Chapter 148: news

The moment the automatic glass doors of the clinic slid shut behind him, the quiet softness of the room vanished.

The sea breeze hit Aaron’s face, cold and biting, smelling of wet salt and exhaust fumes. He descended the wide granite steps without breaking his stride, his heavy black wool coat swinging around his boots.

Waiting at the bottom of the stairs was a fleet of three black Armored SUVs, their engines humming idling beats in the quiet street. The instant Aaron’s foot hit the pavement, four men in dark suits stepped out in synchronized motion.

Doors were held open. Eyes scanned the surrounding rooftops, the adjacent parking lots, the tree line down the boulevard.

One of the men stepped forward first, holding the rear door of the middle vehicle open for Aaron.

Aaron climbed into the plush, leather-scented interior, throwing his coat back as he settled against the seat. The guard shut the door with a dull, heavy thud, sealing out the wind, and climbed into the front passenger seat. The heavy SUV smoothly pulled away from the curb, flanked front and back by its escorts.

Before the car had even cleared the clinic’s main gate, the tablet resting on the leather armrest beside Aaron flickered to life.

The guard didn’t turn around, but his rough voice sounded clear over the interior speakers. "The Milan shipment cleared customs twenty minutes ago. The docks in Rotterdam had a minor dispute with local port authorities, but it was resolved without police involvement."

Aaron leaned his head back against the headrest, staring out the tinted window at the passing coastal scenery. "The Kastellanos group?"

"Their representative reached out twice while you were inside. They want another meeting regarding the eastern shipping routes. They’re getting impatient."

"Let them wait," Aaron said smoothly, his blue eyes cold and unreadable. "Impatience makes men stupid. It will lower their price by Thursday. What about the legal side?"

"The board approved the acquisition of the electronic components plant in Dresden," the guard replied, flipping through a thin stack of papers on his lap. "The papers are waiting for your signature. The minister’s office moved your Friday appointment to three in the afternoon. And the situation regarding the assembly lines in—"

"Kian."

The word fell into the heavy silence of the car like a stone dropped into deep water.

The guard paused. The tablet in his hand stopped moving.

"Kian Carter," Aaron repeated, his voice low, almost gentle, but carrying an edge that made the driver glance briefly at the rear-view mirror. "Give me his week."

The guard cleared his throat, pulling up a different file on his screen. "He left his private residence at seven-forty-two this morning. Arrived at Kingston Tower by eight-sixteen. He had a private breakfast with three major stakeholders at ten-thirty. A lunch meeting with the board chairman of Marlowe Capital at one. He returned to his office at three and hasn’t left since."

Aaron tilted his head slightly, watching the blur of gray trees outside. "Who visited him yesterday?"

"Two representatives from European trade firms. A private lawyer at the estate. And three senior editors from National Business Weekly."

"The media," Aaron murmured, resting his elbow on the armrest and leaning his chin against his knuckles. "Has he made any attempt to look for her?"

"No," the guard said firmly. "No direct contact. No investigators hired under his name, no inquiries sent to her old friends, no flagged searches across any of his personal or corporate networks. As far as the public record is concerned, he hasn’t uttered her name since the divorce papers were finalized."

Aaron was silent for a long moment. The engine hummed beneath his feet as the car glided onto the main highway toward the city center.

"He isn’t looking for her because he knows he doesn’t have to," Aaron said softly, a faint, dark smile touching the corner of his lips. "He’s building a stage. Keep two more men on his building. I want to know every time a camera enters that tower."

"Yes, boss."

Fifty miles away, in the top-floor study of Kingston Tower, the world was entirely quiet.

The room was vast, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the sprawling, hazy skyline of the city. High above the noise of the streets, the late afternoon sun cut through the tinted glass, throwing long, golden rectangles across the polished hardwood floor.

On the far wall, a large flat-screen television played silently on a news channel. The red breaking-news banner at the bottom of the screen read: ’KINGSTON INDUSTRIES ANNOUNCES HISTORIC QUARTERLY GROWTH.’

Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Kian Carter.

He looked, by every metric, completely immaculate.

His dark hair was brushed back without a single strand out of place. His charcoal suit fit his broad shoulders perfectly, the silk tie tied in a neat, tight knot at his throat.

He held a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand, the ice melting slowly against the heavy glass, while his other hand rested casually beside a thick stack of financial reports.

There was not a single trace on his face of the scandal that had rocked the city weeks ago.

No exhaustion under his eyes, no tension in his jaw. To anyone looking at him, he was a man who had not only survived a messy, public divorce from a prominent heiress... he was a man who had swallowed her father’s empire whole and thrived on it.

Across the desk sat four men in expensive suits.

Two of them were senior executives from the country’s largest television network; the other two were lead producers for a prime-time national interview show.

They had been talking continuously for the past twenty minutes, leaning forward in their leather armchairs, their faces flushed with the eager, desperate energy of salesmen making a pitch.

Kian hadn’t spoken more than ten words since they entered. He merely sat there, taking a slow sip of his drink, his dark eyes cool, flat, and completely unbothered.

"...and what we’re proposing, Mr. Carter," the lead producer said, leaning his elbows on his knees, "is a full, unscripted feature. Not just a brief segment on the evening news. A dedicated, one-hour special broadcast."

"The public response to your recent market expansion has been overwhelming," the network executive added quickly, flashing a practiced, charming smile. "People want to know how you did it. How Kingston Industries managed to restructure so rapidly after... well, after the recent personal turbulence."

Kian didn’t flinch at the mention of his personal life. He setting his glass down on the wood with a faint, sharp ’clink’.

"You want an exclusive," Kian said smoothly. His voice was calm, deep, and perfectly measured.

"We want ’the’ exclusive," the producer corrected, gesturing with his hands. "Every network in the state has been blowing up your press secretary’s phone for three weeks. But we know you haven’t answered any of them. We’re offering you complete control over the setting, the lighting, the production team—"

"I don’t care about the lighting," Kian interrupted quietly.

The room went still for a second. The executives exchanged brief, uncertain glances before the lead producer chuckled nervously.

"Of course. Of course. We just want to make sure you’re comfortable. We have a draft of the questions ready for your legal team to review. Nothing aggressive. We focus seventy percent on the corporate acquisitions, the new technology investments, the future of the Kingston brand..." He paused, taking a careful breath. "...and thirty percent on your personal transition."

"My personal transition," Kian repeated flatly.

"Only what you wish to share, naturally," the executive said quickly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "A few words about moving forward. Rebuilding. The strength it takes to lead a multi-billion-dollar empire alone."

Kian reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a silver cigarette case, and snapped it open.

He selected a thin, dark cigarette, placed it between his lips, and lit it with a quiet flick of a silver lighter. He exhaled a thin, gray stream of smoke toward the high ceiling, his eyes narrowing through the haze.

He didn’t care about their ratings. He didn’t care about their investors, or their network, or their sycophantic praise. He saw right through them.

They were bloodhounds, desperate to feed off the carcass of his private life to boost their broadcast numbers.

But a tool was a tool.

Isabella was gone. She was somewhere in the dark, hidden behind Aaron Kazarov’s security, completely out of reach.

He couldn’t call her phone.... it was likely destroyed or monitored. He couldn’t send a letter to her house. He couldn’t walk up to her front door without starting a war he wasn’t quite ready to fight.

But he could put his face on every screen in the country. He could put his voice into every living room, every hospital lounge, every private suite.

He knew her. He knew that even if she couldn’t see the screen, someone would be talking about it. Someone would leave a television on.

And she would hear him. She would know he wasn’t broken. She would know he was still standing right where her father had left him, holding the reins of the empire she was supposed to inherit.

"I have conditions," Kian said quietly, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a small glass tray.

The lead producer leaned in, his eyes lighting up. "Name them."

"It won’t be prerecorded," Kian said, looking directly into the man’s eyes. "It will be broadcast live."

The executive blinked, taken aback. "Live? Mr. Carter, a live broadcast carries certain... risks. If something unexpected is said—"

"Live," Kian repeated, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "Eight o’clock on Sunday evening. Prime time. National coverage."

The producer looked at the executive, who swallowed hard before slowly nodding. "We... we can clear the Sunday slot. Live at eight."

Before Kian could speak again, the heavy oak door of the study swung open without a knock.

The media men turned in their seats, surprised by the sudden interruption.

Alice walked into the room.