RYAN KENNEDY
The city's skyline glared at me, its jagged edges slicing into the heavens like knives in the hands of the ambitious. From my penthouse office, I stood still, watching the morning light glint off the steel and glass towers. Everything about this view was a reminder of what I'd built—and what it had cost me.
My suit, tailored to perfection, hung on me like a second skin. The gold cufflinks I wore caught just enough light to command attention without crossing into arrogance. Even the papers strewn across my desk—the illusion of chaos—were a calculated choice. Every detail of my life was carefully curated.
Because it had to be.
Underneath the sharp lines and polished surfaces, I was a man shaped by grief and driven by a relentless hunger for something I could never quite name. Maybe it was vengeance. Maybe redemption. Maybe neither.
I didn't claw my way to the top out of greed or ambition. I took power because it was the only thing that could keep the ghosts of my past at bay. Ghosts followed me relentlessly, whispering reminders of everything I'd lost.
My enemies thought I was untouchable. My allies knew better. They walked softly around me, careful not to misstep. And my family?
They were gone. Just memories now.
I clenched my fists at the thought of them. My parents had been gunned down in a rain of bullets, leaving behind a legacy of blood and betrayal. My sister, the only light in my life, was taken in the crossfire of someone else's vendetta.
That someone was Victor Moretti—a thief, a murderer, and the architect of my nightmares. Killing him should have been the end of the story, but it wasn't. His death left a vacuum, a debt I could never repay.
And his daughter, Mia Trump, still lived.
Mia was more than his legacy. She was a key, not just to my vengeance, but to something deeper—something I hadn't yet named.
MIA TRUMP
The folder in my hands felt heavier than it should have as the elevator climbed higher. My stomach twisted with each passing floor, the glowing numbers mocking me as they ticked upward. I wanted to turn back, to hit the emergency stop and walk away, but it was too late for that.
I'd spent weeks researching Ryan Kennedy, the man waiting for me at the top. Thirty years old. Feared by his enemies. Respected—if not worshipped—by his allies. The rumour said he was ruthless, calculating, and larger than life.
They didn't say how dangerous he was.
Twenty two years old and drowning in debts I hadn't created, I wasn't new to carrying burdens. But stepping into this job, becoming Kennedy's secretary, felt like volunteering to walk into a lion's den.
This wasn't luck. It wasn't a coincidence. He'd chosen me, and I couldn't escape the feeling that I was being led into a trap.
The elevator chimed softly, and the doors slid open, revealing a sprawling office flooded with sunlight. The room was pristine, all sleek lines and cold steel. No warmth. No space for anything unnecessary.
Ryan Kennedy stood by the window, his back to me. The skyline framed him like a painting. He didn't need to say a word to command the room; the sheer presence of his broad shoulders and sharp stillness did that for him.
He turned slowly, and when his piercing blue eyes met mine, I froze.
"Miss Trump," he said, his voice smooth as glass, but edged with steel. "You're punctual. I'll give you that."
My throat tightened, but I forced myself to respond. "Good morning, Mr Kennedy."
He gestured lazily toward a chair. "Sit."
Every nerve in my body screamed at me to leave, but I moved forward, sinking into the chair as if on autopilot. The folder trembled in my lap, and I gripped it like it could shield me from him.
He began to circle me, slow and deliberate, his presence heavy and suffocating.
"Tell me," he said, his tone casual but dripping with menace. "Why are you here?"
The question hit me like a blow. "I… I just want to work. To pay back what my family owes you."
His laugh was soft, sharp, and cruel. "Pay me? With what? The scraps you'll earn as my secretary?"
I sat up straighter, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'll do whatever it takes. I have to try."
He leaned closer, his hands gripping the armrests of my chair. I couldn't breathe. His scent—sharp and clean—filled the space between us, as overwhelming as his presence.
"Do you even know what your father stole from me?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
I swallowed hard. "I… I know he stole money—"
"Money?" He straightened, his laugh humourless. "Your father didn't just steal money. He stole lives."
Confusion spread across my face, and I shook my head. "What do you mean?"
He turned away, his jaw tightening as he stared out the window. His voice, when it came, was raw and edged with something that sounded like pain.
"My parents. My sister. They were my everything. And because of your father, they're gone."
The weight of his words hit me like a physical blow. "I didn't know…"
"Of course, you didn't," he said, spinning to face me, his eyes blazing. "You were just a child, shielded from the consequences of his choices."
I could barely whisper. "He wasn't the man you think he was. He was kind and loving—a good father."
His lip curled in contempt. "Maybe to you. But to me, he was a murderer."
I clenched my fists, meeting his gaze. "I didn't ask for this. I just want to make it right."
Ryan laughed cruelly. "And how do you plan to do that? By filing paperwork? By scraping together pennies while your mother rots in a hospital bed?"
My head snapped up, shock and anger surging. "Don't you dare—"
"Oh, I dare," he said coldly. "Because it's my money keeping her alive. The irony, Mia, is that your mother owes her life to me—the man your father destroyed."
Tears threatened, but I refused to let them fall. "You didn't have to do that."
"No," he said, his voice icy. "But I did. And now, every time you look at her, I want you to remember who holds the leash."
I glared at him, my voice steady despite the rage boiling inside me. "You're a monster."
He leaned closer, his voice calm and deadly. "I am what your father made to be".