Monaco. 2:34 A.M.
The first sound was the phone hitting the wall.
Glass cracked, metal crunched, and the device dropped to the marble floor like a broken limb.
Li Tian Marvel didn't blink.
He stood shirtless in front of the mirror, red hair tousled, pupils rimmed with sleep and something heavier. The glow of city lights painted his reflection in gold and ash.
His lips curved lazily as he tilted his head. "Not bad."
The Wi-Fi had cut out mid-call, right before he finished making a seven-figure bid on a yacht he didn't need.
He wasn't angry. Just mildly inconvenienced.
A new phone would arrive in the morning. Maybe two.
Behind him, the penthouse was a scene of indulgence. Floor-to-ceiling glass, minimalist opulence, and the faint scent of burnt citrus and champagne. Two models lay tangled in sheets on the designer bed, one of them murmuring something in French before turning over.
Tian didn't look back. He'd already forgotten their names.
He reached for a cigarette and lit it with a single flick, staring at the red glow of the ember as if it might spark something inside him. It didn't.
His entire life felt like this now—perfect, polished, and impossibly dull.
At twenty-six, Li Tian Marvel was the crown prince of China's most powerful empire. Not a royal one—worse.
Marvel Industries controlled banking, tech, luxury, influence. There wasn't a continent untouched by its shadow.
And yet the heir was here, exiled by choice, wasting away in casinos and nightclubs.
Because what else do you do when you're born with everything?
He took a drag, exhaled toward the mirror, and leaned closer.
There it was again. That look.
Not quite lost. Not quite bored. Something in between.
The silence broke with a knock at the door.
Three measured taps.
He didn't answer. Whoever it was could wait.
The door opened anyway.
A man in a sharp charcoal suit entered without asking. Polished black shoes, wireframe glasses, and the unflinching presence of someone who didn't fear billionaires—or their sons.
Tian squinted. "Mr. Zhi."
"Your father requests your return to Shanghai."
Tian's laugh was slow, smoky, amused. "Requests?"
Mr. Zhi adjusted his glasses. "No. Orders."
That word hung in the air like a knife.
Tian dropped the cigarette into a crystal tumbler half-full of expensive vodka.
He walked past Mr. Zhi to the balcony, barefoot, shirtless, sovereign.
Below him, Monaco glittered like a jewel-box city—beautiful, cold, and meaningless.
He smiled to himself.
"Fine," he said softly. "Let's go see what the old man wants."