Inheritance ✔

Chapter 3 - Collateral Damage

Laurier Ashford

The first bomb threat came on a Monday.

My week had barely started. I was in the middle of a video call with the Tokyo board when security barged into my office.

"Ma'am," the guard said, voice clipped. "We need to evacuate."

I didn't blink. "Why?"

"We received an anonymous call. There's a possible explosive in the lobby."

I paused the meeting and stood, already irritated. "That's the third prank this month. What makes this one special?"

"Because the caller knew your father's name. And your sister's school schedule."

That stopped me.

I nodded once and grabbed my coat.

Outside, the media was already sniffing around. Camera crews, reporters shouting questions, employees spilling out onto the sidewalk. Some looked nervous. Others annoyed. My staff had seen enough chaos around me to stop reacting.

I didn't say a word. I let Renzo guide me to the car, his hand steady at the small of my back. He didn't speak until the doors shut and the windows blacked out the crowd.

"Still think he's just playing games?" he asked.

I didn't answer.

The next hit came on Wednesday.

Our offshore account in Zurich was hacked. Three of our junior lawyers were held at gunpoint while exiting a branch in Makati. No one was hurt, but the message was clear: Dagon wasn't bluffing.

He was escalating.

Renzo handled everything—police reports, digital firewalls, private security. He moved like a machine. Efficient. Ruthless. Unshaken.

But I could feel it in his silence. He was angry.

Not just at Dagon.

At me.

I had let this happen.

By Friday, I was grounded.

Literally.

My father sent a team of his old "associates" to the penthouse. Men in black suits, armed and wordless. They didn't introduce themselves. They didn't need to. Their presence said everything.

"You're not leaving this building until it's over," my father had said over the phone. "You want to be the queen of the empire? Learn when to sit still."

I wanted to scream.

I hated being caged.

The penthouse became a prison—luxurious, yes, but a prison all the same. I held meetings from the living room, reviewed contracts from my dining table, and signed off on merger deals while barefoot in silk robes.

Renzo moved through the space like a shadow—efficient, composed, and irritatingly professional.

We barely spoke outside of work. And when we did, it was clipped. Cold. Controlled.

I knew he was keeping it together for my sake. But I also knew something inside him was cracking.

And, if I was being honest, so was I.

Saturday afternoon, I finally snapped.

"They blew up my goddamn parking garage!" I shouted, throwing the report across the room.

Renzo didn't flinch. "No injuries. Damage is contained."

"You think I care about property damage?" I spun on him, furious. "I had lunch with the mayor scheduled next week. Do you know how hard it is to get him to sit still for twenty minutes? And now I look like a goddamn target."

"You are a target."

He said it so calmly it made me want to scream.

"You could at least pretend to be angry," I hissed.

Renzo stepped forward, quiet but firm. "You don't need me to be angry. You need me to be in control."

His words landed like a slap. Because they were true.

I collapsed into the chair, hands trembling.

"This isn't supposed to happen," I said softly. "I'm not supposed to be scared."

Renzo didn't answer immediately. He crossed the room and poured me a glass of water, setting it beside me without a word. Then he crouched in front of me, eye level, his voice low.

"You've always been reckless," he said. "But never stupid. So stop pretending this isn't real."

I looked at him then, really looked at him.

His face was the same—strong, quiet, unreadable—but his eyes were different. Tired. Sharp. Angry.

Not at me. Not even at Dagon.

At the fact that he couldn't protect me from everything.

I reached for the water and drank.

"Thanks," I said.

He nodded.

We didn't speak for a long time after that.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep.

I wandered the penthouse in silence, barefoot on cold marble. The guards were still stationed outside my door. The lights were low, casting shadows over the furniture I never used.

I passed Renzo's room on the way to the kitchen. His door was cracked open.

I peeked in.

He was sitting at his desk, gun disassembled on the table. Cleaning it with the same care he handled my itinerary.

Methodical. Cold. Deadly.

I should've been horrified.

Instead, I was... intrigued.

There was something magnetic about the way he moved—controlled rage under glass. The man who booked my flights and signed my NDAs had also shot someone point-blank without flinching last week.

That shouldn't turn me on.

But it did.

I backed away before he saw me. Or maybe he already had. I couldn't tell with him.

The next morning, a package arrived.

No name. No return address.

Inside was a photo of my younger sister.

Tied to a chair.

Crying.

There was only one note.

"Playtime's over, Laurier. Time to answer your calls."