The living room was an empire.
Not just rich—obscene. Trillionaire-core. The kinda place that made billionaires feel like peasants. Chandeliers so massive they could probably kill a man. Velvet furniture that had never known a single budget cut. Gold-trimmed everything. The whole damn room smelled like money, old money, the kind that didn't ask for permission—it just was.
And in the middle of it all, seated in a chair that looked more like a throne, was him.
An old man.
Not fragile, not weak—commanding. Still built like someone who could win a fistfight if he really had to. Sharp suit, sharper eyes. A face carved from decades of power and legacy. This was not a man who inherited wealth. This was a man who built an empire from where it once stood to another level and made damn sure no one would ever forget it.
Next to him, curled up like she belonged there, was a girl.
