The suite Kevin had been assigned was sleek, lined with marble floors and glass walls that overlooked Dubai's skyline. It should have felt luxurious, a reward for his patience and survival. Instead, the reflection that stared back at him from the window was the only thing he could see: his own face, pale and tight, mouth pressed in a line that refused to relax.
The rooftop scene replayed in endless loops behind his eyes. Zion rising slowly, deliberately, like a man in no rush to meet death. Zion leaning closer, that cutting voice of his: "You need them to believe you. I don't."
Kevin's jaw tightened.
He hated how the words stuck. How they slid under his skin like splinters.
Because Zion was right.
Kevin did need them. He always had. Approval wasn't optional for him—it was survival. His charm, his smile, the mask he wore, all of it built on one simple truth: people loved him when he gave them something to love. When he made himself useful. Desirable.
Zion, on the other hand, could sit in silence and command the room like a king. He didn't need to fight for his crown. It simply bent to him.
Kevin dragged his hands down his face, a laugh—bitter, humorless—escaping his throat. "Untouchable to you," he muttered, mimicking Zion's voice. "We'll see."
The Cracks Behind the Smile
Earlier that night, when he'd walked off that rooftop, Kevin had worn his smirk. He'd let the others see nothing but composure, the image of someone unbothered by Zion's theatrics. And it had worked—he'd seen the uncertainty in some eyes, the murmurs leaning in his favor.
Dante from Sweden had approached him briefly, clapping him on the back. "You've got guts, mate. Finally someone putting Vale in his place."
Elias had grinned openly, like he'd found a weapon he'd been waiting for. "Keep this up, and maybe people will stop worshipping him."
Those words had tasted like victory in the moment.
But now, in the solitude of his room, Kevin felt the hollowness. Because for every Dante or Elias he'd gained, there were Celeste's fire-filled eyes, Mabelle's protective presence, and Zion's unreadable calm that had countered him at every turn.
Kevin wasn't winning. Not yet.
And "not yet" was unacceptable.
Memories Like Poison
Kevin moved to the desk where his notebook lay open—his real notebook, not the polished school one, but the battered leather-bound thing he carried everywhere. It was where he recorded everything: rumors, patterns, weaknesses. Every fragment of power he could hold against someone.
Flipping through, his gaze caught on Zion's name, circled in black ink. Notes surrounded it like a spider's web: perfect son, father's money, Vale name untouchable, connection to Mabelle, trust of Lucian, admiration of Celeste.
And at the bottom, underlined twice: His weakness is the people around him.
Kevin stared at those words until they blurred. His mind went back—months ago, back in the UK, before Dubai, before this escalation. He remembered watching Zion from across the quad, laughing with Mabelle, effortlessly pulling attention the way Kevin never could without effort.
That had been the moment Kevin had realized it wasn't just admiration or rivalry. It was hate. Cold, endless, hungry hate.
Because Zion had what Kevin had always clawed for—without even trying.
The Next Move
He shut the notebook with a snap.
Fine. Zion could be untouchable alone. But Kevin was right about one thing: nobody stayed untouchable forever when the people around them began to doubt.
He needed to accelerate the fractures.
The Swedish and US branches were already leaning toward him. That was something. But it wasn't enough. The UK branch was Zion's fortress, and unless Kevin planted rot inside those walls, he'd never tear them down.
That meant Mabelle.
She was the shield, always circling Zion, always ready to burn anyone who touched him. But Kevin knew something about shields—they cracked when you struck not with force, but with precision.
He'd seen the way she watched Zion sometimes, her gaze softening when she thought no one noticed. He'd seen the tension in her shoulders when Zion brushed off danger too casually.
It wasn't just friendship.
And Kevin could use that.
Midnight Reflection
He poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring again at his reflection in the window. For a moment, the glass distorted his features—the smile looked more like a snarl, the eyes colder, hungrier.
He almost didn't recognize himself.
"Is this what you want to see, Zion?" Kevin whispered to the empty room. "The monster you created?"
Because that was the truth, wasn't it? Zion had forced him into this role. Had stolen the effortless admiration Kevin once had, forced him to fight tooth and nail to keep relevance.
Every word, every whisper, every move—Kevin wasn't the villain. He was the victim, fighting to breathe in a world Zion smothered with his shadow.
He slammed the glass down on the counter, water sloshing over the rim. His hand trembled, and he hated that more than anything.
The Call
His phone buzzed. A message from Elias.
You shook him tonight. Keep pushing. We've got your back.
Kevin's lips twitched into a smile. At least someone understood. At least someone saw Zion's empire as fragile glass, ready to shatter with the right strike.
He typed back quickly: Don't worry. I'm not done. Not even close.
Then, after a pause, he added: Next time, he won't have the chance to laugh it off.
The Dream
That night, sleep came fitfully. When it did, it brought dreams sharp as knives.
He dreamed of Zion standing before a crowd, bathed in golden light, Mabelle at his side, the branches cheering his name. Kevin pushed through the crowd, screaming, clawing for attention—but no one looked. No one even heard him.
And then Zion's eyes found him, cold and pitying. "You'll always need them. And they'll never need you."
Kevin woke drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. For a long moment, he sat in the dark, hands gripping the sheets.
Then slowly, he smiled.
Because dreams, he reminded himself, weren't prophecies. They were warnings. And warnings were meant to be answered.
Morning Resolve
By morning, Kevin was back in the mirror, hair styled, blazer sharp, expression perfectly composed. To the rest of Goldridge, he'd look like the same calm, collected Kevin—the one who'd walked onto that rooftop unafraid.
But inside, the storm raged sharper.
He would strike again. Soon.
And when he did, Zion wouldn't just feel it. Mabelle would too.
Because shields, Kevin reminded himself, weren't meant to last forever.
They were meant to break.