Torin Gault stared at the stark words on his phone screen. His brain, accustomed to the smooth, self-serving narratives he’d spun for years, refused to process them. *`Fetus lacks Vymar lineage. Lita's claim fraudulent.`* The words swam, blurring into a nauseating smear. He reread them, then again, each character a tiny hammer blow against the gilded cage of his delusion. Fraudulent. Lita. Pregnant. Not Vymar. The realization locked into place. He hadn't bagged a billionaire heiress; he’d married a charlatan. He’d thrown away Oressa — the *real* heiress, the one who just annihilated his corporate portfolio with a yawn — for a lie. Nausea churned beneath his ribs, sour and heavy. The empire he had planned around Lita's pedigree evaporated. He pictured Lita, pale and shaking, the way she’d looked when Oressa made her black card decline. He pictured Oressa, serene and lethal, behind that damn veil. His knuckles turned white against the titanium casing. This wasn't just humiliation; it was ruin. He had to fix this. But how? He was bleeding money, bleeding prestige. He needed a clean slate. He needed Oressa gone. Permanently. High above the pavement, Oressa Vymar retreated to her private sanctum within the Spire. The corporate theatrics, while mildly amusing in their predictability, had drained her reserves of precious energy. Her quarters were quiet: walls of lacquered basalt, a low-slung sofa upholstered in iridescent velour, and a vast, soundproofed window overlooking the Verdira coastline. She kicked off her heels, the diamond-encrusted straps glittering briefly before hitting the thick pile carpet. With a languid sigh, she flopped onto the sofa, pulling a cashmere throw over her legs. The world could burn, Torin could flounder, and Lita could weep. Oressa just wanted a nap. The low hum of the Spire’s intricate systems was a soothing lullaby. She closed her eyes and let unconsciousness take her. She awoke to the whisper of cold steel against her throat. She opened her eyes without moving her head. The room smelled faintly of ozone and gun oil. A gaunt figure leaned over the back of the sofa, pressing a serrated edge against her neck. The killer's irises showed narrow above a dark linen wrap, steady and pale. Her breath, surprisingly steady, ruffled the fine hairs near Oressa’s ear. “Lita sends her regards,” the woman murmured, the syllables dry and thin. “Said you were a ghost who needed to stay dead.” Oressa’s gaze drifted past the blade to the woman's free hand, which held a suppressed dart pistol. Professional. Efficient. Too bad. She hadn’t even had time for coffee. Just as the steel bit into her skin, an access panel in the ceiling overhead buckled inward. Dust and fine debris rained down. A shadow detached itself from the sudden aperture, dropping with impossible grace. It dropped behind the intruder without a sound. Oressa’s eyes, still lazy but now sharp with observation, watched the scene unfold. Kito Renz. He moved like liquid darkness, his lean frame coiled with an unsettling power. Before the intruder could turn, Kito locked an arm around her throat. The edge slipped from Oressa’s neck, dropping onto the carpet. The dart pistol clattered after it. Kito didn’t hesitate. He twisted, a sickening crack echoing in the silent room. The intruder went slack in his grip. But he wasn’t done. He slammed her against the wall, then against the floor, a brutal, frenzied display of violence that defied the elegant surroundings. Blood smeared across the black stonework. The body crumpled to the floor, motionless. Kito stood over her, chest heaving, his immaculate white suit now splattered with gore. His eyes, when they finally turned to Oressa, were incandescent with a terrifying, protective fury. “You almost died,” he whispered, the words ragged. “Again. Because you were sleeping. Because you just *let* things happen.” He took a step towards her, leaving a trail of bloody footprints. “Don’t you understand? No one is allowed to touch you. No one is allowed to *look* at you without my permission. Certainly not to harm you.” Oressa stared at him, at the blood on his perfect face, the glint of madness in his gaze. This wasn’t the charming idol, the playful admirer. This was something ancient and dangerous, something born of pure, unadulterated obsession. She had always dismissed Kito’s intensity as an amusing quirk, a side effect of his celebrity. She had underestimated him. She had underestimated the lengths he would go to. And her apathy, her chronic, self-indulgent apathy, had almost gotten him killed protecting her. The realization struck her harder than the blade against her skin. Kito, splattered with the lifeblood of her attacker, was the only one in her wretched life who genuinely cared enough to do something so monstrous for her. And she had nearly let him die for it. A spark ignited deep within her, a rare, dangerous flicker. It wasn't about Ozar's ultimatum anymore, or Torin's downfall. It was about *her*. About protecting the few, the very few, who foolishly offered their loyalty. Her gaze tightened, stripping away the lingering sleep. This wasn't just about winning. It was about making them pay. All of them. For disturbing her peace, for threatening her, for touching what was hers. She looked at Kito, still breathing hard, his bloodied hand reaching out to gently cup her jaw. She didn’t flinch. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. “Kito,” she murmured, her voice silk-smooth, “you’re covered in blood.” He only stared, his thumb brushing her skin. “For you.” Just then, a faint, insistent vibration began. It came from the corpse on the floor. Beside the splayed fingers lay an unsecured burner phone. The screen lit up with an incoming call. Torin’s name glowed, impatient and demanding. The message beneath it read: `Is the trash ex-wife permanently removed?`

Lethal Lullabies