The Dark Heir

The Game Begins

That morning, Brandon woke up feeling uneasy. There was a strange smell in his room. Not perfume—more like a presence.

He opened his eyes.

And froze.

A woman was standing near his bedroom window.

"What—" Brandon jumped up, reflexively grabbing his mobile phone from the bedside table. "Who are you?!"

Celline gasped. "I—I'm sorry! I got the wrong room!"

"Whose room did you enter?" Brandon's voice rose, cold and sharp.

"I thought this was the room—"

"Get out," Brandon cut her off harshly. "Now."

Celline froze. "I didn't mean to—"

"Get out!" Brandon pointed to the door. "Or I'll throw you out by force."

Celline quickly lowered her head, her face reddening. She ran out without saying a word.

Brandon stood stiffly for a few seconds, breathing heavily. His eyes stared at the door that had closed again.

"This house is getting crazier," he muttered.

He didn't know—or didn't want to know—who that woman was.

At Hartwell Corporation, the atmosphere was far from normal.

As soon as Brandon stepped out of the lift, his secretary stood up hurriedly.

"Mr Brandon—"

"What is it?" Brandon walked without stopping.

"The board is in a meeting."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

The secretary hesitated. "Because... the meeting wasn't for you."

Brandon stopped in his tracks. "What meeting?"

The secretary swallowed. "The meeting to transfer ownership of Hartwell Corporation."

Brandon's blood boiled. "What?"

Without waiting for an explanation, Brandon walked quickly to the main meeting room. Two staff members tried to block him.

"Excuse me, sir—"

Brandon pushed the door open.

All voices stopped.

Maxel sat at the end of the table. Teresa was beside him. The directors turned their heads in unison.

"This meeting is invalid," Brandon said loudly. "Without me."

Patterson stood up. "Mr. Brandon, according to the emergency conditions following the death of Mrs. Eleanor—"

"Don't mention my grandmother's name," Brandon interrupted. "To steal her company."

"That's a serious accusation," Maxel said calmly.

"It's a fact," Brandon replied. "I'm the owner."

"Not necessarily," Foster interjected. "The ownership documents—"

"—haven't been shown to me," Brandon interrupted. "Because you know the outcome."

Patterson sighed. "The vote is almost over."

"Then stop it," said Brandon. "Or I'll stop it with the law."

"On what grounds?" Maxel smiled thinly.

The door opened again.

"We have those grounds."

A middle-aged man entered wearing a dark suit and carrying a thick folder.

"The Hartwell family's solicitor," murmured several directors.

Brandon turned. "Mr Hale."

Hale nodded briefly. "Mr Brandon."

He placed the folder on the table. "All shares, assets and ownership rights of Hartwell Corporation have been transferred in full—without exception—to Brandon Hartwell."

The room grew noisy.

"That's impossible," Teresa stood up. "There has been no official reading of the will!"

"There has," Hale replied coldly. "And it was recorded."

He turned on the screen. A video appeared.

Eleanor Hartwell, sitting in her wheelchair. Her face was pale, but her eyes were sharp. The clock on the wall showed 00:07 in the morning.

“I, Eleanor Hartwell,” the old woman’s voice was firm, “in full possession of my faculties, bequeath the entire ownership of Hartwell Corporation to my grandson, Brandon Hartwell.”

She signed the document. Her hand trembled slightly—but clearly.

“This decision is final.”

The video stopped.

“This recording was made,” Hale continued, “the night before Mrs. Eleanor’s condition became critical.”

Silence fell upon the room.

Maxel sat back down slowly. His face was stiff.

Brandon stood up straight. “This meeting is adjourned.”

No one objected.

And behind that victory, one thing kept echoing in Brandon’s mind—

why did his grandmother sign everything the night before she became critical? Did she know beforehand that she was going to die?

And who made her feel she had to do it... so quickly.

**

Night fell slowly on the Hartwell house.

Teresa stood in front of her bedroom mirror, removing her earrings with a slow movement. In the glass reflection, her face looked calm—too calm for someone who had just lost everything.

"Maxel failed," she muttered.

She turned when she heard a soft knock. "Come in."

Celline stood in the doorway. Her face was tired, but her eyes were alert. "Did Mama call?"

"Sit down," Teresa said curtly.

Celline obeyed. "I don't feel comfortable in this house."

"I know," replied Teresa. "But you have to stay."

"For what?" Celline's voice lowered. "I'm not a Hartwell."

Teresa smiled faintly. "Not yet."

Celline frowned. "What do you mean?"

Teresa moved closer, sitting across from her daughter. "Do you know why Mama brought you back from abroad?"

"Because I finished school."

"That's the easy reason," replied Teresa. "Not the real one."

Celline swallowed. "Mama, don't talk like this."

"Listen to Mama," said Teresa softly but firmly. "Hartwell Corporation is now in Brandon's hands. And the only way to get in there—not through the board. Not through the law."

"Then how?" Celline's voice trembled.

"Through people."

Celline stood up. "No."

"Sit down," Teresa ordered.

Celline didn't move. "I won't be a tool."

Teresa stared at her for a long time. "Mama raised you since you were a baby."

"That's no reason to—"

"That's a reason to hope you understand," Teresa cut in. "Mama saved you when no one wanted you."

The silence was oppressive.

"Mama isn't asking you to lie," Teresa continued. "Mama is asking you to get closer."

"Get closer to what?"

"To make Brandon believe," Teresa replied. "That you're different from the rest of us."

Celline shook her head. "This is wrong."

"It's necessary," Teresa replied coldly. "If Hartwell falls into the wrong hands, we'll all be eliminated."

Celline sighed deeply. "Mama... don't be like this."

Teresa didn't answer right away. She stood with her back to Celline, staring at the dark window as if the city outside was calculating its chances.

"You call me Mum," she said finally. "Because I raised you."

"I know," Celline replied quickly. "And that's exactly why—I don't want to do what Mum has planned."

Teresa turned slowly. "I'm not asking you to do anything dirty."

"It's still wrong."

"No," Teresa argued. "It's smart."

Celline shook her head. "Mama wants me to approach Brandon not as myself."

Teresa stepped closer. "I want you to be your most useful self."

"That sounds cruel."

"The business world is cruel," Teresa replied coldly. "Hartwell Corporation is not a fairy tale."

Celline clasped her hands. "I haven't even really talked to him. He kicked me out this morning."

"Good," said Teresa.

"What?" Celline was shocked.

"It means he reacted," Teresa replied calmly. "Someone who really doesn't care won't react at all."

Celline looked at her mother in disbelief. "You've been thinking about this for a long time."

"Since Maxel started to falter," Teresa replied honestly. "I never put all my eggs in one basket."

“So I’m the backup card.”

“You’re the key,” Teresa corrected. “You’re the right age. You’re free from the Hartwell family intrigues. And you’re a woman.”

Celline clenched her jaw. “I’m not a weapon.”

Teresa gently lifted Celline’s chin, forcing her to look at her. “No. You’re the bridge.”

Silence hung between them.

"I'm not telling you to force him," Teresa continued, her voice lower. "I'm telling you to be there. Talk. Make him forget that he's alone."

"And if he falls?"

Teresa smiled slightly. "Then Hartwell will fall with him."

Celline pushed the hand away and took a step back. "Mama taught me to survive, not to sacrifice myself."

Outside the room, footsteps sounded in the hallway—heavy, steady. Brandon walked past their door without looking back, his face tense with unfinished business.