Riviera existed to be admired.

The kind of neighborhood where success didn’t need to be announced – it was evident in the glass buildings, the silent cars, the contracts signed in closed rooms. Working there was a status symbol. Living there, a privilege. Being in charge there, power.

Rhodes never confused any of these things with merit.

The A&H Group occupied the center of that ecosystem like a comfortable predator at the top of the food chain. Hotels, resorts, luxury developments scattered throughout the country, all connected by numbers that it knew better than the directors who managed them. The conglomerate was old, solid, ambitious – and rotten from within.

Auguste Heidenreich was still presiding over the company at eighty years old. A man who wouldn’t relinquish power, only redistributed it as he saw fit. His son, Arthur, never became the heir he imagined himself to be. Impulsive, greedy, predictable. The kind of man who confused authority with vested rights.

Auguste’s decision was simple: the inheritance would not go to his son, but to one of his grandchildren.

The announcement had turned the council into a minefield.

Daniel, the legitimate son, Director of Operations, had the support of his father and most of the board. He knew how to please. He knew how to delegate. He knew how to appear busy without ever truly being present.

Rhodes was the mistake that refused to disappear.

The bastard son. The CFO. The troublesome figure his grandfather respected and the rest of the family tolerated out of necessity. He had no allies there – except Emily, too distant to be useful, but lucid enough to know that he was the only one willing to break the cycle.

He worked harder than all of them. Not out of ambition, but out of method. The routine was precise, repetitive, and boring. He didn’t need to like what he did. He just needed it to work.

None of that was the ultimate goal.

The position would be decided in December. Rhodes knew this. He also knew that the presidency was irrelevant. What mattered was control – and the opportunity to destroy everything that sustained that family.

Revenge was an efficient fuel.

His mother’s death was not an end; it was a starting point. A “suicide” that was too convenient, concluded too quickly, accepted too easily by everyone who had something to gain from the silence. He had learned early on that justice wasn’t demanded. It was built.

The day started differently.

Not because of a premonition – Rhodes didn’t believe in that – but because the routine had been disrupted.

A bouquet occupied half the table when he entered the room.

“Congratulations on the deal being finalized.”

He read the card once. No reaction. No delay. He picked up the arrangement and threw it in the trash can next to the table, as if discarding something that should never have been there.

The stepmother. Always her. Performative acts of kindness, control disguised as affection. As if flowers could rewrite years of manipulation.

Blood didn’t create bonds. It created obligations.

And he owed nothing to anyone in that room – or outside of it.

The meetings started early. Phone calls, decisions, adjustments of numbers that altered destinies without ever touching people. He operated at that pace with surgical precision. Every fake smile from the board, every rehearsed handshake, was part of a game he mastered better than they admitted.

Nothing escaped notice.

“Brandon.”, the voice came out low, direct. “Any news about what I asked for?”

The assistant responded quickly. He never did.

“Yes, sir. We managed to make progress. Her mother passed away two years ago. Car accident. Her brother…” a brief pause, “is in a coma. He recently turned sixteen. There are no records of other close relatives.”

Rhodes didn’t comment. He showed no surprise. He simply absorbed the information, fitting it into the place he expected it to be.

“Continue,” he said. “I want everything. Every detail. Nothing is irrelevant.”

He hung up before any confirmation.

That woman was no accident.

Nothing that touched his life was…

He was worried about her.

It wasn’t like the worry that manifests in ordinary people. There was no anxiety, no exposed fear, no poorly calculated impulses. It was something more direct. More definitive.

Bea existed at the center of everything.

It wasn’t ambition. It wasn't a curiosity. Nor was it a desire in the shallow sense of the word. He had carried that name for years – not as hope, but as certainty. When he finally found her, the confirmation was immediate: nothing there was by chance.

Her weary expression had not gone unnoticed. The way she moved, as if she had already accepted defeat. This demanded correction. Adjustment. Security. The world had failed her – and that made the world a problem.

Everything he did converged on a single point.

Not to please her. Not to save her.

To keep her out of reach of anything that could break her again.

People were circumstantial. Replaceable.

Not her.

The silence in the office lingered without discomfort. Brandon waited, attentive, motionless. He knew that this was the interval in which real decisions were made. There was no room for error there. Those who erred were not corrected. They were removed.

There was also Daniel.

The half-brother, protected by his stepmother, was lulled into complacency by his own incompetence. He believed the position was rightfully his, as if power were an inheritance, not an achievement. Rhodes knew better. He knew because he had learned early on that nothing was given – everything was taken.

Every move within the company was part of a larger plan. Every quiet victory, every financial decision, every calculated exposure of someone else’s mistake was a step towards the same end. The presidency was just one stage. Revenge, the final destination.

He stood up and went to the window. Riviera stretched out below, organized, predictable. Glass, steel, money circulating silently. An efficient system. Cold. Controllable.

Revenge required no haste.

It required time.

“Regarding your schedule today, sir…” Brandon began, reading from his tablet. “Meeting with the president of FSP in the morning. Lunch is undetermined. At three o’clock, marketing. At five o’clock, Frankes, from Midas Electronics. The dinner with the blind date remains scheduled for eight, awaiting final confirmation. Do you intend to attend?”

Rhodes did not turn around.

“Yes,” he replied. The words came out calmly, measuredly. “We need to keep up appearances. I’ll be cordial. It will end quickly.”

Nothing more needed explaining. Brandon knew. It was all part of the same game as all other social engagements: controlled exposure, frustrated expectations, preserved image.

“I will confirm the reservation at Rondal.”

Rhodes nodded only once.

Dinner was no distraction. It was a function. A piece placed where it needed to be, devoid of any emotional value. The world believed what it saw – and he made sure they saw exactly what he wanted them to see.

He went back to the table, picked up his jacket, and left.

At 9:58 AM, he entered the FSP building.

The architecture was precise. Straight lines, clean surfaces, no concessions to excess. A place where feelings were disposable and efficiency reigned supreme. He moved there effortlessly. Not because he belonged to that space—but because he understood it.

He greeted the security guard with a brief nod and headed straight for the elevator. On the thirty-fourth floor, the meeting room was already waiting for him.

Glass. Marble. Panoramic city view.

Tiny cars below, obedient to predictable trajectories.

The president of FSP arrived punctually. A firm handshake. No extra cordiality beyond what was necessary. They sat facing each other like two men who didn’t waste words.

The negotiation was objective. Sharp.

Clauses, deadlines, numbers projected on the screen. Rhodes analyzed everything with absolute attention. No margin escaped him. No loophole was ignored.

“The terms are aggressive,” the president commented, after a calculated pause.

“Realistic,” Rhodes replied, without changing his tone.

At 12:15, the contracts were signed.

The president smiled, a polite, empty gesture.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

Rhodes discreetly adjusted the cuff of his shirt.

“Likewise.”

He left the room knowing, as always, that balance was merely a comfortable illusion for those who didn’t know how to look properly.

And while the day was going according to plan, something was shifting beyond his immediate reach.

Bea was still not safe.

And that made everything else secondary.

When he left the building, the midday light reflected off the skyscraper windows like blades. He blinked once and kept walking. Heat, glare, discomfort – it was all irrelevant. His world operated on numbers, decisions, and consequences.

The black car was waiting by the curb. Brandon was at the wheel, impeccable posture, effective silence.

“To the company, sir?” he asked, without turning his face away.

He observed the street for a second longer than necessary. The meeting had concluded successfully, but the day still demanded his attention.

“Yes. To the company. Any news?”

The car started moving with controlled smoothness.

“We found a clue about her father. Nothing confirmed yet, but it could be the first real breakthrough. I’ll let you know as soon as we have something concrete.”

He absorbed the information without any visible reaction. It wasn’t hope. It was just another variable added to the calculation.

He ate lunch alone in his office. The meal arrived punctually, organized, and correct. There was no pleasure there, only function. The silence allowed his mind to work without interruption – contracts, projections, risks. He thought of his half-brother. Of his stepmother’s overprotectiveness. Of the incompetence disguised as inheritance. Each step that man took toward power made his future downfall more certain.

At 1:58 PM, he stood up. He adjusted his shirt cuffs and left the room. The hallway of smoked glass and brushed steel reflected exactly what he demanded from the world: order, distance, coldness.

In the meeting room, the executives straightened up as soon as he entered. Marketing. Proposals. Expectations. Everyone knew: making a mistake there would cost more than a contract.

He sat at the head of the table and made a short gesture. The lights dimmed. The presentation began.

Images flashed across the screen – calculated luxury, artificial desire, carefully packaged promises. He watched expressionlessly, filtering data, ignoring intentions. He didn’t see people. He saw performance.

Thirty minutes later, he raised his hand.

“Number seven. Schedule the final test.”

Silence fell immediately.

“Excellent choice, sir,” ventured one of the executives.

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t choosing to please. He was choosing because it worked.

He stood up.

“Final report due by six o’clock. No mistakes.”

He left before anyone could say anything more. The murmur returned behind him, irrelevant. Back in his office, everything was as he had left it. Exactly. Under control.

“Sir, director Frankes had to reschedule. An unforeseen issue at Midas,” Brandon informed him.

He checked his watch. An interval opened up in his schedule.

“This gives me free time.”

“Do you wish to return home?”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Home didn’t mean rest. Just too much silence.

“No,” she decided. “Take me to Sorel.”

It was a minimal deviation. Calculated.

And yet, he was the only one not included in any formal plan.

Brandon nodded without hesitation. He knew that Sorel wasn’t just a coffee shop. It was a neutral point. A space where Rhodes could exist without being approached, without needing to perform power. He observed, evaluated, thought. Nothing more than that.

In the private elevator, Rhodes adjusted his tie with two fingers. An automatic gesture. Control wasn’t a choice; it was a permanent state. When the doors opened, the street air hit him without provoking any reaction. The car waited. It always waited.

The journey was silent.

Sorel was off the beaten corporate track. It didn’t attract investors, politicians, or opportunists. Just people irrelevant to its objectives. Intellectuals, freelancers, artists. No threat. No use.

Upon entering, the doorbell rang softly, blending with the understated jazz. Rhodes scanned the room with a single, quick, and clinical glance. Nothing deviated from the expected pattern.

Behind the counter, Sorel – Emily – looked up.

The smile came too easily to someone of his blood. It always did.

“Look who decided to show up…” she said, resting her elbows on the counter. “To what do I owe the honor, dear cousin?”

“Emily…” he didn’t return the smile. “I have an appointment later. I need coffee.”

She gave a short laugh, already walking away.

“What a terrible reason to leave your burrow,” she gestured vaguely. “Ask for whatever you want. It’s on the house.”