He'd rushed home to end Phei if he got an opportunity... he'd delivered himself into Phei's grasps!

"This is the thing Brett is using," Phei cut in again, voice soft, helpful, dripping with the earnest concern of a cousin who simply couldn't bear to see his family suffer unnecessary distress.

"Nothing more than vicious gossip he weaponised to blackmail poor Danton into that kiss—something about drugs. Some party a few months back. A handful of girls, apparently very pretty ones, and rather a lot of… recreational substances."

Danton flinched.

A visible, full-body twitch, like someone had slipped an ice cube down his spine and followed it with a live eel.

Phei noticed, of course.

Phei noticed everything.

"Go on," Harold said, voice dangerously quiet, knuckles still white around Danton's collar.

Phei offered a sheepish little smile—the kind altar boys practiced in mirrors before their first confession.

"Well, the story is that things got rather out of hand. Someone—our Danton, allegedly—mixed the wrong cocktail of pills and powder, and, well…" He paused, tilting his head with theatrical regret, like a priest delivering news of a particularly unfortunate parishioner who'd been caught with the choir director's wife.

"He nearly overdosed. Flatlined for a few seconds, they say. Had to be dragged out the back door and revived in an alley like a discount Lazarus."

Another flinch from Danton—this one so violent his chair scraped backward an inch, squealing against marble like a dying animal.

Melissa's wine glass froze halfway to her lips.

Sienna's eyes widened, phone actually forgotten. A miracle in itself.

Delilah stared at Phei, confusion deepening into something that looked almost like awe.

Phei sighed—a soft, wistful sound, the kind you'd hear at a funeral for someone you never particularly liked.

"Ah, life is terribly funny, isn't it? You wake up thinking it's just another ordinary Tuesday, and you never truly know—never truly know—that it might be your last breath on this beautiful, cruel earth."

He let his gaze drift to Danton. "How unfortunate that would be. For everyone."

The words hung in the air like smoke from a crematorium.

Harold's grip on Danton's collar loosened—not from mercy, but from calculation. His expression shifted from volcanic fury to something colder, more pragmatic.

A flicker of relief, even.

Because an overdose—embarrassing, expensive, but ultimately survivable with the right doctors and the right nondisclosure agreements—was familiar territory. Weekly territory, if Phei's amused little glance was any indication. A garden-variety scandal. One that could be buried, spun, paid off, forgotten by brunch.

Nothing that threatened the empire.

Only the heir's liver.

Harold exhaled through his nose, the storm in his eyes subsiding to a manageable squall.

Phei saw it.

Saw the precise instant Harold decided this was just another of Danton's pedestrian debauches—one more embarrassment to be laundered overnight—and felt a private, velvet scoff bloom in his chest.

Poor, dear Uncle Harold. Still believing this is about pharmaceuticals and poor life choices.

Still believing I'm simply the earnest nephew airing slightly soiled laundry out of familial duty.

Danton knew better.

Danton understood—perfectly, excruciatingly—that the overdose tale was pure confection, spun from sugar and spite and served with a garnish of imminent doom.

The true venom had been distilled into that final, wistful observation:

'You never truly know—never truly know—that it might be your last breath on this beautiful, cruel earth.'

Translated, exclusively for Danton's ears:

I know about that night, dear cousin. The night everyone in Paradise whispers about as "the three disappearances." The night only you and your shadowy Boss know the full, blood-soaked details of. The night three bodies vanished and stories were buried deeper than the victims.

I hold the key to that exquisite little coffin now.

And I can pry it open whenever the mood strikes.

One more misstep—one more covetous glance at what's mine—and I will tell them everything. I'll watch your father carve you out of the family tree with surgical precision, weeping for the cameras about the "painful necessity" of protecting the Maxton name.

You'll be erased by breakfast, darling.

Just like those poor souls you thought no one remembered.

Phei offered Danton another small, angelic smile across the flickering candlelight.

Danton stared back, face the colour of old ash, eyes wild with the sudden, vertiginous knowledge that his entire existence now dangled by a thread held in Phei's manicured fingers.

Harold released the collar at last, sinking back into his chair with a weary grunt.

"Another overdose," he muttered, almost resigned, like a man who'd long ago accepted that his heir's primary talent was creative self-destruction. "We'll address this later, Danton. In private."

Danton couldn't answer.

He could barely breathe.

Phei lifted his fork once more, speared a delicate morsel of steak, and took a serene, appreciative bite. Everything he said to Harold was a lie... the truth had nothing to do with Danton's overdose!

Medium rare. Compliments to the chef.

Delilah was still watching him, questions shimmering in those beautiful eyes like stars on the verge of supernova.

Dinner resumed, but only in the most technical sense.

Silverware clinked; conversation died. Every bite tasted of ash and impending reckoning. Harold, having reclaimed his throne with the gravitas of a monarch quelling a peasant uprising, sliced into his steak with surgical precision while delivering his verdict.

"You will cut all ties with Brett Castellano and Anderson Price. Immediately. Completely. Absolutely." His voice was calm now—dangerously calm—the tone he employed when signing hostile takeovers or ordering someone's quiet disappearance from polite society. "I will have these rumours extinguished by morning. The Maxton name will not be dragged through whatever sewer they crawled out of."

Danton nodded.

A small, mechanical dip of the head—the gesture of a man who'd just watched his own execution get postponed, not cancelled.

He knew his father too well to argue. Harold's network of private investigators, crisis managers, and pocket journalists was legendary. If Danton so much as texted "hey" to either boy tonight, Harold would know even before the message delivered.

And the consequences...

Danton swallowed, throat raw as sandpaper.

He would obey.

He would ghost Brett and Anderson like they were radioactive waste with restraining orders.

Phei smiled into his wine drink.

Plan Four—complete.

Today has been a productive little symphony, hasn't it?

Seed the rumour mill with whispers of Brett and Anderson's tragic, torrid romance. Expose Derek as the traitor leaking Main Legacy boys secrets. Corner Derek privately and strike a devil's bargain before the pack could tear him apart. Demonstrate to Danton—live, in glorious high-definition, surrounded by his loving family—

That I hold nuclear cards and could deploy fabricated ones with surgical ease.

And the beauty of it?

Danton would never dare retaliate now.

Not when Daddy had drawn a blood-red line over anything that smelled faintly of rainbow flags.

Sienna watched the tableau with one sculpted eyebrow arched, her usual mask of terminal boredom cracked just enough to reveal mild fascination.

A reality show at her own dinner table. Priceless.

Phei leaned forward with deliberate casualness, pulled his Samsung Galaxy S25 Ultra from his pocket, and began typing—slow, theatrical taps, phone angled just enough that Harold could glimpse the screen.

Harold did, of course. One brow lifted.

Whatever are you planning now, you magnificent bastard? Sienna thought curiously.

Harold reached for the thick cream envelope—the one that had made Delilah shiver earlier—and slid it across the table with the gravitas of a peace treaty.

"For the sculpture you accidentally damaged at the Harrington gala. Compensation in full. The family does not owe favours, and I do not accept them."

Phei accepted the envelope with a graceful nod, slipping it alongside the two sealed letters already tucked beneath his arm.

Letters he was to deliver personally.

By tomorrow.

He inclined his head. "First thing, Uncle. You have my word."

Harold gave a curt nod—satisfied, for now.

Phei rose smoothly.

Purpose accomplished. Time to retreat to more rewarding company.

Two exquisite beauties waiting at the penthouse, no doubt pacing in lingerie and delicious impatience.

But as he turned—

CRASH.

Delilah shot to her feet so violently her chair toppled backward, clattering against marble like a gunshot.

All eyes snapped to her.

She didn't care.

Her gaze locked on Phei—sharp, urgent, barely leashed.

"I need to speak with you." Her voice carried the command of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "Now."

Phei paused.

Turned back.

And smiled—that slow, devastating smile that turned her knees to water and her resolve to ash.

Yet another beauty who simply cannot wait, hmm?

The curse of being irresistible. Truly, it's exhausting.

He inclined his head with gallant grace.

"Lead the way, princess."

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