Chapter 6 - The Third HeirThe heavy iron door of the penthouse’s private elevator chimed with a single, echoing ding.
Ping.
The doors parted slowly, revealing no light from the shaft—only pitch-black shadows and the slow, rhythmic click of expensive leather shoes against the marble floor.
Ethan raised his weapon, his muscles coiled like a spring. "Identify yourself or be fired upon," he commanded, his voice slicing through the darkness.
A low, amused chuckle echoed from the hallway.
"Put the gun down, little brother," a smooth, velvety voice replied. "Mother always did have terrible taste in security systems, but pointing a firearm at family is just bad manners."
The emergency backup strips along the floor flickered to life, casting a dim, eerie blue glow across the hallway. Standing there was a man who looked astonishingly like Ethan, save for a jagged scar cutting across his left cheek and a smile that reeked of calculated malice.
Julian Ashford.
The eldest son. The golden boy who had supposedly died in a private plane crash in the Swiss Alps five years ago.
"Julian?" Ethan lowered his gun by a fraction, disbelief flashing across his face for a split second. "You're dead. Your funeral was broadcast worldwide."
Julian stepped into the light, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke Italian suit. "Deaths in the Ashford family tend to be greatly exaggerated, Ethan. Especially when you need to vanish offshore to avoid federal racketeering charges."
My stomach dropped. I gripped the edge of the marble console behind me. If Julian was alive, that meant Helena’s criminal empire wasn't just a localized family conspiracy—it was an international syndicate, and Julian was the real head of the snake.
"You left me to rot in that hospital bed," Ethan growled, stepping forward, his fury threatening to break his composure. "You and Mother orchestrated the entire corporate takeover."
"Of course we did," Julian smiled casually, walking toward the wet bar as if he owned the place—which, legally, he still partially did. "You were always too soft, Ethan. Too obsessed with ethics and patient care. The Ashford name requires blood and iron, not stethoscope readings."
Julian’s cold, calculating eyes suddenly shifted past Ethan, landing squarely on me. He whistled softly, his gaze roaming over my tailored suit with predatory appreciation.
"And who is this exquisite creature?" Julian smiled, swirling a glass of neat scotch he had poured himself. "Ah, the nurse. The one Mother complained about in her encrypted burner-phone texts before she got herself arrested. Tell me, Clara... did my brother's money satisfy your family's debts, or would you prefer a real man with an actual pulse?"
Ethan moved so fast the air rushed between us. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Julian by the lapels of his suit, and slammed him against the glass wall. The windows shuddered under the impact.
"Say one more word about her," Ethan whispered, pressing the barrel of his gun against Julian’s chest, "and I'll send you back to the Alps in pieces."
May you like
Julian didn't flinch. Instead, his smile widened, blood trickling slightly from his lip.
"Go ahead, shoot me," Julian laughed softly. "Because the moment I stop transmitting my heartbeat to my offshore servers every six hours... an automated smart-contract releases every single incriminating file on Ashford Enterprises to the international press, destroying your precious company, your reputation, and your brand-new bride's entire family."
