5. Legacy : All for her

Rayes Sanders

The heavy, ornate door creaked shut behind Rayes with a soft, almost mournful sigh, leaving him standing in the antechamber of his father’s slow demise. The air hung thick and stagnant, a cloying miasma of medicinal astringency battling with the musty scent of decay that clung to the very walls. It was a room steeped in illness, in the slow, agonizing surrender of a body failing its master.

Rayes adjusted the silver cufflinks of his tailored charcoal suit, the cool metal a stark contrast to the creeping warmth he felt rising beneath his collar. He withdrew a sleek, gunmetal cigar case from his inner pocket, the action smooth and practiced. A flicker of chrome from his lighter ignited the tip of the cigar, the small flame momentarily illuminating the sharp planes of his face, highlighting the cold detachment in his eyes.

He inhaled deeply, the rich, dark smoke filling his lungs, a stark, defiant fragrance against the sickly sweet air. He held the smoke, a dark cloud momentarily suspended in the oppressive stillness, before exhaling it slowly, watching it dissipate into the gloom of the room, a phantom mimicry of his father’s fading life force.

From the inner chamber, a muffled groan clawed its way through the heavy door – a sound of raw, animalistic pain. It was followed by a ragged, wet cough that shook the very air around him.

Rayes remained unmoved, a statue of polished indifference in the face of human suffering. He took another deliberate drag from his cigar, the tip glowing with a predatory intensity. He knew what awaited him behind that door; he had witnessed it countless times in the past weeks, the relentless deterioration of Elijah Sanders, the once formidable patriarch, now reduced to a broken, wheezing ruin.

The personal physician, Dr. Alistair Finch, a man worn thin by sleepless nights and professional duty, hurried from the inner room, his face etched with weary concern. He caught sight of Rayes and his expression tightened with disapproval.

“Young master,” Dr. Finch began, his voice a low murmur designed not to disturb the patient beyond, “Please, I must insist. The cigar… it is most inconsiderate to smoke in here. Your father… his condition is exacerbated by such irritants.”

Rayes met the doctor’s gaze, his eyes devoid of warmth, reflecting nothing but a glacial disinterest. He offered no verbal reply, no flicker of acknowledgement, only a slow, deliberate puff of smoke that curled upwards, a silent rebuff. As if to punctuate the doctor’s plea and Rayes’s defiance, another agonizing groan erupted from the bedchamber, followed by a fresh wave of violent coughing that rattled the very foundations of the heavy oak door. Elijah Sanders, the man who had cast such a long, dominating shadow over Rayes’s life, was wrestling with his own failing lungs, each breath a torturous battle.

Rayes finally moved, pushing open the heavy door and stepping into the sickroom. The air within was even more suffocating, thick with the smell of antiseptic, stale sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. Elijah lay in the massive four-poster bed, a grotesque parody of his former self. His skin was stretched taut over sharp bones, a ghastly pallor replacing the ruddy complexion of his once vigorous health.

His eyes were closed, sunken deep into their sockets, shadowed and bruised. Rayes moved closer, his polished shoes silent on the thick Persian rug. He stopped at the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on the broken figure before him, a cold, clinical appraisal in his eyes. He felt nothing. Not pity, not sorrow, not even the faintest tremor of filial affection. His father had long since extinguished any such sentiment within him, replacing it with a barren landscape of indifference. Only his mother and his twin sister had ever breached the walls he had erected around his heart, and even those fragile connections had been brutally severed, leaving behind only the echoes of pain and loss. He refused to dwell on those memories now, in this place, in the presence of this man.

Dr. Finch hovered anxiously at Elijah’s side, adjusting pillows, offering sips of water, his ministrations a futile dance against the inevitable.

Rayes ignored him, his attention solely on his father. “He won’t even know I’m here,” Rayes remarked, his voice low and devoid of emotion, cutting through the strained silence. “He’s too far gone to care about me smoking in his room.” He spoke as one might comment on the weather, a casual observation detached from any personal investment.

But even as the words left his lips, Elijah’s eyelids flickered, then slowly, with painful effort, opened. Bloodshot and glazed with pain, his eyes fixed on Rayes, a flicker of recognition, and something akin to a dying ember of rage, igniting within their depths.

“R-Rayes…” Elijah’s voice was a raspy whisper, each word dragged out like a physical agony. “If… if I wasn’t… like this… I’d drag you down to the cellar… p-punish you…” The words were wheezed out, punctuated by gasping breaths, each syllable a testament to his failing strength.

Then, another coughing spasm seized him, a violent convulsion that racked his frail body. Blood erupted from his lips, splattering onto the pristine white duvet, staining the opulent Egyptian cotton with dark, crimson blooms.

A cold smirk touched the corners of Rayes’s mouth. He took another slow, deliberate drag from his cigar, the smoke curling upwards, a defiant plume in the face of his father’s impotent fury.

“Too bad, then,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. “You can’t. And now, it’s me looking down at you, old man.” He stared down at Elijah, his gaze unwavering, devoid of any trace of concern. His father’s face contorted in a grimace of pain, his chest heaving with each shallow, agonizing breath.

Lung cancer. Diagnosed too late, a cruel irony for a man who had always prided himself on control and foresight. Two months. Two months since the death sentence had been pronounced, two months of slow, relentless decay. Money, the lifeblood of their empire, flowed freely towards the best specialists, the most advanced treatments, but even the vast Sanders fortune could not cheat death.

Generations of ambition and ruthlessness had built their empire, a sprawling network of protection agencies, a discreet but powerful force operating in the shadows, ensuring order, or rather, their version of it. Elijah had been the iron fist at the helm, the president who held it all together through sheer force of will and unwavering ruthlessness.

Now, the iron fist was weakening, crumbling, and the weight of the legacy was about to fall upon Rayes’s shoulders. As the only male heir, the mantle of leadership and the vast inheritance were destined for him. The will, meticulously crafted and legally ironclad, awaited the inevitable, solidifying his succession. Yet, in the depths of his pain and fading strength, Elijah’s eyes, fixed on his son, held a flicker of something else, something that might have been regret, a belated recognition of the monster he had created.

Marriage to Rayes’s mother had been a strategic alliance, a calculated move to secure an heir. Children were merely a means to an end, vessels to carry on the Sanders name and legacy.

He had demanded a son, an inheritor, and fate, in its capricious way, had delivered two. One was a boy, the designated successor. The other, a girl, a mere afterthought, a shadow in the periphery of Elijah’s ambition-fueled vision. Elijah had poured all his attention, all his relentless, brutal instruction, into Rayes, molding him, shaping him into the ruthless successor he demanded. Love was a weakness, sentimentality a liability. Punishment, discipline, unwavering pressure – these were the tools he had employed to forge the man Rayes had become. A man as cold and unyielding as the steel that formed the backbone of their protection empire.

The first crack in that carefully constructed armor had appeared when his mother fell ill, a slow, wasting disease that had stolen her gentle light. Rayes was ten years old when she died, her frail hand clutching his, her last words a whispered declaration of love for him and his sister, a final, tender blessing in a life devoid of warmth.

That was the first real pang of heartbreak, a raw, visceral ache that had briefly threatened to overwhelm him. But Elijah had swiftly, brutally, extinguished any outward display of grief, labeling it weakness, further hardening the shell around Rayes’s fragile core.

Then came the second, irreparable fracture. His sister. Taken. The details were still shrouded in a fog of unanswered questions, a gaping wound in the fabric of his memory. Her disappearance had been the catalyst, the final, devastating blow that had shattered any remaining vestiges of innocence, leaving behind only a simmering rage and a chilling emptiness.

His hand clenched into a fist within his suit pocket, the memory a phantom ache in his chest, but the sudden, guttural expectoration of Elijah’s spittle jerked him back to the present, to the suffocating reality of the sickroom.

“Y-you… bastard boy,” Elijah choked out, his voice thick with phlegm and fury. “You… you want me dead, don’t you?”

Rayes took another step closer, his polished shoes gliding silently on the thick carpet. He crouched down beside the bed, bringing his face level with his father’s, the cigar held loosely between his fingers. He took a final drag, the burning ember flaring brightly in the dim light, then, without a word, reached over to the ornate side table and stubbed the cigar out in the crystal ashtray, the faint scent of burning tobacco mingling with the pervasive smell of decay.

Elijah, fueled by adrenaline and rage despite his failing body, attempted to push himself up, a futile, pathetic struggle against the weakness that consumed him.

“Master Sanders, please!” Dr. Finch pleaded, gently restraining Elijah’s flailing arm. “Please, for your health. You must calm down.” But the doctor’s words were like fuel to the dying embers of Elijah’s rage.

“Ungrateful… little…” Another convulsion of coughing choked off the curse, leaving him gasping for breath, his face contorted in a mask of pain and fury.

Rayes tilted his head slightly, studying his father, his gaze as cold and clinical as a surgeon’s scalpel. Each minute etched more lines of suffering onto Elijah’s face, deepening the wrinkles, highlighting the skeletal contours beneath the paper-thin skin. The dark circles under his eyes, heavy and bruised, spoke volumes of sleepless nights, of relentless pain, and the gnawing fear of oblivion.

“You did this to yourself, Father,” Rayes said, his voice a low, chilling murmur, devoid of any emotion. “I’m merely doing what you always wanted me to do. I’m here to assure you that our legacy lives on. You should be thankful for that.” He paused, his gaze unwavering, his words sharp and precise, like shards of ice. “And as for our family… it was ruined years ago. Don’t be pathetic now. Just… give in. I am the heir. And nothing… nothing will stop me anymore.”

Elijah spat again, a weak, pathetic spray of blood and phlegm that landed on Rayes’s immaculate suit jacket, a crimson stain on the pristine fabric. Rayes didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance down. He simply stared at his father, his expression unchanged, as Elijah descended into another bout of wheezing, ragged breaths that sounded like the death rattle of a dying machine.

“Master Sanders!” Dr. Finch, his face etched with concern, swiftly produced a syringe and a vial from his medical bag. Without hesitation, he injected the sedative into Elijah’s arm. Slowly, the fight drained from Elijah’s eyes, the rage fading into a dull, vacant stare. His breathing softened, becoming shallow and labored, his body finally succumbing to the relentless exhaustion.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Rayes reached up and wiped the blood from his jacket with a silk handkerchief, the gesture almost clinical in its detachment. He straightened up, his gaze lingering on his father’s now inert form. Before turning to leave, he offered one last, chilling pronouncement, his voice barely audible above the rasping breaths of the dying man.

“It was all you who ruined it all when you let them take her and didn’t do shit about it. I’m just repaying the favor. Let’s see who wins in the end.” Then, he turned and walked away, leaving the doctor to his vigil and Elijah to his final, solitary surrender. The heavy oak door closed behind him once more, sealing off the room, leaving only the lingering scent of decay and the echoing silence of a legacy built on ashes.

The crimson stain on the silk suit jacket was a brutal reminder. Rayes peeled off the expensive fabric, dropping it onto the polished mahogany floor of his dressing room like a discarded skin. The stench of sickness, mingled with the metallic tang of blood, clung to him, a ghostly embrace he couldn't shake even as he stepped beneath the deluge of the shower. Hot water cascaded over his taut muscles, a temporary balm against the simmering rage that coiled within him. He braced his hands against the cool, jade-green tiles, the smooth surface a counterpoint to the turmoil churning inside. Elijah Sanders. His father. The name was a festering wound in Rayes’s thoughts, a poisoned barb that twisted with every pulse of his blood.

Elijah had systematically dismantled everything Rayes had ever dared to hope for. A normal life. A life outside the suffocating shadow of the Sanders legacy, a legacy built on whispered deals and ruthlessly acquired power. He had dreamt, foolishly perhaps, of escaping the gilded cage his birth had constructed around him. He’d envisioned a future where he could be more than just a weapon, a finely honed instrument of his family’s ambition. But fate, it seemed, had a cruel sense of irony. Just when he thought he might carve a different path, Elijah, in his decaying grandeur, had yanked him back into the abyss.

The loss of his mother and sister, a tragedy that should have cemented familial bonds, had in reality fractured them beyond repair. It had been a calculated cruelty, a strategic strike by rivals that Elijah, in his pride, had refused to fully acknowledge. He had brushed it aside as collateral damage in the grand game of their world, further alienating Rayes with his cold pragmatism. Now, only vengeance remained. A dark, simmering desire for retribution that pulsed beneath the surface of his carefully constructed composure. And that vengeance hinged on Elijah’s death, on the inevitable transfer of power, the inheritance of the empire built on shadows and secrets. Only then could he truly unleash the storm he had been brewing for years.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as the water continued its relentless assault, washing away the superficial grime but leaving the deeper stains untouched. Closing his eyes, he tried to quell the tempest within, but the fury was a living thing, resistant to reason. Then, an unexpected image surfaced, a fleeting flicker against the backdrop of his anger – a woman’s face.

Thea. The name whispered into his mind like a forbidden incantation. She had been an anomaly, a vibrant splash of color in the monochrome landscape of his existence. A dove, lost and bewildered, wandered into the viper’s nest of his mansion on the night of the masquerade. The Egyptian-themed party, a grotesque display of wealth and power for the vultures of their society, had brought her to his doorstep.

And she, the unsuspecting intruder, had stumbled into his treasure hall, not only of gold and ancient relics, but of careless laid plans for vengeance, whispered aloud in the shadowed recesses of his private sanctuary.

He remembered the library, hidden behind a false wall, a sanctuary of leather-bound volumes and hushed secrets. The air had been thick with the scent of aged paper and a tension that had crackled between them like static electricity. And that kiss. A reckless impulse born of curiosity and a primal urge he hadn't expected. A kiss bargained for silence, a transaction cloaked in the guise of a game, but beneath the surface, something far more potent had stirred.

Even now, days later, the memory of it lingered, a phantom touch on his lips, the sweet fragrance of peaches, a persistent echo in the hollow chambers of his thoughts.

Thea. Fuck. He swore under his breath, the word laced with a mixture of frustration and reluctant fascination. Bargaining for her silence with a kiss had been impulsive, unprofessional, utterly unlike him.

Yet, the memory of her flushed cheeks, the way her lipstick had smeared just so, the vulnerable tremor in her lower lip – it was indelibly etched in his mind. The Hathor dress, a shimmering gold that had clung to her curves, revealing the tantalizing glimpse of her smooth legs, had transformed her into a vision, an earthly goddess momentarily gracing his desolate realm. He couldn’t shake the image, couldn’t banish her from the intrusive corners of his mind, no matter how vehemently he tried.

Her clumsiness, the nervous flutter of her hands, the way her voice had trembled as she stammered through transparent lies about her identity and purpose – it was all so utterly disarming. In his world of practiced smiles and carefully constructed facades, her genuine awkwardness was a breath of fresh air, a stark contrast to the artifice that suffocated him daily. He had known instinctively, from the moment he laid eyes on her, that she was an outsider.

Her dress, while undeniably elegant, lacked the subtle, almost invisible hallmarks of true bespoke tailoring. Her movements, graceful in their own way, lacked the ingrained, effortless poise that was second nature to the women of his social circle. And her face. So open, so guileless, so utterly real in his world of carefully crafted illusions. It was a revelation, a startling anomaly.

Most men in his circles would have dismissed her instantly. A momentary distraction, a fleeting amusement at a masked ball, quickly forgotten amidst the relentless pursuit of power and influence. But for him, it was different. Something in her vibrant presence, the “spark” he had mentally acknowledged, the genuine surprise that had widened her eyes when he kissed her – it had ignited a nascent flame within him, a flicker of something long dormant. An obsession was taking root, tendrils of curiosity and desire wrapping around his thoughts, tightening their grip with each passing moment.

He knew frustratingly little about ‘Thea’ beyond the fabricated persona she had presented. But that would change. He would peel back the layers of her carefully constructed facade, unravel her life thread by thread, dissect her secrets with the precision of a surgeon. He needed to understand the source of that inner fire, the resilience that shone through her nervous exterior.

The very fact that she was not of his world, that she was an outsider, an unpredictable element in his meticulously controlled existence, only intensified his burgeoning obsession. She was a puzzle, intricate and captivating, and he was compelled to solve it, to unlock the mysteries she held.

And then there was the lie. The clumsy fabrication about her cousin ‘Casey Duck.’ A pathetic attempt at misdirection that had only deepened his amusement and his suspicion. He had known instantly that she was protecting someone, shielding a friend with her poorly constructed falsehood. Because Rayes Sanders knew a Casey Sterlings. Everyone in his world knew the Sterling name, the name synonymous with Sterling Tech, the sprawling technological empire. Brian Sterlings, Casey’s father, was one of his father’s less savory associates, a man who operated in the murky waters of technological espionage and data manipulation. Casey Sterlings herself was the heiress to that kingdom, a sharp, ambitious woman known for her ruthless business acumen.

He wondered about the connection between Thea and Casey Sterlings. How had their paths intersected? What bound them together? It was highly unlikely, bordering on impossible, that Thea was related to the Sterlings or any other family within his elite, insular society. The pieces of the puzzle were scattered, disjointed, but tantalizingly close to forming a coherent picture.

He was still impatiently awaiting the report, the meticulously compiled file on Thea, from Dolan Harris.

Dolan, his closest confidante, his “extended brother” as he often referred to him, despite their lack of blood relation. Dolan was a master of information, a silent hunter in the digital shadows, capable of unearthing secrets others deemed buried forever. Rayes silently urged him to work faster, his impatience simmering beneath a veneer of cool detachment.

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he tilted his head back, letting the water cascade over his slicked-back hair. The scorpion tattoos etched into his arms seemed to writhe and come alive as they were drenched, their dark ink stark against his pale skin. Symbols of his birth sign, Scorpio, but also emblems of the lethal grace and calculated aggression that defined him.

Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a thick, obsidian-black towel, wrapping it around his hips. Barefoot, he walked across the plush, charcoal-grey carpet towards the liquor cabinet, a sleek, minimalist structure crafted from dark wood and polished steel. The room was a study in controlled luxury, echoing his own carefully constructed persona.

A sudden, sharp knock echoed through the chambers. Without turning, without breaking his stride, Rayes drawled, “Come in.”

The door swung inward, and Dolan filled the doorway. Still clad in a tailored suit, though slightly rumpled now, his dirty blond hair fell across his green eyes as he entered, and a wide, almost predatory smile stretched across his face. Rayes poured himself a generous measure of amber whiskey, glancing at Dolan with a raised eyebrow, his gaze immediately drawn to the thick manila folder clutched in the other man’s hand.

“I have a gift for you, brother,” Dolan grinned wider, approaching Rayes with a confident swagger.

Rayes didn’t break eye contact with the folder. “Is that…?” he asked, his voice low and resonant.

“Yep.” Dolan’s grin intensified. “Your rogue princess’s file.” He exaggerated the ‘p’ sound in ‘princess’ with a dramatic flourish, a teasing jab that Rayes ignored. He snatched the folder from Dolan’s outstretched hand, his focus solely on the contents within.

Opening it, the first thing that greeted him was a photograph of her. Thea. Her face, captured in a candid shot, was even more captivating than he remembered. Her eyes, a startling shade of chocolate brown, held a depth that belied her apparent naivete.

A slow, predatory smile curled across Rayes’s lips as he finally read her full name, the syllables rolling off his tongue with a possessive satisfaction.

Thea Monroe.

Finally, you’re in my grasp.

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