The storm outside mirrored the chaos brewing in Ryker’s mind. Rain streaked the massive windows of his penthouse, and distant thunder rumbled through the night sky. He sat in his office, the glow from his monitors casting long shadows across the room. His fingers toyed absentmindedly with a silver coin, flipping it over and over as the memories surfaced—unbidden, unwelcome, but relentless.

The coin had been a gift, though calling it that felt disingenuous. It wasn’t a treasure, but a relic of his past, a tether to a time when he was powerless.

Ryker’s earliest memories were of silence. Not the comforting kind, but the oppressive, suffocating silence that came from living under the rule of a tyrant. His stepfather, Victor, had a way of commanding the air around him, making it heavy and unbreathable.

Victor was a man of discipline, but not of kindness. Everything in the sprawling estate had to be perfect—immaculate gardens, pristine floors, obedient children. Ryker learned quickly that imperfections were punished. A toy left in the wrong room, a book out of place, a misstep during dinner—they all earned the same cold wrath.

Victor’s punishments were swift and brutal, often delivered with an eerie calm that made them even more terrifying.

Ryker’s mother had been no help. She had married Victor for stability, for the wealth and security he provided, but she paid for it with her soul. She faded into the background, a shadow of the vibrant woman Ryker barely remembered.

The only light in his life had been Maeve.

Maeve had been hired as a nanny when Ryker was just six years old. She was young then, with a warmth that felt out of place in the cold, sterile mansion. Maeve didn’t flinch under Victor’s scrutiny, nor did she bend to his will. She followed the rules when she had to, but when Victor wasn’t watching, she filled the house with small rebellions—a cookie after dinner, a whispered story before bed, a hand squeezed in quiet reassurance.

Maeve had been the one to teach Ryker how to mask his emotions, how to navigate the treacherous waters of his stepfather’s household. She taught him that survival wasn’t about strength; it was about strategy.

“Don’t let him see you cry,” she’d whispered one night, kneeling before him after a particularly harsh punishment. “He feeds on fear. You’re stronger than him, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

Victor’s cruelty wasn’t confined to Ryker. Caleb, Victor’s biological son, was spared the beatings but not the pressure. Caleb was the golden child, the heir apparent to Victor’s empire. He excelled in school, in sports, in everything his father demanded, but it was never enough.

Ryker hated Caleb, not because he was the favorite, but because he stood by and did nothing. Caleb had power—he could have stood up to Victor, could have protected Ryker and their mother. But he didn’t.

Instead, Caleb became an extension of their father, parroting his beliefs and enforcing his rules when Victor wasn’t around.

The turning point came when Ryker was sixteen. By then, Victor’s hold on the family had begun to crack. His health was failing, his once-sharp mind dulled by years of excess and rage.

One night, during one of Victor’s drunken tirades, Ryker found himself standing over his stepfather with a fireplace poker in his hand.

He didn’t remember picking it up.

Victor lay sprawled on the floor, his face twisted in fury as he barked orders for Ryker to kneel, to apologize, to grovel. But Ryker didn’t move. For the first time in his life, he felt nothing—not fear, not anger, not guilt.

Maeve had appeared then, her face pale but resolute. She didn’t ask what had happened, didn’t try to stop him. She simply stepped between him and Victor, her voice calm and steady as she told Ryker to leave the room.

The next morning, Victor was dead.

The official cause was a heart attack, but the whispers told a different story. Ryker didn’t care. He didn’t ask questions, and neither did anyone else.

Caleb inherited the company, as expected, but his reign was short-lived. Ryker had spent years studying his stepfather, learning the art of manipulation, the power of leverage. By the time Ryker turned twenty-two, Caleb was out, disgraced and humiliated, and Ryker was in.

Ryker flipped the coin again, watching it spin through the air before catching it. It was one of the few things he had kept from those days, a reminder of the moment his life had changed.

He had taken control, not just of the company, but of his destiny. He had vowed never to be powerless again.

Maeve entered the office, her steps light but purposeful. She had aged gracefully, her once dark hair now streaked with silver, but her presence was as steady as ever.

“You’re brooding,” she said, setting a cup of tea on the desk.

Ryker smirked. “Observant as always.”

Maeve didn’t return the smile. She looked at him the way she always did—with a mix of concern and exasperation, as though she could see straight through the armor he wore.

“Is it her?” she asked.

Ryker’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

Maeve sighed. “You can’t build something real on a foundation of secrets and control. Whatever you think you’re doing, it won’t end the way you want it to.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice low.

“Then help me understand.”

He hesitated, the words caught in his throat. He wanted to explain, to make her see what he saw. But how could he?

How could he explain that Serena wasn’t just a woman he admired, but a piece of himself he didn’t know was missing? That her strength, her independence, her fire—weren't just qualities he admired, but lifelines he clung to?

“She’s different,” he said finally.

Maeve’s expression softened, but there was still a trace of sadness in her eyes. “Different doesn’t mean yours, Ryker.”

After Maeve left, Ryker turned his attention back to the screens. Serena was pacing the penthouse, her hands clenched into fists. She was angry—at him, at the world, at herself.

He understood that anger.

He had lived with it for years, letting it fuel him, shape him.

But Serena wasn’t like him. She didn’t let her anger consume her. She fought against it, against everything that tried to break her.

And that’s why he couldn’t let her go.

Ryker leaned back in his chair, his fingers brushing against the coin in his pocket. He had built his empire on the ruins of his past, turning his pain into power, his fear into control.

But Serena wasn’t a conquest. She was a challenge, a puzzle he couldn’t solve, a fire he couldn’t extinguish.

And he wouldn’t stop until she was his.