Scandalous Heirs

Chapter Four: Inherited Hate

The boardroom on the 42nd floor of Barker Tower was a cathedral of glass and cold steel—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering sprawl of Beverly hills below, where fortunes rose and fell with the same indifferent rhythm as the traffic far beneath. Bryce Barker presided at the head of the long obsidian table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tablet glowing blue against the dark surface. Around him sat the usual gallery: executives in charcoal suits, analysts clutching color-coded spreadsheets, and the two inevitable storm fronts—Elena Azul and Marcus Virell—seated at opposite ends like opposing magnets waiting to snap.

Bryce cleared his throat, the sound crisp in the hushed air. “Let’s keep this efficient. Global Q4 report. Virell Holdings first.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, voice smooth as polished marble. “We closed the year at $4.2 billion in revenue. Up fourteen percent year-over-year. Opened eighteen new branches—seven in Asia, five in Europe, six domestic. Profit margins holding steady at twenty-eight percent. Our luxury retail arm outperformed projections by nine percent. The Dubai flagship alone pulled in three hundred twenty million.”

Approving nods rippled around the table. Bryce tapped his stylus once. “Solid numbers. Azul Group?”

Elena’s smile unfurled—sharp, practiced, predatory. “Three point eight billion in revenue. Growth at eleven percent. We expanded into three new markets—South America, Middle East, Southeast Asia. Eight branches total. Our e-commerce platform saw a forty-two percent surge in user base, and the new private-label cosmetics line generated one hundred eighty million in its debut quarter. We’re projecting eighteen percent growth next fiscal.”

Bryce inclined his head. “Impressive. Strategic proposals on the table?”

Elena slid a slim black folder forward with deliberate grace. “We consolidate supply chain through the Singapore hub. Cuts logistics costs by twenty-two percent and secures exclusive access to rare botanicals for cosmetics. Full ROI modeling in the report—payback in under eighteen months.”

Marcus let out a soft snort. “That’s why you’re still playing catch-up, Elena. You chase shiny distractions while the fundamentals rot. Singapore hub? Adorable. But your debt-to-equity ratio sits at one-point-eight. Ours is zero-point-nine. You’re leveraged to the breaking point.”

Elena’s smile never flickered. “And yours is stagnant. You opened branches—congratulations on playing catch-up with the map. We built a brand. Our i********: engagement rate is triple yours. t****k followers? We crossed twelve million last month. Your son’s account barely scrapes eight hundred thousand. Maybe if he wasn’t busy failing math, he could post content worth a scroll.”

Marcus’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Your daughter’s grades are slipping too, last I checked. Suspended, wasn’t she? Must be genetic—can’t handle real pressure.”

The room went deathly still.

Elena’s voice dropped to velvet-wrapped steel. “At least my daughter has spine. Yours is just a spoiled brat coasting on daddy’s name.”

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Your daughter is a spoiled brat who can’t even keep a dog alive. Maybe if she wasn’t so—”

Elena’s hand shot out. Her water glass tipped. Ice-cold liquid arced across the table and splashed across Marcus’s crisp white shirt and silk tie, darkening the fabric in an instant.

He surged to his feet so fast the chair screeched backward. “You—”

Elena rose in perfect mirror, palms flat on the obsidian, leaning across the table like she was ready to vault it. “Say it again.”

Marcus stepped closer, voice low and lethal. “You’re pathetic. Always were.”

Hands grabbed them—executives on both sides hauling Elena back by the shoulders, others clamping Marcus’s arms. Bryce slammed his fist down on the table. The crack echoed like a gunshot.

“ENOUGH!”

Silence fell, thick and electric.

Bryce’s face was thunder. “Forcing Azul and Virell into the same room is a waste of oxygen. This can’t go five minutes without turning into a damn circus.”

Jace, one of the junior analysts, cleared his throat tentatively. “Maybe… reschedule for another day?”

Bryce didn’t glance at him. “Meeting adjourned. Everyone out. And the next one? Virell and Azul are not invited.”

Chairs scraped. Feet moved quickly. Eyes stayed down as people filed toward the glass doors.

Outside in the corridor, Marcus shook off the restraining hands like they were insects. He turned to Elena, voice a low hiss. “You’ll pay for that water, Elena. And for every other thing you’ve cost me over the years.”

Elena laughed—cold, brittle, echoing off the marble. “You cost me everything twenty years ago. Don’t play the victim now.”

Marcus’s smirk was slow and cruel. “Keep telling yourself that. Maybe it’ll cushion the fall when your little empire finally crumbles.”

He strode toward the private elevator. Elena kicked off one stiletto and hurled it after him. The heel struck the trunk of his waiting car with a sharp metallic clang.

“Coward!” she shouted after him. “Run away like you always do!”

Marcus didn’t turn. The driver’s door opened. He slid inside. The engine purred to life.

Elena sprinted forward in one shoe, slamming both palms against the tinted rear window as the car began to pull away.

“This isn’t over, Marcus! You hear me? This isn’t over!”

The car accelerated. Tires hissed against wet asphalt.

Elena stood alone in the loading zone, chest heaving, one heel missing, hair slightly askew. Across the street, paparazzi lenses were already flashing—quick bursts of white lightning.

Bryce leaned in the building doorway, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with weary resignation.

Elena retrieved her shoe, slipped it back on, and walked to her own waiting car. The driver held the door without a word.

The drive home passed in suffocating silence. She stared out the window the entire way, knuckles white around her phone.

At the house she stormed inside, heels clicking up the stairs like rapid gunfire. She paused outside Jordan’s bedroom door, breathing hard through her nose. Then she shoved it open—hard enough that the knob banged against the wall.

Jordan jumped, pencil flying from her fingers. Math textbook lay open on the desk, equations half-solved.

“Christ! Mom, you freaked me out.”

Elena stood framed in the doorway, eyes still blazing. “What are you doing?”

Jordan blinked. “Studying for a math test tomorrow… You look pissed.”

Elena paced into the room, then stopped abruptly. “It’s Marcus Virell. That bastard gets under my skin like nothing else.” She dragged a hand through her hair, disheveling it further. “Did you say math test?”

Jordan nodded slowly. “Yeah… why?”

Elena sat on the edge of the bed, close enough that Jordan could smell the sharp mix of her mother’s jasmine perfume and the faint bitterness of boardroom coffee.

“That Virell boy killed Rio. And today I fought with his father.”

Jordan’s grip tightened around the pencil until the wood creaked. “So?”

Elena reached out, ran her fingers gently through Jordan’s hair—soft, almost tender, a stark contrast to the fire still burning in her eyes.

“I want you to accuse him of having leakage in the exam. Frame him. Make it stick.”

Jordan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. A slow, delighted smile curved her lips.

“Good idea, Mummy.”

Elena’s fingers lingered, tracing the shell of Jordan’s ear. “That boy got you suspended last time. Now it’s your turn to make him bleed.”

Jordan leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth. “Yes, Mummy.”

Elena smiled—sharp, proud, edged with something darker than love.

“If it works… I’m getting you those Prada boots you’ve been eyeing. Deal?”

Jordan squealed, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck.

“Deal!”

Elena hugged back fiercely, pressing a kiss to Jordan’s forehead with a grin that never quite reached her eyes.

“That’s my girl.”

Jordan pulled away, still smiling, but her gaze drifted back to the open math textbook on the desk—equations waiting, pencil marks faint and precise.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow she would begin.