The King in Disguise

Chapter 2 – Cracks in the Mask

The Blackwell mansion's large French windows let in the morning sun, which gilded the space with light that seemed too pure for the bitterness inside.

With his fingers encircling a mug of black coffee, Ethan Cross sat at the kitchen island. As usual, he had been up since the break of day. Nowadays, he hardly ever gets sleep easily—not in a home where jokes about him reverberated long after they were said and echoed in every nook and cranny.

The family chef was working quietly across the counter, making a fancy breakfast that Ethan knew he would not eat.

A few minutes later, Vivienne, in a silk robe sloppily tied around her slender waist, swept in. Despite having nowhere to be at that hour, her hair was styled and fell in glossy waves down her back. Beneath layers of pricey perfume, the subtle aroma of an unfamiliar cologne clung to her.

Ethan took note. He was always aware.

"You're up early," Vivienne said in a flat, almost accusing tone, as though she didn't like his presence. Ignoring the plate of toast and eggs the chef had set in front of her, she poured herself a glass of orange juice.

With his eyes resting on the curling steam from his coffee, Ethan simply replied, "I couldn't sleep."

Vivienne gave a gentle snort. "What a shock." Opposite him, she slid onto a stool and began browsing through her phone. Something on the screen caused her lips to curl into a smile, but she covered it with her hand.

Damian.

Ethan remained silent despite the name burning through his mind like acid.

She abruptly put her phone down and said, "Tonight is important."" A dinner with investors has been organised by Father. You'll be present.

Ethan raised his head and steadily met her gaze. "Obviously."

She c****d her head, examining him with a hint of annoyance. "This time, try not to make me look foolish."

Her words were heavy and unforgiving, like stones. Ethan forced a small smile despite his clenched jaw. "I'll try my hardest."

Satisfied, Vivienne grinned and got up to go. Ethan's fingers drummed lightly against his mug as she vanished up the grand staircase.

Make her feel embarrassed? No. She had never been embarrassed by him. The reality was more straightforward: his very presence embarrassed her since he did not meet her ideal of what a husband ought to be.

But she didn't know who he really was.

In silence, the day stretched on. Ethan withdrew to the tiny study he had claimed as his own, which was hidden away in the mansion's far wing. The Blackwells regarded it as a "dreary little office" and rarely bothered to enter it.

He opened his desk's bottom drawer and took out a locked leather case. Documents, pictures, and a sleek black phone that he hadn't used in years were all inside. Like a sword sheathed too long, his real life—his real name—waited patiently and unharmed within these items.

Ethan gazed at them for a while, grazing one folder's crest with his thumb: a silver crown twisted into a serpent.

The crest of Crosswell.

The crest of his family.

He clicked to lock the case and closed it once more. Not just yet. The moment would arrive, but not just yet.

He would put up with it for now.

The Blackwell mansion was bustling with activity that evening as chauffeurs waited outside, sleek black cars lined the driveway, and staff hurried to get ready for the investors' dinner.

Ethan was wearing a fitted black suit, one of the few nice clothes he owned, given to him by a "friend" years prior. He stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting his tie, and he looked sharp, commanding even, but he knew it didn't matter because to them he would still be the "nobody husband".

Vivienne came down the stairs wearing a crimson evening gown that embraced her figure, her hair pinned in an elegant chignon, and diamond earrings glittered like ice shards. She was stunning, and she knew it.

Ethan briefly recalled the girl he had fallen in love with, the one who used to laugh unrestrainedly before her heart was hardened by pride. The girl had vanished.

As she adjusted her clutch, Vivienne said, "You'll keep quiet tonight," without turning to face him. "Your opinions don't need to be heard by the investors."

Ethan nodded slightly. "As you desire."

With floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glistening New York skyline, the dinner was hosted at a posh penthouse in Midtown. As they moved between the tables, waiters poured champagne and served internationally sourced delicacies.

Nathaniel was bursting with laughter as he related stories about his business prowess as the Blackwells held court at the centre table. With Ethan silently by her side, Vivienne sat next to him, glowing and proud.

The whispers soon started.

"Is that him?" Behind a jewelled hand, one woman whispered. "The husband?"

Another man smirked and said, "They say he was a charity case." "Married into the family for financial gain." He can hardly compete in this crowd; look at him.

Quietly but sharply, the laughter echoed around the table. Every word was heard by Ethan. He always did.

Leaning forward, Nathaniel spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. Why don't you tell us about your career, Ethan? If that's what you can call it.

The investors were filled with laughter. A familiar, sarcastic smile curled Vivienne's lips.

Slowly, Ethan raised his glass, allowing the light to strike the crystal. He looked around the room, at the sneering faces, at the icy beauty of Vivienne, and at Nathaniel's smug grin.

"My career?" Finally, Ethan spoke in a cool, collected tone. "Let's just say... I'm right where I should be.

His words were dismissed as meaningless by the table, which laughed. However, a couple of investors gave him a closer look; their brows furrowed as though something in his voice unnerved them.

They exchanged glances, and Ethan let the tiniest smile slip onto his lips. Seeds were sown.

But Vivienne rolled her eyes. She laughed and remarked, "He's always evasive." "It's charming in its own pathetic way."

Once more, the laughter erupted. Silently, Ethan sipped his wine.

Ethan was standing on the penthouse balcony, gazing out at the sparkling city lights, hours after the dinner was over and the guests had left.

Whispering and laughing too deeply for a married woman, Vivienne and Damian Pierce had disappeared into a corner. She was not stopped. Nobody cared.

Ethan forced his breathing to steady even though his chest tightened. Every humiliation was a burden, but those burdens created chains, and chains had the power to either bind a man or strengthen his determination to break them.

The latter was his choice.

He reached into his pocket, took out the sleek black phone from the leather case, and felt the cool night air against his skin. It had been years since he had touched it.

His thumb briefly lingered over the power button. Then he hit it.

The Crosswell dynasty's crest was briefly illuminated on the screen before disappearing into the user interface.

One alert blinked. One missed call. One message.

From Marcus Hale.

His oldest pal. His confidante. His right hand.

Though brief, the message was powerful.

“It’s time. The King must return.”

Ethan's breath caught when he saw his sharp, regal, and menacing reflection in the glass window.

Ethan could no longer hear the laughter coming from behind him, whether it was Vivienne's or Damian's.

Because the game had changed.

And he refused to follow their rules this time.