“Kairn,” Brekkan commanded, his gaze never leaving Riva’s. “Buy the airspace over this building. Shoot down anything that flies.”
She fled the terrace minutes later, the air still buzzing with the threat of drone warfare. The silence of the penthouse felt heavier now, oppressive. The opulent walls, once a gilded cage, now felt like a tomb. Her belly ached with a dull throb, a constant reminder of the life within, and the clock ticking down on Tavin’s surgery. Brekkan’s unhinged devotion, while potent, was also a complication she hadn’t accounted for.
The demand to see Tavin, to verify his status with her own eyes, hammered against her ribcage. The penthouse security was legendary, but Riva had spent a lifetime dissecting complex machinery, finding the weak points in impenetrable systems. She methodically worked her way through the building’s schematics, memorized during her late-night searches for Maris’s dirt. The service elevator shaft, rarely used by anyone other than maintenance bots, had a remote access panel located in the sub-basement’s discarded server room. A relic, overlooked in the grand designs of the new Thrace Tower.
Hours later, under the cloak of pre-dawn gloom, Riva slipped past the last retinal scanner in a deserted corridor, her heart a drum against her ribs. The descent in the rattling service lift was a stark contrast to the smooth, almost sentient glide of Brekkan’s personal express cars. The air grew stale, carrying the scent of ozone and forgotten dust. She emerged into the grimy underbelly of the city, where the hum of infrastructure replaced the polished quiet of the elite. The Thrace Clinical Nexus, an underground network of labs and surgical bays, was a maze of brightly lit tunnels. She followed the signs for public patient access, a route she knew well from previous visits to Tavin.
The ward, usually a cacophony of beeping monitors and hushed family anxieties, was different. Eerily quiet. She approached Tavin’s room, number 712-B, bracing for the sight of his pale face, the ever-present IV drip. The door was ajar. A soft, even light spilled out. Hesitantly, Riva pushed it wider.
The room was transformed. Not the familiar, cramped public space, but a sprawling, luxury suite. Gleaming chrome, muted clinical hues, and an array of sophisticated monitors that whispered rather than shrieked. A single, high-backed chair sat beside Tavin’s bed. And in it, his head tilted back, eyes closed, was Brekkan Thrace.
Riva stepped fully into the room, her presence a sudden, sharp intrusion. Brekkan’s eyes snapped open, instantly alert, the exhaustion dissolving into his customary, piercing focus. Tavin, tucked under a pristine thermal blanket, looked significantly better than she’d last seen him, his complexion less ashen. A specialized thoracic surgeon, a woman with keen eyes and a name tag reading Dr. Solara Vane, stood by a digital display showing Tavin’s vitals.
“Riva,” Brekkan’s voice was low, devoid of surprise. “Took you longer than I expected.”
Her fury ignited, hot and fast. “What are you doing here? How did you even… This isn’t his room! What have you done?” Her voice, though a whisper, vibrated with indignation.
Dr. Vane offered a quiet nod. “Miss Joren, the patient was transferred to the Zenith Wing last night. Mr. Thrace personally oversaw the upgrade to our experimental thoracic team. We’re calling it the Miracle Ward, for short. His recovery outlook has improved dramatically.”
Riva spun back to Brekkan, a whirl of disbelief and simmering rage. “You tracked me. You put a tracker on me?”
He simply raised an eyebrow. “It’s a standard provision for valuable assets. You didn’t think the Thrace Corporation would leave an investment of this magnitude unguarded, did you? Especially after that little stunt on the terrace.” He gestured vaguely toward her midsection. “Your brother’s condition was monitored. His previous care was… inadequate. This ensures his full recovery, which, in turn, ensures your compliance. A mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Her hands clenched. “You don’t get to just… take over his life! He’s not an asset, he’s family!”
Brekkan’s gaze softened imperceptibly, his voice dropping another notch. “And he will receive the best care money can buy. Which, as you’ve pointed out, I have in abundance. His surgery is now scheduled for next week. The full cost has been advanced.”
The anger, fierce as it was, began to fracture. The weight she’d carried for months, the crushing burden of Tavin’s prognosis, lifted, even if just for a moment. He had done what she was breaking herself to achieve, and he had done it with an offhand gesture. It was infuriating. It was also an impossible, profound relief. Tavin stirred, his eyes fluttering open. “Riva?” he mumbled, his voice stronger than she’d heard it in months. “You came.”
Back in the penthouse, the sun now painted streaks of gold across the cityscape, Riva’s mind churned. Brekkan’s actions were a complex knot of possessive control and undeniable benevolence. He had stripped her of her agency, yet delivered Tavin from the brink. The flash drive Zora had given her felt heavier in her pocket than it should. With a renewed sense of urgency, she retrieved her old, battered data-slate from the hidden compartment in her wardrobe – a true mechanic’s tool, capable of bypassing almost any encryption.
The drive hummed as it connected. Zora’s files were layered, encrypted with a bespoke algorithm that spoke of old money and intricate secrets. But Riva’s hands, accustomed to the delicate intricacies of high-performance engines, moved with practiced ease. Lines of code scrolled, then gave way to files. Not just financial ledgers or dummy accounts, but personal communications, clinical logs, and a chillingly detailed timeline. Maris Lontar’s master plan unfurled before her, stark and horrifying.
Maris intended to fake a miscarriage in the coming weeks. The clinical reports were already drafted, complete with fabricated biometric data to support a catastrophic placental abruption. The ‘surrogate,’ Riva, would be deemed emotionally unstable and physically unfit, then discreetly removed from the Thrace estate, her identity and existence erased. Following a period of ‘recovery,’ Maris would then announce a ‘miracle’ clinic birth, a successful IVF procedure from a frozen embryo. The child, Brekkan’s biological heir, would be claimed as her own, untainted by the scandal of a surrogate, cementing her power within the Thrace empire forever.
An invoice for an off-grid crematorium, dated two weeks from now, caught Riva’s eye. The recipient? ‘Unidentified biological waste.’
The data-slate clattered against the polished countertop. Riva stared at the screen, the words searing themselves into her mind. This wasn't just about money, or even revenge. This was about a baby, an innocent life, about to be stolen, its true mother disposed of like refuse. This was about Brekkan, unknowingly walking into a trap set by a viper. Her initial motivations – the payout, the destruction of Maris – suddenly felt incomplete, shallow. A hard resolve ignited within her, far more potent than any anger. She wouldn’t just secure Tavin’s surgery. She would shield this child. She would shield Brekkan. She would dismantle Maris’s scheme, piece by calculated piece, and ensure the woman faced the full, devastating consequences of her cruelty.
Just as the thought solidified, a sharp, urgent ping echoed from her data-slate. A news alert, pushed from an encrypted channel Zora had installed. It showed a grainy feed from the Thrace Medical Nexus, specifically the Zenith Wing. Two hulking figures, clad in the sleek, dark uniforms of Lontar private security, flanked the door to Tavin’s room. One spoke into a comms device, his voice distorted but audible: “The surrogate is confirmed here. We’re to escort her back to the clinic for an emergency ultrasound, immediately. Orders directly from Miss Lontar.”