Behind The King

Chapter 4 - You Are Not Adrian King

The next morning, Dani told herself she wouldn’t think too much about the interview. She failed.

All through breakfast in the guest lounge, the words from yesterday tangled in her head like threads she couldn’t unravel. Adrian King—well, the Adrian King she’d sat across from—had been too polished. Too careful. She had re-listened to the recording late into the night, hunting for cracks in the veneer. Once or twice, she thought she heard them: a pause too long, a shift in tone when she pressed a personal question. But then, the smoothness returned.

It left her unsettled. Not defeated exactly, Dani had been a reporter too long to believe in perfection but wary. He had walls, high ones, and people who built walls that tall were always protecting something worth writing about.

By mid-morning, she was walking the long hallway that led to the research wing. The building had a quiet to it that didn’t feel sterile, exactly, but expectant. Like it was waiting for her to notice something she hadn’t yet.

That was when she heard it again, the sound she’d dismissed the night before. Not footsteps, but wheels. A soft hum against polished floor, rhythmic, steady. Dani slowed without thinking.

Turning the corner, she saw him.

The man from last night. The one she’d assumed was staff, pushed down the hall with little ceremony. He was in a wheelchair this time too, a young orderly guiding him forward with practiced ease. Morning light fell in slanted stripes across the corridor, catching on his face.

She stopped. Something in her chest stumbled.

Up close, he was… different. Not just in the literal sense with broad-shouldered despite the chair, posture relaxed in a way that felt earned rather than staged but in the eyes. Sharp, alive, a shade of gray-blue that looked like stormclouds threatening rain. She hadn’t noticed them last night.

The orderly paused at her presence, polite but brisk. “Morning,” he said, already shifting the chair to maneuver past her.

The man in the chair spoke before she could answer. His voice was low, smooth but unforced. “You’re in my way.”

Dani blinked, half-offended, half-thrown. Then she caught the flicker at the corner of his mouth—a grin trying to hide itself.

“Oh,” she said, stepping aside quickly. “Sorry.”

He tilted his head, studying her with an interest that was casual but not casual enough. “You’re new here.”

It wasn’t a question.

Dani folded her arms, defensive by instinct. “Maybe. Who’s asking?”

“Just a guy stuck in a chair,” he said easily, gesturing toward the wheels with one hand. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Unless you’re interesting. Are you interesting?”

The orderly made a strangled sound, like he wanted to shush him but didn’t dare. Dani, against her better judgment, felt her lips twitch.

“Depends who’s doing the judging,” she said.

He leaned back in the chair, satisfied, like she’d passed some unspoken test. “Fair. Most people fail my criteria, so congratulations.”

The man in uniform muttered, “Mr. Hale—” but the man waved him off, eyes still fixed on her.

Something about the way he said “fail” made her think of last night’s recording, the tiny fractures in the facade. She shook the thought.

“Do you always accost strangers in hallways?” Dani asked.

“Only the ones who look like they’re carrying secrets in their pockets.” His tone was light, but the look he gave her wasn’t. Direct. Piercing.

Dani felt suddenly, absurdly, like her notebook was visible through her bag.

“Maybe I just like walking hallways,” she shot back.

“Walking,” he echoed, with a pointed glance at his chair. A soft laugh escaped him, not bitter, just self-aware. “Nice luxury.”

The words hung for a moment, heavier than the banter had been. Dani opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. What was there to say?

The orderly shifted uncomfortably. “We should keep moving.”

But the man didn’t move. His hand rested loosely on the wheel, fingers tapping once, twice. Then he smiled again, lighter this time. “What’s your name?”

Dani hesitated. Instinct said not to tell him. Curiosity argued otherwise. “Dani.”

He rolled the name around like he was testing it. “Dani. Short for Danielle?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Dani fits you better. Less… rigid.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what would you know about me being rigid?”

“Everything,” he said simply, grin widening. “I’m a good observer.”

Dani studied him, the way he sat there like the world belonged to him even without standing. There was no arrogance in it, not really—more like certainty. She had met a dozen polished faces in her career, but certainty was rarer.

And dangerous.

Before she could respond, the orderly cleared his throat again, firmer this time. “We really should—”

“Fine,” the man said, still looking at Dani. “But don’t disappear, Dani. I think you and I have more to talk about.”

The chair wheeled past her, the sound of rubber on polished floor fading down the corridor. Dani stood rooted to the spot, pulse louder than she wanted to admit.

Who was he?

Not staff, that much was obvious now. Not a patient, either, not with that sharpness in his eyes. And yet—she had no file on him. No notes. No mention from anyone.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Whoever he was, she’d just been given a door. She only had to decide if she wanted to open it.

Her meeting with Mr. King in the conference room was every bit as stiff and fruitless as she expected. The man was all polish and power, answering her questions with the kind of precision that revealed nothing. Dani scribbled notes, nodding at all the right moments, but inside, her frustration simmered. The whole thing felt staged, like she was talking to a press release in human form. She wanted cracks, flaws, truth. Instead, she got carefully curated perfection.

By the time the interview ended, it was dark outside. Dani gathered her things, exhaustion dragging at her limbs. She told herself she’d call it a day, get some rest, and sort through her notes in the morning. But fate, as always, had other plans.

She was halfway down the hallway, coat over her arm, when she heard voices drifting from an open doorway. She slowed instinctively, the journalist in her tugging at her feet, urging her closer.

“…you need to stop drawing attention to yourself.

She edged closer, her shoulder nearly brushing the wall, notebook clutched tight against her chest as though it could muffle the sound of her heartbeat.

Inside, the pause stretched, taut as wire. The voice came —measured, but burning beneath the restraint.

“I never asked to be your shadow.”

Dani’s breath snagged.

The older man—his father, she realized with a start—answered in a low, controlled fury. “You’re not my shadow. You’re my responsibility. And you’ll do as you’re told. If you keep straying—if you keep letting people see you—”

He broke off, the silence that followed louder than shouting.

The man's’s reply was little more than a whisper, but Dani heard every word.

“Maybe I want to be seen.”

She knew that voice, it was the man in the wheelchair.

A chair scraped. A fist struck wood—sharp, final. Dani flinched.

“You’ll ruin everything,” the father hissed. “Do you understand? Everything we’ve built, everything we are—gone. Because you can’t keep your mouth shut.”

Dani pressed harder against the wall, throat dry, every instinct screaming to get away—and yet she couldn’t. She was listening to something no one else was meant to hear. Something dangerous.

Then came the words that froze her in place, words so clear, so heavy, they seemed to slam into her chest.

“You are not Adrian King.”

Dani’s eyes widened. She almost dropped her notebook.

Her mind spun—not Adrian King? What does that make? Clearly he isn't Adrian King.

The sound of approaching footsteps yanked her out of her thoughts. Heavy, del

iberate, moving toward the door.

She stumbled back, panic surging, searching for somewhere to hide—

And the door began to open.