The elevators of the Godfrey Holdings Tower hummed upward with stately indifference, like a monastic lift ascending toward some secular Olympus. Floor after floor blurred past—venture capital, commodities, biotech, aerospace—all divisions Adrian had ignored for most of his life. And now, suddenly, he seemed to be running them.
Cassandra Elspeth Godfrey stood in the polished silver box, her arms folded tight across her chest, her expression carved from aristocratic marble. The fluorescent lights above glinted against her high cheekbones and the subtle diamonds studding her ears—simple, understated, expensive. Her heels were Louboutin, but her attitude was that of a general entering occupied territory.
She had not told anyone she was coming. No call. No calendar request. No warning. The board hadn't asked for her visit. Her father hadn't sent her. It was personal.
A reconnaissance mission.Or an intervention.
Because none of this made sense.
Her brother, the once-pampered, indolent, spoiled blight on the Godfrey name, had been whispered about for the past week in reverent tones. And not by sycophants or spineless assistants. By serious people. By partners in Singapore and Zurich. By executives she herself had once mentored.
They were all saying the same thing:Adrian Montague Godfrey IV had changed.Profoundly.Violently.
He was now working sixteen-hour days.He'd reconstructed three strategic portfolios.He spoke in meetings like a man who had authored the financial models he once barely skimmed.
Worse: he had clarity.Purpose.Presence.
She didn't buy it.
Her father was capable of elaborate manipulations. And Adrian—well, he'd always been an expert at playing helpless until the world rolled over to accommodate him. This was either an illusion or a power play. Or both.
And so she came.To see for herself.To catch the man beneath the myth.
To prove the rumors false.
The elevator pinged softly. The doors parted.
She stepped onto the executive floor.
It was eerily silent.
No one greeted her. There were glances from desks, subtle double-takes, a few whispers. The staff knew who she was, of course. But no one dared interrupt her stride.
She walked like thunder toward the corner office. Adrian's nameplate gleamed on the smoked-glass door.
A.M. Godfrey IV – Director, Strategic Oversight
She knocked once. Didn't wait. Opened the door.
And froze.
The man standing behind the steel-and-glass standing desk was not her brother.Or rather—he was, but not in any way that comforted her.
Adrian looked up, his expression composed, a pen between his fingers and a tablet in front of him displaying charts, numbers, entire empires in motion. He wore a dark dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms—sleeves that hugged muscle she didn't even know he had.
His skin was tanned, but not artificially. Weathered like someone who had trained under the sun, not hid behind curtains. His eyes—once tired, lazy, soaked in sybaritic detachment—were now crystalline, cold and curious.
The office was spare. Spartan. No luxury chairs. No whiskey. No velvet chaise lounge like before. No distractions.
Just a man. A desk. A mind at war with the world.
She blinked.
"You're actually here," she said flatly, arms still crossed. "In the office. Working."
Adrian quirked an eyebrow but didn't answer.
She stepped forward, scanning the room like a forensic analyst. No signs of indulgence. No mess. No naps being taken. No junior aide hiding under the desk taking dictation. Just… work. Real work.
He watched her with detached amusement.
"You came all the way here," he said, "to confirm I wasn't playing dress-up?"
She ignored the bait. "Where's the chaise lounge? The decanter? Your ashtray collection? You don't even have a sofa in here."
"I fired the sofa," he replied, returning to his notes. "It was underperforming."
She blinked again. "You're… joking. But also not."
"Correct."
She stepped closer, unnerved now by how precise everything was—his penmanship, the military precision of the files stacked in vertical trays, the stark minimalism. The view behind him framed him like a portrait of a man no longer waiting to be painted by others.
Cassandra felt her throat tighten. Not with sentiment. With dislocation.
"What happened to you?" she asked, sincerely now.
Adrian looked up again, his gaze direct.
"I got tired of waiting to be who I was supposed to be," he said.
"No," she said, stepping closer. "This isn't you. This is… theatre. Or trauma. Or both. You were nothing like this six months ago. You couldn't be bothered to reply to an email unless it came with a Dom Pérignon incentive."
He smiled faintly. "People change."
"Not like this."
Adrian closed the folder gently and set his pen down.
Then he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed now—his biceps taut beneath the dark fabric—and looked at her fully.
"What is it you want, Cassandra?" he asked.
"I want to know who you are," she said. "Because the man standing in front of me is either lying… or he buried my brother somewhere and took his name."
Adrian tilted his head. The light caught the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the tension in his jaw.
"I'm busy," he said quietly. "If you're here to help, I can give you three portfolios that need review. If not—see yourself out."
For a moment, the breath caught in her chest.
Because that wasn't snark. That wasn't banter. That wasn't the feigned arrogance of the brat prince. It was the voice of someone too far down the road to be pulled back.
He had no time for sentiment.
Not even hers.
Cassandra stared at him, her posture frozen.
She had spent years wishing her brother would stop embarrassing the family. She'd prayed for him to step up, become worthy of the Godfrey name. She had yelled, begged, insulted, and scoffed—nothing worked.
And now, when he finally had become that man—more than she ever dreamed—he looked at her like she was a temporary distraction. A relic of the past he'd already outpaced.
"I'm not your enemy," she said quietly, unable to disguise the chill in her voice.
"I never said you were," Adrian replied. "But I also don't need allies right now. Just results."
And with that, he turned back to his screen.
Cassandra stood there another moment. In silence.
Then, without another word, she turned and walked out.
But not before glancing back once.
Not at her brother.
At the thing he had become.The storm wrapped in a suit.The man with death behind his eyes.The heir, no longer in theory—but in blood and fire.
And for the first time in her life, Cassandra Godfrey didn't know whether to be proud…
Or terrified.