The Commander's Obsession for His Heiress
After years away, I returned to the Whitley Manor for one thing: my dead mother’s ruby necklace. I found it clasped around the pale, undeserving neck of my father’s new, pregnant wife.
But when I put a knife to her throat to take it back, my own family turned on me. My father and grandfather didn't see a daughter defending her mother's memory; they saw a street thug threatening their precious new heir.
They accused me of shaming their name and threatened to cut me off completely. To break my will, my father let my younger brother get arrested, hoping I’d come crawling back. Then, they summoned me to the hospital for my grandmother's "heart attack," where my father raised his hand to strike me for simply speaking the truth.
He screamed that I was a monster, a cold-blooded killer. The raw hatred in his eyes told me everything. I wasn't his daughter anymore; I was just an obstacle to his new, happy family, a ghost he desperately wanted to erase.
After their final pathetic performance, I turned my back on them forever. The Whitley name and its blood-soaked money meant nothing to me. I thought I was walking away alone, but as the hospital elevator doors closed, my brother Julian forced his way in. He had finally seen their masks, and he chose to follow the monster.
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Chapter 3
3
To keep the family scandal from leaking to the staff, Sterling ordered Harrison and Jordan to follow him upstairs to the soundproof study.
The heavy oak door slammed shut, completely cutting off the sound of Serafina's fake, dramatic sobbing from the floor below.
Sterling walked behind the massive mahogany desk and sat down. He rested both hands on the head of his cane, his sharp eyes scanning his granddaughter.
Harrison paced back and forth across the room. He angrily accused Jordan of picking up street-thug habits during her years abroad.
Jordan dropped carelessly onto the leather sofa. She crossed her long legs and let out a cold, dismissive scoff at her father's rant.
Sterling cleared his throat loudly. He dropped a massive bomb into the room, announcing that Serafina was ten weeks pregnant.
Harrison stopped pacing. A flash of awkwardness crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a smug pride at the thought of a new heir.
Jordan raised an eyebrow. A mocking glint flashed in her eyes as she silently judged her father's ability to still reproduce.
Sterling's tone turned deadly serious. He stated that the family trust fund would have to be completely restructured to accommodate the unborn child.
Harrison seized the opportunity to press his advantage. He demanded Jordan apologize to Serafina immediately, or he would drastically cut her share of the inheritance.
Dead silence filled the study. Jordan looked down at her boots, seemingly digesting this massive financial threat.
Just as Harrison thought his daughter was finally breaking, Jordan threw her head back and let out a loud, oppressive laugh.
She stood up. Her combat boots hit the floor hard as she walked slowly toward Harrison's desk. Every step radiated a freezing, suffocating pressure.
Jordan planted both hands flat on the polished wood. She leaned over, looking down at her father, and told him she didn't give a damn about his blood-soaked money.
She delivered her final ultimatum, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. She warned them that no one in this family was allowed to touch her mother's belongings ever again.
Real, unfiltered killing intent bled into Jordan's eyes. She stated clearly that if Serafina touched her mother's things again, she wouldn't mind making that unborn fetus disappear early.
Harrison saw the raw bloodlust in his daughter's eyes. His stomach dropped. He stumbled backward in fear, knocking over a heavy floor lamp behind him.
Sterling stared at Jordan in absolute shock. He finally realized that this granddaughter had completely broken free from the family's control.
Jordan stood up straight. She casually adjusted the collar of her leather jacket and turned toward the study door.
She grabbed the brass handle and looked over her shoulder. She left them with one last mocking wish, hoping their little family of three would rot happily in this hypocritical grave.
Jordan pulled the door open and strode down the hallway. She completely ignored Serafina, who was hiding and eavesdropping at the corner of the stairs.
Serafina felt the freezing aura rolling off Jordan. She shivered violently and wrapped both arms protectively around her stomach.
Jordan walked out the front doors of the manor. She grabbed her helmet from the handlebars and slid it over her head.
She threw her long leg over the heavy motorcycle and kicked the stand up in one fluid, practiced motion.
Jordan twisted the throttle. The engine let out a deafening roar, tearing through the quiet, wealthy atmosphere of the Upper East Side.
The tires burned white smoke against the cobblestones as the bike shot out into the street like a bullet. Before she completely peeled out of the neighborhood, her razor-sharp survival instincts suddenly flared. She instinctively glanced up through her visor at the dark windows of a pre-war high-rise down the block. A tall, imposing silhouette stood perfectly still behind the glass, looking down at her. The sheer, suffocating weight of that unseen gaze burned itself into her memory in a fraction of a second.
Harrison stood on the second-floor balcony. He watched his daughter's taillights disappear, his hands shaking with rage and absolute helplessness.
As Jordan sped through the cold night wind, the encrypted communicator built into her helmet suddenly beeped.
She pressed the button on the side of her helmet. Her hacker friend, Miles, yelled frantically into her earpiece.
Miles told her that her beloved younger brother, Julian, had gotten involved in a gang fight in Brooklyn and was currently sitting in an NYPD holding cell.
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