The rooftop bar had no sign, no line, and no bad lighting.
It didn't need any of those things.
The view did the work—a clean sweep of the skyline, sharp wind softened by invisible heat panels, private booths designed for whispering favors, and a slow jazz trio playing as if nothing important was about to happen.
Lucas stepped onto the deck with Julius at his shoulder.
His black blazer hung open, shirt untucked just enough to look accidental. Hair still crisp. Watch subtle.
He looked like he hadn't planned a thing.
Which made him the most prepared man there.
Julius leaned in. "Right corner. White coat. That's the one that has personal connections with your old man."
Lucas's gaze landed on her immediately.
Long legs, short glass, black heels resting on the foot of a velvet stool like she owned the seat—and maybe the building. She wasn't watching him, but she knew he'd arrived. Some people just radiated that kind of power.
She turned before he could move.
"Lucas Pan," she said, smooth and quiet. "It's been a long time."
He blinked. "Do I—?"
"You were seven," she said. "I was a guest at your father's summer retreat in Hangzhou. I called him Cyrus. Not Mr. Han."
Now she was smiling. "He let very few people do that."
Lucas nodded slowly. "And your name is?"
She held out a hand. "Nadia Yao. My family handled luxury art imports for two decades. Your father backed us out of a nasty auction dispute in 2011. Without blinking."
Julius, standing off to the side, mouthed "Watch her."
Lucas shook her hand. "You here for business or curiosity?"
"Both," she said, then motioned to the chair beside her. "But you won't sit long. They've all been watching the door since you walked in."
She was right.
Before he could even reply, a second woman slid up beside him—dark red silk, low voice, polite smile.
"Mr. Pan, I've been trying to reach your office for days."
"Email still works," he replied smoothly.
Behind her, a third woman appeared. Then a fourth.
All polished. All poised. All timed.
Ninety minutes later, Lucas was still there.
The conversations were fluid. Names traded. Comments sharpened. One woman complimented his Hot Search interview, another asked about his mother's "quiet strength," and a third brought up stock portfolios like they were aphrodisiacs.
Julius was perched nearby, drink in hand, openly amused.
"I gave you thirty minutes," Lucas muttered once during a sip of neat scotch. "What happened?"
"You got interesting," Julius said, "and just drunk enough to stop trying to leave."
Lucas didn't argue. The scotch was good.
Another voice cut in—not human.
"Alcohol absorption reaching threshold. You've hit 0.06 BAC. Recommend switching to water."
Lucas blinked. "ATHENA?"
"Still here. Still sober. And monitoring all conversational metadata. Nadia Yao is the only one who used your father's name without a title. Trust index: 71%. Others are clustered between 44% and 59%."
Lucas took a long drink of water and whispered back through his internal mic.
"Suggestions?"
"Maintain distance. Be charming. Reveal nothing. And do not get invited anywhere with fewer than ten witnesses."
He set his glass down.
Nadia raised an eyebrow. "Tired already?"
He smiled. "Not tired. Just... pacing myself."
"You should," she said, lifting her glass. "Men tend to burn out faster than they think."
He clinked his against hers.
"Only if they try to win every room."
She held his gaze. "Aren't you?"
Lucas leaned back.
"Not tonight."
Nadia's lips curled, slowly. "That's disappointing."
Lucas shrugged, sipping water now. "I don't disappoint. I just pace."
She laughed softly. "I see why they're all lining up. That tongue of yours could file a lawsuit."
Lucas leaned in just slightly, voice lowered. "Is that why you're here? To add your name to the waiting list?"
Nadia tilted her head, amusement glowing behind her eyes. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm not on any list."
She crossed one leg over the other—slow, deliberate, silk sliding over skin—and leaned closer until the rim of her wineglass nearly touched his.
"I'm just enjoying the view. I've seen too many boys in expensive suits pretending they're gods. You… you're something else."
Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Define 'else.'"
Nadia's smile deepened. "A young wolf in velvet. Still hungry. Still learning what kind of damage you're capable of and I get to watch."
Lucas didn't reply. Just held her gaze, unbothered.
She reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of his cuff. "If I were twenty percent less ethical, I'd find a way to keep you all for myself."
He laughed, but there was no softness in it.
"And what stops you?"
"Ethics are flexible," she whispered. "But timing is not."
Lucas didn't have a chance to answer.
Because the room shifted.
He felt it before he saw it.
Conversation dulled. Eyes turned. Even the band's tempo adjusted like the air pressure had changed.
He looked up.
And there—near the elevator, lit by soft gold from overhead—stood her.
The main lead.
The woman whose name hadn't been whispered in this room because none of them had known she was coming.
Veronika Pan.
Not dressed for drama. Not trying to perform. Just… present. Understated. Strong. Hair pulled back. Eyes locked on him like she'd just walked in on something she already regretted seeing.
And beside her—Frances Luo.
Lucas's stepmother.
Poised. Smiling like a blade.
Julius, across the room, muttered under his breath.
"...Well. That just got complex."
Nadia watched it all with the grace of someone who'd just stirred the storm without getting wet.
She took another sip of her wine, then whispered just loud enough for Lucas to hear:
"Well, now we get to see if the prince still remembers how to bleed."
The air around him had already shifted—sharp with old memory, tension, and the familiar scent of danger disguised in Chanel.
"Lucas," a clear voice said from just ahead, calm and measured, without ceremony.
He turned.
Veronika Pan stood just a few paces away, poised but not polished, like someone who knew how to dress for power but didn't crave it. Black blazer, sleek slacks, no jewelry. A single hairpin held her bun in place. Her tone was diplomatic, but not cold.
"We haven't had a chance to meet. I thought now would be as good a time as any."
Lucas nodded slowly. "It's overdue."
She extended a hand—straight, clean.
He took it.
But then—of course—Frances Luo stepped forward, smiling like a woman who'd already rewritten the ending.
"Such a lovely surprise," she said to Veronika. "You came after all."
Then she turned to Lucas.
And that smile twisted into something thin.
"Still circling rooftops with your father's ghost on your back, I see."
Lucas offered her a flat, polite smile.
"I see you're still collecting social leverage while pretending to grieve."
Frances's smile didn't move, but the tension in her jaw did.
Lucas didn't blink.
She was everything his mother wasn't—performative, sharp-edged, status-hungry. Where Diana had been quiet strength, Frances was engineered chaos, every conversation a trap, every gesture a debt waiting to be cashed.
Before the tension could boil over, Nadia slid in beside him like mist, her fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.
"Frances," she said smoothly, "how elegant you still are under stress. It must be exhausting keeping that many knives hidden in one smile."
Frances's eyes snapped to her, but she recovered fast.
"And you must be the woman who trades influence for pillow talk. Still climbing, I see."
Nadia's smile was all teeth. "Isn't that you?"
Lucas stepped slightly forward, voice even, tone just a shade colder than before.
"When you're finished pretending to mourn, Frances," he said, "I'd like to have a private conversation with you. Face-to-face. No lawyers. No audience."
He let it hang. Measured. Controlled.
"But if you come at me with games," he added quietly, "I promise you—grief won't be the only thing you'll have to survive."
Silence bloomed.
Nadia exhaled, low and delighted.
Frances's eyes glittered—half fury, half calculation.
But it wasn't Frances who spoke next.
Veronika stepped slightly into Lucas's space, her voice velvet over razors.
"You know," she said softly, "your old man laid out one hell of a board before he died. Strategic placements. Quiet mergers. Ghost holdings in places no one even looks."
She smiled like a knife being slid back into its sheath.
"I plan to play it well."
Lucas turned toward her, calmly.
His voice was easy, relaxed—almost friendly.
"He left more than a board," Lucas said. "He left a mind."
Veronika raised an eyebrow. "A mind?"
Lucas leaned in a fraction. Not aggressive—intimate. Controlled.
"ATHENA," he said quietly. "He built it. And left it to me."
Then he smiled.
"Which means I don't need to play his game. I'll just finish it."
Veronika's eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face.
Lucas let the moment hang, then added, like a casual afterthought:
"My next three moves will kill you."
She didn't blink. "You don't even have a plan."
Lucas shrugged once. Slow. Confident.
"No," he said. "But she does."
Somewhere in his ear, soft and surgical:
"Confirmed." ATHENA's voice purred. "And it's beautiful."