The sun had long since set over the skyline of Riverbend, but inside the Ashford Manor, the lights burned with a cold, unforgiving brilliance. The estate was a masterpiece of heritage, where ancient Ming-dynasty aesthetics met the brutal efficiency of modern glass and steel. It was a place where power didn't just reside; it fermented.
In a private lounge smelling of expensive leather and aged scotch, Simon Ashford—the Young Master Ashford—leaned back in a hand-carved rosewood chair. He swirled a glass of amber liquid, watching the ice cubes clink with a rhythmic, hypnotic sound. He was thinking about the past.
His successful ousting of Serena Ashford eight years ago hadn't been an accident; it had been a masterpiece of corporate assassination. He had spent years in her shadow, watching a
