ADRIEN’S POV

The sterile smell of bleach and antiseptic always makes me want to vomit, but right now, mixed with the lingering stench of sulfur and burnt rubber deeply embedded in my skin, it is downright suffocating.

I want to go home. Or die.

We are at St. Jude’s Private Pavilion. It shouldn’t even be called a hospital, it looks more like a five-star luxury hotel that happened to have high-end medical equipment hidden behind the polished mahogany paneling and velvet draperies.

I feel like a country bumpkin. I’m a fucking heir too, aren’t I? Why is this so weird for me?

There are no chaotic sirens echoing through these halls. There are no blood-stained stretchers rushing frantically through the glass-doored corridors, tracking mud and ash onto the pristine white tiles.

I found out within ten minutes of our arrival that the hospital administration had actively, cold-bloodedly diverted the mangled corpses, the shattered body parts, and the screaming, grievously melted guests to the city general hospital miles down the highway.

God forbid the elite have their delicate ’ambience’ ruined by the unsightly, fleshy reality of third-degree burns and severed limbs while they wait for their premium saline drips and organic juices.

Sitting on the edge of a plush leather examination bed, I stare blankly at the beige wall opposite me. My ears are still ringing—a persistent, agonizing, high-pitched drone that feels like a rusty drill pressing slowly into my temples, drowning out the muffled sounds of the facility.

Maybe I am dying?

"Take a deep breath for me, Mr. Dubois."

I force air into my lungs, wincing as the cool oxygen scrapes against my raw, smoke-damaged throat. A doctor in a pristine, unwrinkled white coat is shining a small, blinding penlight directly into my eyes, checking my pupillary response with a clinical, detached precision.

My eyes are burning. Fucker.

"Lungs sound remarkably clear given your close proximity to the blast," the doctor murmurs thoughtfully, typing a series of notes into a tablet that probably cost more than my entire life savings.

Fuck. I’m supposed to be rich too, aren’t I?

"The tympanic membranes are severely irritated, which perfectly explains the intense tinnitus you are experiencing, but fortunately, there is no permanent perforation. I’ll prescribe some specialized drops to soothe the inner ear and a mild sedative for the psychological shock."

"I don’t need a sedative," I rasp, my voice sounding like gravel being violently crushed under a heavy boot. I clear my throat, but the taste of sulfur remained stubborn on my tongue. "How are... the others?"

"Mr. Vassilis and Niko are being treated in the adjacent VIP suite," the doctor replies, his voice dripping with that practiced, placating professional calm that only money can buy. "Though, truth be told, they barely require our medical services."

I let out a bitter, hollow laugh that immediately turns into a painful coughing fit. Of course they didn’t.

Those sly fucks.

When the emergency paramedics finally sliced off Orion’s burnt, ruined designer jacket back at the estate courtyard, I had braced myself to see charred flesh, oozing blood, and exposed bone. It was supposed to be a total horror scene.

I was ready to throw up from the sheer, crushing guilt of him throwing his massive body over mine, using himself as a human shield against the raining shrapnel. Instead, what I saw when the fabric parted was a pristine, slightly reddened expanse of broad shoulders, marred only by a few minor blisters and a light dusting of dark soot.

He was practically unharmed.

Because Orion and Niko are paranoid, hyper-wealthy, shady lunatics, their tailored suits weren’t just made of standard silk and wool. The entire inner lining of their garments was intricately woven with high-density, fireproof, and bulletproof fibers.

You’d think the bastards were terrorists on a time limit.

The explosion blasted the outer layers of their expensive clothes to literal ribbons, but the high-tech weave underneath completely absorbed the heat and deflected the razor-sharp debris, sparing them from anything worse than a mild sunburn.

They should’ve been half-dead. Damnit!

The bastard literally suffered worse physical injuries from me biting his tongue when I kissed him than he did from a literal, dual-car bomb detonation.

And he had used my tear-stained panic as a personal emotional buffet for his own twisted amusement.

’Keep panicking for me, duckling.’

The memory of his tongue on my neck sends a furious shiver running straight down my spine.

"You’re free to step out into the private lounge now, Mr. Dubois," the doctor says, gesturing toward the heavy double doors at the end of the room. "Your companion, Mr. Dupain, is just finishing his nebulizer treatment in the pulmonary room. He will join you shortly."

He’s Niko’s companion not mine.

I slide off the high examination bed, my knees feeling slightly shaky under me, and push through the doors into the exclusive waiting pavilion.

The room is large, circular, and heavily populated by the traumatized upper crust of high society. The contrast to their usual glamorous appearance is jarring. And morbidly hilarious.

These are the exact same people who, less than an hour ago, were sipping vintage wine and flashing multi-carat diamonds under the fading sunlight. Now, they are huddled in designer blankets provided by the hospital, their expensive hair matted with gray ash, their pale faces streaked with black soot. Like refugees of war.

And right in the center of the room, sitting on a lavish velvet sofa, are Leon and my lovely stepsister, Louise.

The golden couple looks completely tarnished, yet their reactions can’t be any more different. Leon looks entirely depleted, his exhaustion open for everyone to see. His hands are trembling so violently that the porcelain teacup he held kept rattling loudly against its saucer, spilling tea over his expensive trousers.

His eyes are wide, vacant, and darting around the room as if another bomb were about to drop from the ceiling.

Whoever handled the bombing did a good job of terrifying this fucker.

Louise, on the other hand, is a chilling picture of calculated composure. Her designer gown is torn at the shoulder and her hair is dusted with ash, but her face is frozen into a cold, hard mask.

There are no tears on her face. Louise is too ambitious, too greedy, and far too proud to ever weep or show vulnerability in public. She sits rigidly upright, her jaw clenched, her sharp eyes scanning the room, already calculating the financial and social fallout of her ruined celebration.

She hates me, and she hates the fact that we are breathing the same air in this room. Well, it’s fucking mutual, vulture.

The moment I step into the lounge, the fragile silence fractures. Dozens of heads turn in unison. Eyes locked onto me like lasers. It’s fucking eerie.

But nobody speaks a word. The tension in the l air of the room is thick enough to choke on. Scattered throughout the luxurious lounge are several familiar faces—people I desperately tried to forget from my past.

My former classmates from both middle school and high school are here, the heirs and heiresses who coldly watch and orchestrate the social executions of others. Now, they are sitting across from me, looking like drowned rats, stripped of their usual arrogance.

It’s a fitting look for them.

They look at me, then their eyes dart fearfully towards the curtained VIP wing where Orion and Niko are being held.

The social mathematics happening inside their heads is practically visible. This night is supposed to be Leon and Louise’s grand moment—an engagement party marking the ultimate union of power, wealth, and corporate greed.

Louise has stupidly dumped Orion for his cowardly cousin Leon, a move that should have socially ruined Orion and elevated Leon. Yet, here I am, the ultimate family outcast, arriving wrapped tightly in Orion’s terrifying shadow, while Orion himself just survived a massive bomb blast looking like a dark god who merely walked through a heavy rain.

None of our former classmates know how to go about talking. The awkwardness is suffocating. None of our previous classmate knows how to navigate an engagement between two people when Louise had left Orion for Leon, and absolutely nobody—under any circumstances—wants to mistakenly offend Orion Vassilis by saying the wrong thing.

To offer condolences to Leon might imply Orion is the villain, and to comfort Louise might draw the wrath of the man who controls most of the city’s black market. So, they chose a terrified silence, staring at their polished shoes.

The heavy oak doors of the VIP wing swing open with a soft click, and the temperature in the room instantly plummets to below freezing.

The fuckers have arrived.

Orion walks out first, followed closely by Niko. He discarded his ruined dress shirt and is now wearing a simple, dark gray medical compression top that clings to the absurd muscular contours of his chest and broad shoulders. A compression shirt, really?

What happened to a hospital gown?

The light burns on the side of his neck are slathered in a clear, shiny medical ointment, but he walks with the easy, predatory grace of a man who just stepped out of a luxury spa rather than a fiery war zone.

Niko walks exactly half a step behind him, his sharp, amber eyes scanning the perimeter of the room with cold, calculating detachment, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his dark trousers.

Orion’s dark gaze sweeps over the room, completely dismissing the huddled billionaires as if they are nothing more than cheap, disposable furniture, until his eyes lock onto me.

Shit.