Chapter 4
946 Words
Kingsley Rothschild never cried at funerals, not because he didn’t feel, but because grief was a weapon best used dry-eyed.
He stood at the edge of the crowd, draped in an obsidian-black trench coat that kissed his calves, sunglasses shielding the calculating eyes that never stopped measuring. The university chapel’s garden had been converted for Juliet Bell’s memorial, now adorned with white roses, crushed hopes, and haunting silence.
Students whispered. Professors muttered. Journalists hovered just outside the gates like hungry vultures with pens.
And Olivia Castillo, graceful, trembling, angelic in a navy-blue dress, read a short eulogy that could’ve shattered a thousand hearts.
“She wasn’t just a friend,” Olivia’s voice cracked, “she was a mirror. Juliet showed us who we really were, cowards, dreamers, liars, and sometimes, revolutionaries.”
Kingsley tilted his head, lips twitching faintly.
Smart girl, he thought. Dangerously smart.
As the ceremony concluded, mourners began to disperse in slow clusters. That was his moment. Kingsley adjusted the cuff of his Armani suit and stepped forward, every stride smooth, assured, like a serpent in silk.
Olivia turned as he approached. Her red-rimmed eyes scanned his face, confused.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said softly, offering her a single rose. “Juliet meant something to all of us. Even those who couldn’t show it.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, uncertain. “I didn’t know you two were—”
“We weren’t close,” he interrupted with an elegant nod. “But I admired her passion. That kind of fire… doesn’t go unnoticed.”
He let the pause hang between them like bait. Then he smiled, disarming.
“You’re Olivia Castillo, right? The theology student? Top of your class?”
Her eyebrows rose, cautiously. “Yes?”
“I’m on the board for the Crown Fellowship,” he said, slipping a card into her palm. “It’s for students who embody change and resilience. There’s an internship in my firm. Paid. Flexible hours. You’d be perfect.”
Olivia blinked. “I—I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll consider it,” he replied. “And perhaps join me for coffee next week. I believe in investing in potential.”
His hand lingered just briefly on hers, a perfect balance of politeness and control, before he walked away, seamlessly blending into the whispering wind and rustling black umbrellas.
*
That night, Kingsley stood barefoot in his penthouse suite, 34 stories above the city, sipping red wine as cameras blinked across a six-screen wall.
One screen: Juliet’s final recorded speech before she was murdered.
Another: Olivia’s sermon at the chapel.
But his eyes were on screen three, the fight ring from last night. Michael Moretti, shirtless, furious, breaking a man’s ribs with clinical precision.
Kingsley hit pause. Michael’s face froze mid-snarl, blood streaked across his cheek.
“You’re getting sloppy,” Kingsley murmured to the screen. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
He turned to Simeon Moretti, seated across from him, older, greyer, but no less dangerous.
“You were supposed to keep your son away from this circus,” Kingsley said. “Instead, he’s throwing fists and sniffing around the girl’s death.”
Simeon leaned back, cigar smoke curling around his head like a halo of sin. “Michael doesn’t obey. He reacts.”
“He’s in love with ghosts,” Kingsley said. “And ghosts make terrible lovers.”
“You’re not here to lecture me,” Simeon said, voice like crushed gravel. “So, what do you want?”
Kingsley walked to the window, the city lights dancing below like dying stars.
“I want Michael contained. I want Olivia’s curiosity redirected. And I want Juliet’s files erased from every cloud, every drive, every whisper.”
Simeon smirked. “You think she had a backup?”
“She always had a backup,” Kingsley growled. “She was too damn smart not to. If that girl handed anything to Olivia before she died…”
Simeon exhaled. “Then we make sure Olivia becomes... occupied.”
Kingsley turned, eyes gleaming. “She already is. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
*
Meanwhile, in her dorm room, Olivia stared at Kingsley’s business card on her desk.
Rothschild & Sons—Real Estate. Wealth Management. Diplomacy.
It didn’t add up. Why would a billionaire be at a student’s funeral? Why had he looked at her like she was both prey and prize?
Elicia, her roommate, entered quietly, holding two mugs of tea.
“He’s bad news, Liv,” Elicia said, handing one over. “That man has rumors crawling all over him. Corruption. Blackmail. Probably even murder.”
“I know,” Olivia said softly, eyes still fixed on the card. “But Juliet wanted me to stay close to the council. To Kingsley.”
“So you’re going to take the internship?”
“I’m going to accept the trap,” Olivia whispered. “And pray I learn how to disarm it before it kills me.”
*
Back in the penthouse, Kingsley sat down at his grand piano, fingers dancing along ivory keys as he played a slow, haunting lullaby.
The music masked the click of another file loading onto his private server.
A grainy video. Juliet. Crying. Speaking fast.
“If you’re seeing this, it means I didn’t make it. The elections, they’re rigged. Kingsley, Simeon, the entire council, they’re trafficking votes, money, people. Olivia, if you're watching, run. Or burn it down.”
Kingsley stopped playing.
His smile was sharp.
“Burn it down?” he said to the screen. “Sweetheart, I own the ashes.”
- Writer
