WANT ME BACK. BREAK ME TWICE

The Empty Throne

The mahogany boardroom table of Margualie Industries was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the stark, unyielding glare of the minimalist chandeliers above. At the head of the table sat Lord Sterling, a formidable British billionaire whose reputation for dismantling underperforming companies was legendary.

Opposite him sat Rohan Margualie.

Rohan’s tailored charcoal suit was immaculate, his posture as rigid and commanding as ever. But his physical appearance sent a low, anxious tremor through the executive board members lined up along the walls. The dark, hollow shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes looked like permanent bruises. On his right hand, the skin across his knuckles was a violent, angry landscape of thick, crusted dark scabs and deep purple swelling—the healing remnants of the time he hit his fist into the wall of the hospital reception. He made no attempt to conceal them. He didn’t wear gloves, nor did he pull his cuffs down. He simply let his scarred hand rest flat on the multi-million-dollar contracts, a silent, terrifying testament to his volatile mental state.

"The provisional compliance are fully articulated in section four, Lord Sterling," Rohan stated, his voice a flat, gravelly tone that carried zero emotion. "The initial capitalization of eight hundred million dollars will be routed through our Zurich liquidity pools by eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Sign, or the offer terminates."

Lord Sterling leaned back, his sharp eyes darting from the legal document to Rohan’s bruised, brutalized hand. A tense, suffocating silence gripped the room. The executive collaborators held their breath, terrified that Sterling would walk away over Rohan's aggressive, almost unhinged ultimatum.

But Sterling simply let out a dry, calculating chuckle. "You look like a man who has been down in the trenches, Margualie. Or a man who has been fighting ghosts."

"I don't fight ghosts, Sterling," Rohan replied, his obsidian eyes locking onto the older billionaire with a dead, predatory coldness that made the temperature in the room drop. "I destroy liabilities. Do we have a deal?"

Sterling paused for a fraction of a second, recognizing the lethal, desperate edge in the younger man's aura, a man who was using an eight-hundred-million-dollar corporate merger as a drug to numb a deeper, structural agony. Sterling dragged the heavy fountain pen across the parchment, signing his name with a definitive flourish. "We have a deal. Don't make me regret betting on a man who looks ready to burn his own kingdom down."

Rohan stood up immediately, ignoring the hand Sterling offered him. "The compliance team will finalize the routing numbers. Good day, gentlemen."

Without waiting for a response, Rohan turned and marched out of the boardroom. The second he stepped into the executive elevator, he leaned his head back against the mirrored wall, closing his eyes. His chest heaved with a heavy, ragged breath. He had secured the merger. He had protected the empire's share prices. He had successfully donned the invincible corporate mask he had worn for a decade.

But as he opened his eyes and looked at his reflection, the image of Elara’s cold, lifeless body on the trauma table flashed behind his retinas, a phantom agony that no amount of wealth could ever drown out.

Meanwhile, back at home, the grand iron gates of the Margualie Mansion groaned open to welcome its mistress back.

Treas stepped out of the private medical transport, her chin held high, her posture radiating a smug, victorious satisfaction. She was six months pregnant, wrapped in a luxurious cashmere shawl, and she had survived the greatest threat to her position. Rohan had abandoned his investigation. He was back in the corporate office. She had successfully used her unborn heir to ground his lightning.

But the moment her designer heels clicked onto the marble floor of the grand foyer, her smile faltered.

The atmosphere inside the mansion was freezing, heavy with a silent, suffocating hostility. A dozen servants stood in a perfect, rigid line to welcome her back, but not a single one of them raised their eyes to look at her. They kept their heads bowed, their faces completely blank, treating her presence not with respect, but with a cold, mechanical obligation.

Treas’s eyes snapped to Nina, who stood at the end of the line. The head maid’s eyes were swollen from crying, but her jaw was set in a hard, defiant line.

"Nina," Treas called out sharply, her voice echoing in the hollow space. "Take my medical bags up to the master suite. And ensure the kitchen prepares a light broth for my lunch. The doctor said I must not be stressed."

Nina stepped forward, bowing her head with flawless, unpunishable politeness. "Right away, Madam Treas," she murmured, her tone perfectly flat, completely devoid of the warmth she usually possessed. She picked up the bags, but as she bypassed Treas, she didn't offer a single word of congratulations for her recovery or the baby. She treated Treas like dirt under her shoe, delivering her obedience with a passive-aggressive precision that made Treas's skin crawl.

"Look at them," Treas hissed, turning to her mother, Marina, who had slipped into the parlor behind her. "They know. They are judging me in my own house!"

"Let them judge," Marina snapped quietly, pouring two glasses of fortified wine. "They are faceless servants, Treas. They mean nothing. What matters is that Rohan has closed the file. He is at the office signing contracts worth hundreds of millions. You have the ring, you have the mansion, and you have his heir. You won. Now, act like it."

Treas swallowed hard, forcing her chest to rise as she clutched her stomach. "You're right. She’s gone. She’s buried in a nameless dirt plot and Rohan is mine."

The true nightmare began at eight o'clock that evening, when the grand grandfather clock in the dining room chimed for dinner.

The long, polished oak dining table was set for two. The silver cutlery gleamed under the dim, ambient candlelight, and a massive crystal vase of white roses sat in the center. Rohan sat at the head of the table, his charcoal suit jacket removed, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing the dark, healing scabs on his knuckles. He ate in absolute, mechanical silence, his eyes fixed entirely on his plate, completely ignoring Treas, who sat to his right.

Treas picked at her food, the high-friction silence in the room stretching until it felt like a physical weight crushing her chest. Rohan hadn't looked her in the eye once since he had returned from the office. He answered her questions in monosyllables. He was present in body, but his soul was a frozen wasteland.

"Rohan, darling," Treas began, her voice tight with a forced, fragile playfulness. " You were spectacular today. I was thinking... since the merger is finalized, perhaps we could begin redecorating the west wing? For the nursery. I want to clear out all the old, outdated storage rooms on the lower level. Start fresh."

Rohan didn't stop cutting his steak. The scraping of his knife against the porcelain plate was the only sound in the room. "Do whatever you want," he muttered, his voice dead. "The household budget is at your disposal."

"I just want us to be happy again," Treas whispered, reaching out to place her hand over his scarred knuckles.

The moment her fingers brushed his skin, Rohan’s entire frame violently froze. He didn't pull away fiercely; instead, his muscles went completely rigid, an involuntary, psychological revulsion radiating from his body. He slowly slid his hand out from beneath her touch, picking up his linen napkin to wipe his mouth without acknowledging her gesture.

Treas’s face turned a sharp, humiliated shade of crimson.

Before she could speak, the heavy double doors of the dining room slowly pushed open.

Little Allegra stepped into the room. She was wearing a simple, pale nightgown, her long hair tangled around her shoulders, her face completely pale and hollow. She didn't look like a child; she looked like a small, fragile wraith.

Rohan’s expression instantly cracked, a wave of profound, agonizing guilt softening his features as he dropped his napkin. "Allegra... sweetie. Why aren't you in bed? Are you feeling sick again?"

Allegra didn't look at Rohan. Her wide, unblinking eyes were locked entirely onto Treas. She walked with silent, slow footsteps across the Persian rug, completely bypassing her father. She stopped at the empty, dark corner of the dining room, the exact structural spot against the wall where Elara had been forced to stand for hours as a servant, waiting to clear the plates.

Treas's heart violently slammed against her ribs, her fork slipping from her fingers and clattering loudly against her plate. "Allegra... go back to your room. It is past your bedtime."

The little girl didn't say a word. She slowly reached into the pocket of her nightgown and pulled out a small, crumpled, dried white flower a weed she had plucked from the garden. With a terrifying, methodical precision, Allegra knelt down and placed the dead flower flat on the floor in Elara’s old spot.

She stood back up, her dead, hollow gaze piercing straight into Treas’s soul.

"Mama is cold," Allegra whispered, her tiny voice cutting through the massive dining room like a shard of ice. "She told me she's waiting in the dark. She said Aunty Treas forgot to turn off the iron."

Treas choked on her air, her eyes widening in absolute, paralyzing terror as she violently scrambled backward in her chair, nearly tipping it over. "Rohan! Make her stop! She’s doing it on purpose! Someone is putting those words in her mouth!"

Rohan stood up so fast his heavy oak chair flew backward, crashing against the floorboards. His face was a mask of pure, devastating psychological torture. He stared at his daughter, his chest heaving as the child's weaponized words ripped his heart out of his chest.

Allegra turned around, her expression completely blank, and walked out of the dining room as silently as she had entered, leaving behind a silence so toxic it felt lethal.

Treas was trembling violently, clutching her six-month pregnant stomach, sweat breaking out across her forehead. "She's manic, Rohan! Your daughter is losing her mind! We need to send her away to a clinic.."

"Shut up," Rohan whispered.

The voice was so low, so aggressively quiet, that Treas instantly froze.

Rohan didn't look at her. He stared down at the small, crumpled white flower sitting in the empty corner of the room. The illusion of his corporate peace was completely shattered. He had tried to forget her. He had tried to force normalcy to save his empire and his unborn son.

But as he stood in the flickering candlelight of his own dining room, Rohan realized the terrifying truth: Elara was gone, but her ghost had just moved into the mansion and it was going to tear them all to pieces.