Chapter 19
Keith
The drive to the Krogen mansion felt like traversing a fault line. Two days had passed since Marcus’s birthday when the call came. Sharp, unexpected, and unmistakably authoritative. Marcus never called unless something was wrong.
The moment I ended the call, the pressure settled in my chest, tightening with every mile. Even the estate itself seemed to brace for my return, the weight of Marcus’s summons hanging in the air long before I reached the gates.
Whatever had prompted that call wasn’t routine. It was a warning. And every second closer to the mansion felt like stepping toward the center of a storm.
I parked my car in the circular driveway, the engine's rumble dying to silence as I stepped out.
The mansion stood as it always had. One screamed old money laced with new power.
It was a fortress, built to withstand sieges.
But for me, it had always been a prison, its walls echoing with ghosts I couldn't outrun.
The butler, Elias, greeted me at the door with his usual stoic nod. "Mr. Krogen. Your father is in the study. He's expecting you."
I nodded curtly, striding through the foyer, my boots echoing on the marble floors.
The study door was ajar, and I pushed it open, finding Father seated at the massive desk, a chessboard spread before him on the side table.
He looked up, his sharp eyes, greyish-blue like mine, but colder, hardened by decades of deals in shadows assessing me with that familiar predatory glint.
"Keith," he said, gesturing to the board without rising. "Sit. Black or white?"
I dropped into the opposite chair, the leather creaking under me. "White. Your move."
He slid a pawn forward, his smile thin and knowing. "Always the aggressor. Fitting. How was the rest of the party? After your little... exit."
The taunt landed like a jab, my jaw tightening as I countered with my knight. "Aurelia wasn't feeling well. We left early. Nothing more to it."
Marcus leaned back, steepling his fingers, his pawn advancing again. "Unwell. That's what you're going with? Boris mentioned you two seemed tense. He said she looked like she'd seen a ghost when he approached."
I froze, my hand hovering over the queen, my mind flashing to Aurelia's pallor, her sudden flight from the dance floor.
Boris, the man who'd stalked her, betrayed her, sold her into hell.
The dossier had been a revelation, but hearing Father mention it now, casually, like party gossip, ignited a fury that made my vision narrow.
The bastard was changing the narrative, painting Aurelia as unstable to deflect from his own sins.
I moved the queen, my voice low and edged.
"Boris talks too much. Aurelia's fine. Drop it. "
He gave a small laugh, a dry sound that grated like sandpaper. "Touchy. She's a pretty thing, your date. Smart too, from what I hear. But if she's got issues, better to know now. Family events can bring out the cracks."
My bishop took his knight, my eyes locking on his. "She's not a thing to be evaluated. And if Boris has something to say about her, he can say it to me. Not behind my back."
Marcus's smile faded, his king advancing. “Boris is loyal. Been with me longer than you’ve been running your business. If he sensed tension, there’s a reason.
You keeping company with outsiders is risky.
Especially now. The Butcher’s escalating.
Another shipment gone last week. Twenty women vanished, guards dead.
He’s mocking me. And meanwhile, you’re getting distracted by some woman who panics at a dance? Focus."
The Butcher, the shadow dismantling Father's empire from within, but hearing it twisted with Aurelia made my blood boil. "I'm focused. But if Boris is sniffing around my personal life, tell him to back off. Or I'll handle it myself."
He paused, his rook sliding forward, his eyes narrowing. "Threatening my right-hand? You're my son. Blood matters. Just remember. In this family, loyalty isn't optional. Your little date... make sure she's not a liability."
My pawn claimed his rook, my voice cold. "She's no liability. She's mine. And if anyone threatens that, blood or not, they'll regret it."
The board was half-empty now, pieces scattered like fallen soldiers. Marcus leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Spoken like a Krogen. But remember who built this. You play the game, or it plays you."
His phone buzzed on the desk, shattering the tension. He glanced at it, his expression hardening. "Business. We'll finish this later."
He stood, pocketing the phone, and left the room, the door clicking shut behind him.
The silence was deafening, the chessboard staring at me like an accusation.
Curiosity and suspicion gnawed at me. I stood, moving to the desk, my hands pulling open the top drawer.
Papers, ledgers, nothing new. The second drawer contained contracts, encrypted drives.
The bottom one was locked, but the key was in the top.
Sloppy for him. I unlocked it, rifling through bills, deeds, but something caught my eye.
A loose page, yellowed, handwriting I had faint memories of.
My mother's script, elegant and flowing.
My heart broke just from seeing it, a physical pain in my chest, my hands shaking as I unfolded it fully.
The walls feel heavier lately, as if the house itself knows what’s coming.
I move through the rooms like a ghost and none of it feels real anymore.
Marcus barely looks at me now, and when he does, I see nothing kind left in his eyes.
I’ve spent years pretending this life was enough, that the money and the silence were a fair trade for peace.
But there’s no peace here, only echoes of the woman I used to be.
I keep telling myself tomorrow will be better, but tomorrow always looks the same, empty halls, empty hands, a heart that doesn’t beat the way it should.
I’m tired of pretending I don’t hear the screaming inside my own head.
I’ve written letters, folded them neatly, though I don’t know if anyone will care to read them.
Maybe that’s fine. Maybe this is how it ends, quietly, the way I’ve lived for years, slipping out of a life that stopped feeling like mine long ago.
The words blurred as tears stung my eyes, my throat closing with a sob I swallowed back.
Mother, elegant, warm, the only light in our house of shadows.
The diary entry was dated the day before she hanged herself, her note to us kids simple: "I'm sorry.
" The memory resurfaced unbidden, vivid and cruel.
Anton screaming as Zora clung to me, my small hands fisted in her dress as we stared at her body swaying from the chandelier in the foyer, Father's face stone as he called the "cleanup. " The cops called it suicide.
I slammed the folder shut, my hands shaking, rage and grief warring in my chest. I shoved the folder back, locking the drawer, my mind reeling as I left the study.
The hallway was empty, the mansion's silence mocking me, but as I turned the corner, there he was.
Boris, leaning against the wall, a glass of scotch in hand, his smile creeping across his face like oil on water.
"Keith," he said, his accent thick, eyes glinting with malice. "Trouble sleeping? You look like you've seen a ghost."
The sight of him ignited fury. I rushed him, slamming him against the wall with a thud that echoed, my forearm across his throat, my other hand fisting his shirt.
"Stay away from her," I snarled, my voice a low roar, my face inches from his.
“Lay a hand on her, or so much as look at her the wrong way, and I'll carve your ribs into a cage for your still beating heart, feeding it to you bite by bite.”
His eyes bulged, hands clawing at my arm, but his smile twisted into a sneer. "Jealous? Aurelia was mine first, you know. Sweet girl. Broke so beautifully."
I pressed harder, choking him until his face reddened, his gasps ragged, his eyes watering. "You don't get to speak her name." He went limp, almost out, and I released him, stepping back as he slumped, coughing, his smile gone.
Furious, I stormed out, the mansion's doors slamming behind me. The drive back to the hotel was a blur, my hands white-knuckled on the wheel. The scar on my chest burned, a reminder of my own failures, but Aurelia... she'd be my redemption.
The suite door clicked shut behind me, the darkness welcoming. Aurelia was waiting, curled on the couch in her nightgown, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. "Keith? How was it?"
I couldn't look at her, the weight too heavy.
"Fine," I muttered, avoiding her eyes, heading straight for the bathroom.
The door closed with a soft thud, the lock clicking.
The mirror stared back. A man undone, eyes gloomy and red-rimmed, hair messy from running my hands through it, stubble shadowing my jaw.
Mother's face resurfaced in the reflection, her smile, her tears, the noose.
Rage exploded. I slammed my fist into the mirror, the glass shattering with a crack like thunder, shards raining into the sink, blood welling from my knuckles. Pain grounded me, but the darkness lingered.