HIS MUSE

CHAPTER 1:DEAL AND MARRY

The man sat with one leg crossed over the other, the groaning quiet of the ancient wooden chair as if it were unwilling to bear the weight of his authority. When he stood, the chair creaked in relief one last time before falling silent. He flicked his lighter, and a tiny flame sprang up, illuminating its small radius. Slowly the man knelt before another man-a wretched figure, his face grotesquely swollen, his left eye resembling the color of overripe plums. His eyes, bloodshot and glassy, spoke of endless nights of restlessness and despairing prayers.

The bulb that dangled from the ceiling swayed, faintly illuminating only the centre portion of the room. The man that knelt on the floorboard had his wrists bound behind him, his bloodstained and soaked shirt clinging to him like a second skin. A fresh wound adorned his forehead, blood pooling on his pale temple, drop by drop falling on his shirt and sometimes on the floor whenever he wriggled in pain. He opened his mouth and with a trembling voice he pleaded

"Riel, please believe me. I am not lying. The guns were taken by the government. I have no clue about it."

As the flame danced, the man, Riel leaned in to bring it to his own face. The flame caught the edge of his face under the lighter, painting sharp cheekbones and a jaw that looked sculpted with the precision of gods. His slicked back hair had been as black as midnight and shimmered faintly in the light. His eyes-a disconcerting pale shade of grey-completely held nothing, no warmth, just detachment. They were the sort of eyes that stared not at people but through them, appraising their worth and always coming up short. Consistently lacking and unworthy of anything. A faint smirk spread on his lips, their pale pink a sharp contrast to the dark stubble dusting his jaw.
"How can I believe you," Riel drawled, his voice soft yet menacing, "when you've lied so many times before?"

The man at his feet whimpered, his pleas unravelling into incoherent babble. Riel sighed as if under some unpleasant chore, and stood up to his full height. His sleek black suit, perfectly tailored, reflected his wealth, his precision, and his utter lack of concern. He turned toward the door, the tapping of leather shoes on the wooden floor beating out a rhythm of indifference.

"Kill him" he said to one of his man, not bothering to glance back as he exited the room.

One of his suited men stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. Riel paused only briefly, the muffled cries and frantic begging a faint hum in the background. He didn't even flinch. He cared for neither the noise nor the life behind it; it was a symphony he had heard too many times before; one he had no interest in conducting.

That's how Riel was.

Riel Damien Frost Amethyst was the firstborn son of Frost Amethyst, the renowned fashion icon and chief executive officer of Amethyst Luxe, and Damian Amethyst, chairman of PHV Mien Amethyst, one of the world's biggest conglomerates in luxury products. Riel was only twenty-five years old, but he had already made a name for himself. He was the founder and CEO of Roman Empire Realty, a real estate empire that had already sprawled across continents, and Amethyst Corporation, which introduced quite a revolution in software technology.

Yet, there was more to Riel than the shimmering surface of his wealth. Beneath the luxury lay a darker truth-he was also the leader of a powerful underground syndicate dealing in illegal arms manufacturing and distribution. Along with arms smuggling, he also ran illegal gambling operations, hosting underground casinos and betting fields. He used his real estate ventures to launder dirty money, selling overpriced properties to his associates and further cementing his control over the underground world. His world was constructed on power, and he had everything he needed to maintain it: his parents' fortune and the sharp facial features he got from them to maintain his fame in the media, his own earned empire, and the sharp physique honed in countless hours at the gym.

He walked toward his car-a sleek black Audi Q8 waiting like a predator in the alleyway-when a man in tinted glasses approached him.

"Mr. Amethyst wants to speak with you," the man said, handing him a phone.

Riel pressed it to his ear. "Yes, Dad."

"Busy with your side gig?" his father's voice was a blend of amusement and reproach.

"No," Riel replied, stepping into the car. "I'm heading to the office."

"Good. Stop by mine first. We have a rather interesting deal to discuss."

Riel sighed, leaning back against the plush leather seat. "To my father's office," he ordered the driver.
..........................

PHV Mien Amethyst stood like a shiny glass building against the sun, its glass and concrete silver surface reflecting and contrasting the sky like an infinite promise. Riel made his way up to the top floor in the fifteen-story building, where frosted glass awaited him in the CEO suite doors. He knocked, then went in.

His mother, Frost Amethyst, sat immaculately on one of the leather sofas, her silver hair swept into a flawless chignon. Her beauty hadn't faded with age but shifted into something colder, sharper than moonlight on steel. Her eyes, the very same piercing Gray as Riel's, lifted to meet his, and the faint curve of a smile softened her otherwise impassive face.

"Riel," she said in a voice as smooth as her demeanour, "come, sit. We have something important to discuss."

He sat down, his expression as sharp as ever. As much as he wanted to smile at the prospect of seeing his mother after two weeks that felt like two months without her- but the lessons she had taught him still held sway: composure above all else.

"It's been a while," said Riel, fixing his blazer. "When did you get back from your business trip?"

"Just this morning," she replied, her demeanour as steady as ever.

His father, Damian Amethyst, sat beside her. A man of equal parts power and pride, Damian had the aura of someone who had never lost a fight-whether in boardrooms or back alleys. His jet-black hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his black suit, impeccably tailored, reflected both his wealth and his vanity.

Riel sat back, his voice measured. "What's the deal?"

Damian folded his hands, his tone deceptively casual. "You're getting married."