Chapter 9 - The Empty Throne
Two weeks later, the penthouse above Manhattan and Chicago was entirely empty.
No custom furniture. No oil paintings. No white roses.
The corporate investigators had stripped the apartment down to its bare drywall, repossessing every asset tied to the Whitaker trust. Dominic had been given forty-eight hours to pack his personal clothes into two battered suitcases before being escorted out of the building by private security.
He now sat in a modest, rented two-bedroom apartment across town, staring out a small window at a brick wall.
His phone sat on the kitchen counter. It didn't ring. The endless stream of sycophants, politicians, and business partners had vanished overnight like smoke in a hurricane.
He was entirely alone.
He walked over to the kitchen counter and poured himself a glass of cheap bourbon. As he lifted the glass, his hand brushed against a small metal object left sitting beside the sink—something he hadn't noticed when he moved in.
It was a small, engraved silver lighter.
On the side, in familiar, elegant cursive, were engraved the words: To Dominic. Burn bright. – G.
He stared at the lighter, his chest tightening with a sharp, burning ache.
He had wanted power so badly that he had mistaken the foundation for the roof. He had believed his strength came from the fear he inflicted, forgetting entirely that true power is the quiet, invisible force that holds the world together from the shadows.
May you like
He had cheated on the wrong woman.
And in doing so, he had woken up from a dream he never actually owned.
