you don't have cancer. So what's your game? What's your endgame, Maria?"
For a long moment, Maria just looked at her. Then she laughed—a short, humorless sound that died almost as soon as it was born.
"I don't have a game, Christ." She emphasized the shortened name like an insult. "I raised Adrian. I fed him. I wiped his nose when he was two years old and crying because he'd scraped his knee. I took him to playgrounds. I taught him how to tie his shoes. I was there for every fever, every nightmare, every school play where he forgot his lines."
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them until they were nearly nose to nose.
"He only knows me as his mother. And I am not about to rip that away from him. Never."
Christine's jaw tightened. "So you'd lie to him. Prey on his kindness. His love for you."
"Yes." Maria's voice was utterly devoid of shame. "If lying is what it takes to keep my son, then yes. I'm a liar."
She smiled—a slow, cruel thing that didn't reach her eyes.
"You're just really pathetic, Christine. You want to break my family just like yours was broken. Your husband died and left you a small company and a small child. You nursed that child, poured everything into him... only for him to disappear on you."
Christine's face went pale.
Maria's smile widened. "Now you want to break my family. The family I worked so hard to build. You can't stand seeing someone else have what you lost."
"I'm going to tell Adrian the truth," Christine spat, her voice trembling with rage. "He needs to know what a snake of a mother you really are."
"Go ahead." Maria shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "Tell him. Rip his world apart. Make him question every bedtime story, every scraped knee I kissed better, every moment of his childhood. See if he thanks you for it."
She turned to leave, but Christine's next words stopped her cold.
"Joana must be rolling in her grave, seeing her family crumble like this."
Maria halted. Her back stiffened. Slowly, she turned around.
"Joana may have birthed Adrian," Maria said, her voice dangerously quiet. "But I mothered him. And she can roll all she wants."
She started walking again—but Christine wasn't finished.
"You know Bonita is looking into her father's disappearance."
Maria froze.
Actually froze. Mid-step. One heel hovering above the grass. Her face, when she turned back, had lost all its color.
"What?"
The word came out strangled.
Christine's smile was slow and satisfied—the smile of someone who'd just played a winning card. "I wonder why you're the main suspect."
She walked past Maria, her shoulder brushing against the other woman's, her voice almost singing with triumph. Maria stood there, rooted to the spot, her face ashen, her hands trembling at her sides.
Star pressed herself against the tall hedge, her heart pounding so hard she was certain it must be audible from space.
She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She'd been exploring the garden, wandering along the winding paths, marveling at flowers she couldn't name and fountains that sparkled like liquid diamonds. She'd been minding her own business—
And then she'd heard voices.
Christine and Maria. Arguing.
Star's hand flew to her mouth, stifling the gasp that wanted to escape. Her back pressed against the hedge, the leaves scratching at her arms through her shirt. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't dare make a sound.
She stayed frozen behind that hedge long after Christine and Maria had gone back inside. The sun climbed higher.
***
The iPad screen glowed in the dim office light, displaying a grid of camera feeds that covered every inch of the Stark estate like a security blanket woven from paranoia and obsession.
Lucian zoomed in on one particular feed.
Star.
She was walking through the mansion's grand hallway, swimming in oversized clothes that could only belong to Adrian. The black pants were rolled up so many times at her ankles that they looked like fabric donuts. She moved carefully, her eyes wide as she took in the opulence around her—the chandeliers, the art, the sheer impossibility of a house this size.
Lucian's lips curved into a smile. Soft. Genuine.
"She looks cute," he chuckled, almost to himself.
Behind him, a muffled whimper broke the silence.
Lucian turned, his smile fading into something more familiar—a lazy, dangerous grin that didn't reach his eyes. He walked toward the man strapped to the chair in the center of the room.
The captive—Steve, according to the ID in his wallet—was a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit and loosened tie. Accountant. The kind of guy who'd spent his entire career being invisible, shuffling numbers from one column to another, never imagining he'd end up duct-taped to his own office chair with a crime lord breathing down his neck.
His eyes were wild with terror. His wrists were bound behind his back. His ankles were strapped together. And the strip of serotape over his mouth muffled his desperate attempts to plead for his life.
Lucian held up the iPad, showing Steve the feed of Star walking through the Stark mansion.
"What do you think, Steve?" Lucian's voice was conversational. Pleasant, even. Like they were old friends catching up over coffee. "Isn't she cute?"
Steve's eyes darted to the screen, then back to Lucian's face, then back to the screen. He nodded so vigorously that his neck gave an audible crack. A nervous, terrified chuckle escaped through the tape—a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
Lucian's grin widened. He tucked the iPad onto a nearby table and turned his attention to the other person in the room.
"What's taking so long, Lyrl?"
Lyrl was hunched over Steve's desktop computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard with the practiced ease of someone who'd broken into more systems than most people had email accounts. His face was illuminated by the blue glow of the monitor, his expression focused and slightly annoyed—the resting face of a man who was very good at his job and very aware that his boss was insane.
"You were right, Boss." Lyrl didn't look up from the screen. "Roger got one million dollars from a certain... akid97." He finally glanced at the captive, one eyebrow raised. "You register accounts with names like that?"
Steve muffled something urgently, his eyes bulging.
Lucian sighed—a long-suffering sound, like a teacher dealing with a particularly slow student. He reached forward and yanked the serotape off Steve's mouth in one sharp motion.
The sound of adhesive ripping away from skin echoed through the office.
Steve gasped, his chest heaving as he sucked in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His lips were raw and red, and tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I didn't take it off for you to breathe," Lucian said flatly, scratching the bridge of his nose with the impatient energy.
"I only ran Ramon's Grimm accounts!" Steve blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in his desperation to be useful. "He's akid97! He's the one! I just move the money, I don't ask questions, I swear—"
"Good." Lucian's voice was suddenly warm. Approving. "You should have started with that."
He reached behind the chair and began untying Steve's restraints with quick, efficient movements. The ropes fell away. Steve stared at his freed hands like they belonged to someone else, his brain struggling to process what was happening.
This can't be it. This can't be that easy. He's going to kill me. He's definitely going to kill me—
"Come on." Lucian gestured for Steve to stand, his tone almost friendly. "Let me show you something."
He guided the trembling man to his own computer, the one Lyrl had just vacated. Steve's legs were shaking so badly he could barely walk, but Lucian's grip on his shoulder was firm and very persuasive.
"I created this folder just for you." Lucian's voice was soft. Intimate. The voice of someone sharing a precious secret. "Watch carefully, now. You wouldn't want to miss a thing."
Steve watched as Lucian produced a small device—no bigger than a postage stamp, decorated with what looked like a cartoon sticker. A smiling sun.
Lucian carefully attached it to the side of Steve's desktop monitor, pressing down until it adhered seamlessly. It looked like nothing. A piece of decoration. Something a bored office worker might stick up to brighten their workspace.
"This is my gift for you." Lucian straightened up, admiring his handiwork. "Speak. Whisper. Record. Move. Even breathe in a way that sounds like I was here." He paused, letting the words sink in. "This little device will act on its own and upload a very interesting file to your boss's official page. Every email. Every transaction. Every dirty little secret you've been shuffling through those accounts."
Steve's face went gray.
"And then—boom." Lucian spread his hands like a magician revealing a trick. "Your career is gone. Hertha drops out of school because Daddy can't pay tuition anymore. Your sister's medical treatment?" He clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Stops."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"Remove it," Lucian continued, his voice dropping to something cold and final, "and this building goes up in flames. With you in it."
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. No sound came out. His throat had closed up entirely, his vocal cords frozen in pure, primal terror.
Lucian smiled—a warm, genuine smile that made the whole thing infinitely worse.
"Good." He clapped Steve on the shoulder like they'd just sealed a business deal. "Now continue your work like a good boy."
He picked up his iPad and gestured to Lyrl. Together, they walked out of the office, closing the door behind them with a soft click.
Steve sat alone in his chair, staring at the cheerful cartoon sun stuck to his monitor, and wondered if he'd ever breathe normally again.
***
The parking garage was nearly to nealry—it still is ealry hours of morning, workers are slowly making their way in, their black car waiting exactly where they'd left it. Lucian slid into the driver's seat—he always drove, Lyrl had learned early on that asking to drive was a good way to get the look—and started the engine.
"Now I know it's Frieda behind my weapon robberies," Lucian said, his voice thoughtful as he pulled out of the parking space.
Lyrl buckled his seatbelt. Lucian's driving was... creative. "How is she doing this?"
"I heard in the crowd that there's a rebel rising." Lyrl's voice was careful. Measured. The voice of someone delivering bad news to a man who'd been known to shoot messengers. "Most of the gang follows him now. Against you."
The car went very quiet.
Lucian made an unexpected turn—sharp, sudden, completely unjustified by any traffic pattern—and slammed on the brakes.
Lyrl's face hit the dashboard with a crack that echoed through the car.
Inertia was a bitch.
"And how long have you been sitting on this information?" Lucian said calmly.
"Just yesterday!" Lyrl gasped, his hand flying to his nose. Not broken. Probably. . "I heard it just yesterday!"
He'd spent two years working for Lucian now, ever since his uncle Alex had made the introduction. Two years of watching this man switch from charming to lethal in the space of a heartbeat. Two years of never knowing if he'd stepped on a landmine until it exploded.
Lucian was unpredictable. Volatile. The kind of man who might kill you for looking at him wrong—or buy you a drink and toast to your health. Lyrl had seen him do both in the same night.
The car started moving again, smooth and controlled, like nothing had happened.
"A rebel," Lucian murmured, his eyes on the road. "How exciting."
Lyrl rubbed his throbbing nose and said nothing.
Two years, he thought. Two years and I still can't tell if he's going to laugh or put a bullet in me.
***
Star stepped back into the mansion through the French doors, her mind still reeling from the conversation she'd overheard in the garden. Maria's lies. Christine's accusations. The bombshell about Adrian's real mother—Joana—and the even bigger bombshell about Bonita investigating her father's disappearance.
The words echoed in her skull like a bell that wouldn't stop ringing.
She walked through the grand hallway, her borrowed clothes swishing around her, her bare feet silent on the marble floor. The mansion felt different now. Heavier. Every beautiful surface seemed to hide something ugly underneath.
"There you are."
Star nearly jumped out of her skin.
Adrian was leaning against the doorway to what looked like a study, his arms crossed, his expression soft. Concerned. He'd changed out of his morning clothes into something more structured—dark jeans, a fitted navy shirt that made his eyes look impossibly blue.
"Sorry." Star pressed a hand to her racing heart. "I didn't see you there."
"You okay?" Adrian pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine." The words came out automatically. "Just... overwhelmed. This house is a lot."
Adrian's smile was gentle. Understanding. "It takes some getting used to. I still get lost sometimes, and I grew up here."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear—a gesture so casual, so intimate, that Star's breath caught in her throat. His fingers lingered for just a moment against her cheek.
"You sure you're okay?"
Looking at his face—open, trusting, loving—Star felt the words die on her tongue.
Not yet, she decided. Not like this. He just found out his mother has cancer. I can't drop this on him now.
She forced a smile. "I'm sure. Just tired."
Adrian nodded, accepting the lie as easily as he'd accepted his mother's. "Come on. I'll show you the library. It's got a first edition collection that'll make your head spin."
He offered her his hand.
Star took it.
And tried very hard not to think about how many secrets were being held in the space between their intertwined fingers.
***
The Stark mansion library was the kind of room that made you want to whisper just on principle.
Two stories of mahogany shelves stretched toward a ceiling painted with constellations—not random stars, Star realized, but actual constellations, mapped with scientific precision. A rolling ladder leaned against the far wall, waiting to carry some lucky reader to the upper reaches. First editions sat behind glass cases, their leather spines gleaming under soft, carefully calibrated lighting. The air smelled like old paper, rich wood, and something faintly sweet—vanilla, maybe, or the ghost of a thousand forgotten cups of tea.
It was, in short, a masterpiece.
Star walked along the shelves, her fingers brushing against the spines of books she'd only ever seen in photographs. Tolstoy. Austen. Baldwin. Morrison. Names that carried weight, that had shaped generations, all sitting here like they were waiting just for her.
"Why do you even go to campus?" she asked, her voice hushed with genuine bewilderment. "You have everything right here."
Adrian settled into the curved chair at his computer station, his fingers trailing idly across the keyboard. His eyes, however, weren't on the screen. They were on her.
"To see you."
The words came out simple. Unadorned. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Star's fingers froze on the spine of a worn paperback. Heat bloomed across her cheeks—a rosy hue that she could feel spreading all the way to her ears. She kept her face turned toward the shelves, pretending to examine a collection of poetry, but her heart was doing something ridiculous and fluttery in her chest.
She spotted something on a nearby shelf—a small USB drive, black and unremarkable, sitting among a collection of art books like it had been misplaced there.
Perfect. A distraction. Something to fill the silence from all the secrets she dicovered this morning.
"Dr. Mathews will be here soon" Adrian says
"I found a USB." Star held it up like a prize. "Maybe we can watch something while we wait."
She crossed to the large television mounted on the wall, sliding the USB into the port before Adrian could respond. The screen flickered to life.
Adrian's brow furrowed. "I don't have any movies on—"
The words died in his throat.
The screen filled with the image of a man in his forties, seated behind a desk that Star recognized from photographs throughout the mansion. He had brown hair—thick, slightly tousled, the kind of hair that suggested he'd been running his hands through it in frustration. His eyes were blue as the ocean, magnified slightly by the spectacles perched on his nose. He adjusted the camera with the slightly awkward movements of someone not entirely comfortable with technology, then settled back in his chair.
He looked exactly like Adrian.
Or rather—Adrian looked exactly like him.
Star's blood ran cold. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"I'm—" she started, reaching for the remote.
But Adrian wasn't listening. Adrian wasn't moving. Adrian wasn't breathing.
"Adrian." The man's voice crackled through the speakers—warm, deep, carrying the particular weight of someone who knew he was recording words that might outlive him. "If you're seeing this, it means either I'm dead, or I am missing. How... I don't know."
The USB. He remember it's from Attorney Alexander Shapua. He totally forgot about that because he wasn't interested in anything that had to do with his father.
Now his father was speaking to him from beyond the grave.
"I need you to do something for me, son." David Stark leaned forward, his blue eyes intense even through the grain of the recording. "The company is in danger. Stark Architects—everything I built, everything we built—is at risk. And for you to save it..."
He paused. Swallowed. Looked away from the camera for just a moment, as if gathering strength.
"I need you to get married before the 16th of August, 2026."
Star's heart stopped.
"Only then will the company be safe. There are people who want it for themselves—people who will do just about anything to have it. I know it might be a month away, or even years, depending on when you're watching this. But you have to find someone you trust. Someone who will stand with you. Marry them, and save Stark Architects."
A sound from off-camera of footsteps. Someone entering the office.
David's head snapped toward the door, and his face transformed—fear, raw and undisguised, flooding his features. His mouth opened to speak—
The video cut to black.
Silence.
The kind of silence that wasn't really silent at all—filled with the hum of the television, the distant tick of a grandfather clock somewhere in the mansion, the ragged sound of Adrian's breathing as it stuttered and caught and stuttered again.
And then—tears.
They spilled down Adrian's cheeks in silent rivers, catching the soft library light and turning it to diamonds. He didn't wipe them away. Didn't seem to notice they were there at all. His eyes remained fixed on the blank screen, staring at nothing, staring at everything.
Star's mind raced. August 16th, 2026. That was—she did the math, her brain working frantically—six months away.
Adrian made a sound—a small, broken thing that tore through the silence like a physical wound.
Star moved before her brain could catch up.
She crossed the space between them in two steps and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her. Her chin rested on his shoulder. Her hands pressed flat against his back, feeling the tremors running through his body. He was shaking—fine, almost imperceptible tremors that spoke of a grief too deep for words.
"I'm sorry," she whispered into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have—I didn't know—"
Adrian's arms came up slowly, hesitantly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed. Then they wrapped around her, tight and desperate, and he buried his face in the curve of her neck.
He didn't speak.
Star held him as the tears kept falling, her borrowed shirt growing damp against her shoulder.
She know David Stark. A missing billioanaire eight years ago. Adrian never spoke of him, really. But she could the wound is still fresh in him.
She knows how Adrian's feeling, and a hug is the least she could do.