ICE COLD

On the top floor of the Valemont Insurance Holdings, a hundred-story fortress, lay the office of the director—the sole heir and son of one of the wealthiest conglomerates, Lewis Valemont, son of Harold Valemont. The office was a citadel of glass and steel, perched high above the sleepless city. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one wall, reflecting the neon veins of traffic below and the faint glow of a crescent moon. The décor was sharp and minimal—black leather, chrome accents, polished obsidian floors that gleamed like a mirror. Not a single picture frame could be found in there, and definitely not a trace of warmth. Lewis stood at the glass window, overlooking the restless city below, a glass of aged Scottish scotch gleaming in one hand while the other stayed buried deep inside his pocket. Before him, his personal assistant, Charles Walker, gave his report in a low, measured, professional and cautious tone. The topic was a delicate one. One that could either result in his boss smashing the scotch glass in his direction. "So she’s been cheating on me with that bastard!" Lewis’s voice cracked with rage, raw and jagged, his fist tightening until his knuckles turned white. Charles hesitated for a moment. He didn't know if he was meant to answer that, or that the question was rhetorical. He swallowed hard and nodded stiffly, straightening as though the Alpha-like intensity radiating from his employer might scorch him alive. Lewis yanked violently at his black tie, ripping open the top button of his white shirt. The air in the office suddenly felt too tight, too heavy with fury. His chest rose and fell, breaths shallow but searing. "What do we know about that bastard?" His tone dropped, cold and dangerous, as he finally turned to face his assistant. Charles flipped open quickly, a dossier, the soft rustle of paper echoing in the tense silence. "Collin Klein, 29. Lives in No.12 North city. Parents—deceased. Estranged from relatives. History of reckless investments—several scams, most failures. Financial status—near penniless. Girlfriend—Jenna Owens. Here is her photo." Lewis’s jaw locked as his eyes fell on the picture. Jenna Owens. He stalked back to the window, city lights splintering across his reflection—sharp, sly, murderous. "So that’s it," he muttered to himself. "She threw me aside… for a nobody. A penniless fool." Charles lowered his eyes, sensing the storm brewing. Lewis smacked his lips conspiratorially. "What do we have on Jenna Owens?" Charles flipped another sheet, his palms now sweaty from fear. "Jenna Owens, 26. She lives on Elm Street. Father—deceased. No known close relatives, and no interactions with distant family in years. Her mother, the only surviving known relatives, is terminal ill with brain cancer. Lastly, she works as the best strategist in Tim & Hart Marketing Firm. Her only closest and best friend, Rachel, daughter of...." "I don't need you to know who Rachel is, Charlie!" he snapped sharply at his assistant. "I'm sorry," Charles muttered adjusting his eye-glasses awkwardly. A vein had boggled out in Lewis’s temple at the mention of Rachel. He scoffed loudly. "So Jenna Owens lives in the city’s slums, and Rachel, the rich little spoilt thing, is friends with her!? Friends with that dirty and starved looking scholarship girl from Elite High!? How interestingly amusing." He smirk as he took a slow sip of his scotch. Silence stretched like ions between them. "What are your orders, sir?" Charles asked quietly, finally breaking the awkward silence. A slow, cruel smile spread across Lewis’s lips. "Orders? Kill Collin Klein." Charles hesitated, he push at his glasses again. "Wouldn’t that be suspicious? Your father still expects you to keep a low profile after the Los Angeles incident last year." Lewis chuckled darkly, finishing the last drop of his scotch. "As long as we make someone else responsible for it, it won’t. We create a motive for his murder, a trail. My father wouldn’t even notice—he never does. All we need to do, is make it a clean job. I can't stand some slum bastard sharing my things." Things. That's was what all the women who had ever been in Lewis' life were. He seems them as objects that he'd use as he pleases. To him, they were just investments. And now, Collin had tampered with one. "What are your exact orders?" Charles pressed again. Lewis’s eyes gleamed with malice. "Before killing that bastard, create an insurance policy under his name, discreetly. Tamper with the dates—make it appear months back, even a year or two. Make it worth something to kill for. Billions." Charles’s throat went dry. "And the beneficiary?" Lewis’s smirk widened. "Who else, but Jenna Owens. His girlfriend." Charles’s pen hovered above the file, his palm slick with sweat. He knew exactly what Lewis was planning: to make Jenna the culprit for Collin’s murder. The supposed motive would be simple—she killed for the money, her name tied to the policy. Worse still, Charles realized how easy it would be to frame her with another motive: Collin’s supposed cheating. A betrayal she would never forgive. Lewis planned to capitalize on that—murdering the betrayer, as he put it, “on Jenna's behalf.” How evilly clever of his boss. Charles sighed silently. People had always paid the price for Lewis’s insatiable greed. Always. He swallowed his conscience and finally asked, "How soon do you want him dead, sir?" Lewis’s gaze burned through him. "As soon as possible." "And 'her'? What should I do with 'her'?" Charles asked again. "You mean Rachel?" Lewis let out a wide evil grin. He said, his voice chilly as ever. "I'll handle the b***h myself. In my own way. Like I always do."