"Dad, didn't you say Lucien Kaelin was the unwanted son of the Kaelin family?" Cordelia's voice was tight, laced with visible irritation. "That Theron Kaelin cut him off years ago? So why are we even talking about this stupid engagement again?"
Arvid didn't look up right away. "Because Theron Kaelin wants to revive it. For his own benefit, obviously. That sly fox has eyes everywhere."
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Of course he does. That man doesn't breathe unless it brings him something. But I don't care what agreement was made when we were kids. I'm not marrying that castaway."
"You're not wrong." Arvid finally met her eyes. "Lucien might be the eldest Kaelin by blood, but ever since his mother died, he's had no value to that family. He was discarded like a pawn that couldn't cross the board. And now Theron wants to dust him off and hand him to us like some… peace offering?"
How dare Theron still bring up marrying off that discarded son to me? Does he take our family for a joke?" Cordelia scoffed. "Please...as if we're desperate."
"We're not. But Theron is making moves. And I promised him you'd meet Lucien kaelin tomorrow. He wouldn't bring Lucien back into the picture unless he had something to gain."
She frowned. "You what?"
"I made an appointment. Tomorrow at Xantal Hotel, table five."
"Why would you even promise that? Well, I'm not playing along," Cordelia said, voice rising. "I don't want anything to do with Lucien Kaelin. I came back with a goal, and it sure as hell isn't to be chained to someone Theron threw away."
Her eyes narrowed. "I want to hold on to real power. And I've got my eyes on Lucien Malric Moreaux. Not some forgotten Kaelin.
Arvid's tone dropped. "Because refusing would make us look bad. Like we're avoiding something. That gives Theron the upper hand. If we go through with the meeting, we can control the narrative."
"I told him you'd show up. Just for a meeting. Nothing more." He met her gaze. "If we don't even show up, they'll say we're not sincere. It'll turn into a power insult, he added."
Cordelia was quiet for a beat, processing. Then she muttered, "Fine. I'll meet him. But just to see what kind of pitiful creature Lucien is."
"Good," Arvid said simply.
She crossed her arms. "Anyway, I've got my eyes elsewhere. Lucien Malric Moreaux. Now that's someone worth marrying."
Arvid let out a short breath.
"He built an empire without anyone's help. That's real power. I didn't come back just to marry some disgraced heir and play house."
Arvid studied her face, then nodded slowly. "He's dangerous but I believe in my daughter's charm"
"Exactly," Cordelia said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Which means he's interesting."
"But for now," Arvid said, reaching into his drawer, "you'll keep your appointment." He slid a card across the desk. "Xantal. Tomorrow at noon."
Cordelia picked it up, glancing at the table number. "Sure. I'll go. I want to see how bad he's fallen anyway."
She turned to leave, but paused at the door, tossing a glance over her shoulder.
"If he thinks I'm the kind of girl who'll keep some dusty promise made twenty years ago, he's got another thing coming."
Arvid smirked. "That's my daughter."
Cordelia grinned. "Damn right." Good night, dad.
Good night, my princess. Don't forget about tomorrow.
Okay...okay. I got it.
---
Somewhere in a room:
The room was pitch black, thick with silence, the kind that presses against your skin like damp cloth. There were no sound outside, not even the hum of traffic or a dog barking in the alley. Just the whispering spin of an old ceiling fan and the shallow rhythm of a man who never slept too deep. It was around two in the morning—an hour reserved for decisions you do not speak of when the sun is out.
Fixer Zero sat motionless in that darkness, his eyes accustomed to it, his breathing slow and controlled. No windows or distractions. Only a locked room in the back end of nowhere, where the world could burn and he would not flinch. He was not just a contract killer—he was one of the top-tier executioners under the Assassination Guild's highest echelon. The kind of man whispered about in code and closed circles. The kind who could kill without a second glass.
The burner phone buzzed once.
There was no no caller ID, just the soft, calculated tremor of encrypted connection. Fixer Zero picked it up with gloved fingers, holding it loosely between his thumb and index like it might vanish any second. He did not speak, he never did on first contact.
A voice filtered through. Male, perhaps. Maybe not. Too distorted to tell, clipped, as if spoken through a wall of machines.
"There is a job available. Fifty million. Executed clean."
Fixer Zero's voice, low and even, broke the silence. "Who's calling it in?" He usually doesn't ask clients but he was interested is this voice.
There was a pause on the line, then two words.
"Mr. X."
He had heard the name before. Everyone in the guild had.
Mr. X was a phantom. The only consistent thing about him was that he never used the same number twice, never made a second call from the same device, and never left behind anything that could be traced, not even a whisper on the dark web. He was a myth you only believed in once you received a job through him. And if you were lucky, only once.
Fixer exhaled through his nose, calm. "What's the target?"
A soft click echoed through the earpiece. A message came through instantly.
He opened it.
The photo was sharp and recent—taken in the middle of an event. A man dressed in a sharp black tuxedo, posture rigid, hand reaching for a champagne flute. But it was the mask that stood out—black and gold, sleek and stylized, covering the top half of the man's face. Elegant, concealing and dangerous in its own way.
"Lucien Malric Moreaux," the voice confirmed.
Fixer narrowed his eyes.
"That name comes with headlines," he said. "One of the most guarded, elusive men alive. Public appearances, yes. But no confirmed photos. You want me to kill him?"
"You are not being paid to doubt," the voice replied. "Instructions are in the second file."
Okay.
Fixer stared at the image a few more seconds. The man in the photo looked composed. Not surprised. Not smiling... As if he knew, even in that moment, that his time had been measured.
With no hesitation, Fixer placed the burner phone onto a thin, square pad beside him. The pad blinked blue, then white. TraceWipe Engaged. In less than ten seconds, the entire call, photo, metadata, GPS pings, even the root memory inside the phone's chip was erased. Irrecoverable. Even if the device were found, no one would ever prove it had existed. There will be no trace left. It was his invention, a tech genius in his circle that everyone knows.
He stood from the chair, opened the drawer, and began assembling what he needed: a custom-modified silencer, gloves with skin oil blockers, a vial of paralysis compound, security layouts, and a backup burner already wired to a disappearing signal.
Still, his eyes kept drifting back to the photo.
Lucien Malric Moreaux. Rich. Hidden. Untouchable.
Fixer zipped the bag shut and slung it over the table.
Fifty million for a man with no face. Hah! He stepped out of the darkness, muttering under his breath—
I really want to see him...!
---