Chapter 3 - The King’s Arrival
The morning sun broke over Lake Norman, painting the autumn sky in brilliant shades of amber and rose gold. Dorian Pierce adjusted the cuffs of his brand-new charcoal Tom Ford suit as he steered his leased black Porsche Panamera through the affluent lakeside neighborhood. In the passenger seat sat Callie Vance, wearing an ivory silk designer dress, oversized designer sunglasses, and a sparkling four-carat diamond ring that Dorian had financed through a predatory credit line he had no intention of paying off himself.
Dorian was practically humming with triumphant energy. Everything he had meticulously engineered over the past twelve months had finally fallen into place. He had discarded Rowan, a woman whose quiet dignity and refusal to stroke his fragile ego had become an unbearable daily irritation. He had secured the affection of Callie, whose father held the keys to the Vance-Sterling executive suite. And most importantly, he was bringing his gorgeous young bride home to a waterfront mansion that screamed generational wealth and absolute dominance.
“Are you sure she’s gone, baby?” Callie asked, checking her lip gloss in the sun visor mirror with a pout. “I swear, if that pathetic ex-wife of yours is lingering around crying on the porch, I’m going to make you turn the car around and take me to the Ritz.”
Dorian chuckled, reaching over to squeeze her knee with practiced charm. “Callie, darling, Rowan knows her place. She’s broken. When I told her about our marriage and gave her the eviction order yesterday, she barely said two words. She’s probably sitting in some cheap studio apartment right now, weeping into a glass of boxed wine. She knows better than to cross me. She left the key exactly where I told her to.”
Dorian pulled up to the ornate security gates. He pressed the universal remote clipped to his sun visor, expecting the wrought-iron gates to part obediently.
Nothing happened.
Dorian frowned, pressing the button repeatedly. The red indicator light on the remote blinked, but the heavy gates remained firmly shut.
“What’s wrong with the gate?” Callie groaned, lowering her sunglasses. “Dorian, it’s freezing out here. The catering van and the florist are supposed to arrive in two hours for our reception!”
“Just a dead battery in the clicker, sweetheart. Don't worry, I know the master keypad code,” Dorian said smoothly, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his face. He stepped out of the Porsche, walked briskly to the bronze security pedestal at the edge of the brick column, and punched in the familiar six-digit code: his birthday, which he had forced Rowan to program years ago.
The keypad emitted a sharp, grating triple-beep: ACCESS DENIED.
Dorian cursed under his breath. He entered the numbers again, pressing firmly on the rubber keys.
ACCESS DENIED.
“Dorian!” Callie called from the car, leaning out the window. “What is taking so long?”
“The keypad is glitching from the cold!” Dorian shouted back, his neck reddening above his stiff collar. He walked over to the side pedestrian gate, only to find that the magnetic lock was disengaged, leaving the small iron gate slightly ajar. He pushed it open, breathing a sigh of relief. “Come on, Callie. We’ll walk up to the house and open the main gates from the master panel in the foyer. The drive is only a hundred yards.”
Callie huffed, stepping out of the sports car in her four-inch Christian Louboutin heels. She stumbled slightly on the gravel path, clinging to Dorian’s arm as they walked up the long driveway toward the mansion.
As they rounded the bend of weeping willows, the grand neoclassical residence came into view. Dorian looked up at the white pillars, puffing out his chest with sheer, unadulterated vanity. “Look at that, Mrs. Pierce. That is what real power looks like. I built this entire estate from the ground up, and now it’s all yours.”
Callie smiled, her eyes gleaming as she took in the majestic façade. “It really is gorgeous, Dorian. Daddy is going to be so impressed when he arrives for the party tonight.”
They ascended the wide limestone steps to the front double doors. Dorian bent down by the heavy stone planter on the left, reached beneath the terracotta rim, and pulled out the white envelope.
He grinned maliciously, waving the envelope in Callie’s face. “What did I tell you? Like a trained dog. She followed orders.”
Dorian tore open the envelope, expecting to find the heavy brass master key. Instead, his fingers brushed against a flat, cold metallic object—the key was there, but taped to a printed card. He pulled it out. On the front of the envelope was Rowan’s handwriting: FOR DORIAN & CALLIE. WELCOME TO YOUR NEW LIFE.
Dorian chuckled darkly. “Bitter to the very end.”
He slid the key into the deadbolt lock of the grand mahogany entrance. He turned it. The mechanism gave a satisfying, heavy click. Dorian pushed the door open wide, took Callie by the hand, and stepped over the threshold with a dramatic flourish.
“Welcome to your kingdom, my lov—”
The words died in his throat.
Callie stepped into the foyer behind him, looked around, and let out a bloodcurdling shriek that echoed off the towering ceilings.
“DORIAN! WHAT IS THIS?!”
Dorian stood paralyzed, his eyes bulging in absolute horror.
The grand marble foyer was completely, utterly empty. The massive crystal chandelier that usually bathed the hall in opulent light was gone; in its place hung an exposed, industrial-grade lightbulb dangling from a bare wire. The Italian marble console table where he kept his bronze statues was gone. The antique runner rugs were gone.
Dorian sprinted into the formal living room. His jaw dropped. The custom velvet sofas, the glass coffee tables, the custom built-in entertainment units, and the hundred-thousand-dollar collection of oil paintings were gone. The walls were scarred with empty picture hooks and faint rectangular outlines of missing canvas.
He rushed frantically into the dining room. The sixty-thousand-dollar imported Carrara marble table was vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the faint indentations where its heavy stone pedestals had rested on the hardwood floor.
“Where is the furniture?!” Callie screamed, running after him, her voice escalating into hysterical fury. “Where are the sofas?! Where is the art?! Where is the bedroom suite I told her to leave?! Dorian, my father and his executive board are coming here at four o'clock for our wedding celebration! We can’t host a party in an abandoned warehouse!”
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“That psychotic bitch!” Dorian roared, his face turning an apocalyptic shade of purple as veins bulged across his forehead. He grabbed his phone from his pocket with shaking hands. “She stole everything! She looted my house! I’m going to have her arrested for grand larceny! I’m going to make sure she rots in prison for the rest of her miserable life!”
He violently stabbed Rowan’s contact number on his screen and slammed the phone against his ear, his chest heaving with murderous rage.
