Location: Tavara – Damien's Private Estate, Midnight
The moonlight shimmered through the towering windows of Damien's estate, casting silver shadows across the marble floors. A stillness lingered in the air, one that spoke of an approaching storm—not of wind or rain, but of power plays, secrets, and confrontation.
Damien stood alone in his study, shirt sleeves rolled up, a glass of aged whisky in one hand, his other hand buried deep in his pocket. Before him, surveillance photos and intelligence reports lay scattered across the mahogany desk.
His jaw clenched as he studied the latest report. "So, they've finally made their move," he muttered, eyes narrowing at a photo of Harold Fenwick—an elder statesman once allied with his father, now conspiring with Damien's enemies in secret meetings abroad.
Nora stepped in quietly, her presence a gentle contrast to the tension in the room. "You haven't rested," she said softly, coming to stand beside him.
"There's no time for that," Damien replied, his tone edged with quiet steel. "The alliance forming between the Fenwicks, the Russo family, and that European syndicate is more than just business—they're setting up a full-scale financial war."
Nora's expression remained calm, but her eyes flickered with concern. "And they're targeting your overseas tech branches first?"
He gave a single nod. "They're planning a cascade—undermine our investors in Zurich, then rattle the board in New York. But they underestimate how deeply embedded I already am."
She reached out, placing a hand over his. "We fight back smart. You're not alone in this, Damien."
Before he could respond, Rhys entered the room with urgency. "Sir, you need to see this," he said, handing Damien a tablet. The screen lit up with a live video feed—one of Damien's storage facilities on the Tavaran border was in flames.
"Sabotage," Damien growled. "And they're getting bolder."
But before anger could fully rise, a second video feed popped up. It was from one of his off-grid bunkers near the southern coast. Instead of destruction, it showed someone unexpected—Asher, Damien's cousin, once presumed dead, now walking into frame with a calm expression and two highly trained guards at his side.
Nora gasped. "That's… impossible. He was buried in the Mediterranean ambush three years ago!"
Damien's grip on the tablet tightened. "No. He faked it. And if he's returned now—he's either a savior or part of the storm."