10. Chapter 10
Ryker
The skyline of Greed spreads out below me, one hundred and thirty-eight floors down, jagged and glittering against the dark sky. I let my eyes move across it. Mine. Not officially. Not yet. But I’ve never been good at entertaining alternatives.
Lights from the skyline spill through the massive windows, turning the suite into a haze of gold and neon. My reflection flickers faintly in the glass, vibrating with the pulse of the club music.
The bass hits so deep it’s a physical presence, a thrumming that travels up through the soles of my shoes and vibrates in my teeth.
The floorboards pulse like the heavy heartbeat of some great beast. I watch a glass of amber liquor tremble on the marble countertop, each ripple timed to the beat.
My focus blurs, my mind latching onto that rhythm, counting each thump like seconds slipping through an hourglass.
One, two, three…
Am I counting towards something important? Or just watching time slip past me?
A shot glass gets shoved in front of my face. “Blaise! You’re falling behind.”
I blink, dragging myself out of the haze, and toss the drink back without bothering to ask what’s in it.
The party comes back into focus. Bodies move everywhere—dancing, laughing, pressed close together beneath the shifting lights. Someone has already collapsed across the white leather couch, passed out, while two others argue loudly about whose yacht we’re taking out tomorrow.
It’s chaos. Perfect, predictable chaos.
I lean against the marble bar with a drink in my hand as a girl drapes herself over my shoulder, pressing her body into mine.
“You haven’t done a line with me yet, Ryker.” She pouts. Her pupils blown and her eyes hazy as she pulls a baggy from between her cleavage and dumps white powder onto the bar.
“Yeah, Ryker. How have you not done a line with Stacey yet?”
A few of the guys across the bar jeer.
“How could you, Ryker?”
Laughter ripples through the group as they watch me, waiting to see if I’ll take the bait.
They’ve caught on to how distracted I am, which is blood in the water to these sharks.
I flash the vultures a simple grin and lean forward, snorting the line of powder without hesitation. The burn slides down the back of my throat as the guys erupt in approval, clapping me on the shoulder like I just accomplished something impressive.
Another girl slips up beside me almost immediately, her fingers tracing the line of my chest like she’s already decided how the rest of the night is going to end.
Typical behavior from the Greed leeches.
Sure, a few people here are friends. Loyal enough members of my posse. But not a single person in this room would hesitate to stab someone else in the back if it meant climbing one rung higher on the power ladder or adding a few more zeros to the end of their bank account.
I sink into the noise, just for a moment. The attention, the simple rhythm of a party that requires nothing from me except a witty comment and another drink.
I wonder where she is?
The question slips into my head so suddenly that it irritates me. I reach for another shot without thinking, swallowing it harder than necessary, as if the alcohol might drown the thought before it has time to settle.
It’s not healthy to give that much space in your head to one girl. Women aren’t worth that kind of attention. They never have been, and they never will be… Years ago, someone drilled that lesson into me.
The reminder drags up flashes of a memory I’d rather not revisit.
Laughter behind a nearly closed door.
Soft whispers slipping through the crack.
The dim glow of a lamp spilling across bare skin.
I blink and shove the images away before they can take shape. No use dwelling on ancient history.
The doors of the suite swing open, and the shift in the room is immediate.
“Councilor Blaise!” someone calls out in greeting.
The reaction ripples through the crowd like someone cranked the music up another level. Heads turn, people straighten, glasses lift in acknowledgment. The party doesn’t stop, but something in the air tightens as the room instinctively reorganizes itself.
Bodies drift toward the far side of the suite, dancers and drunks suddenly finding another place to be. Hierarchy settles, even through a drunken haze. Only the highest ranks get close enough to make face with their king.
Or, in this case, my father.
He strolls inside with the relaxed confidence of someone who knows the room already belongs to him.
Marcus Blaise doesn’t look like the terrifying man people whisper about.
Tonight he looks like the fun version of power—sleeves rolled up, hair ruffled, expensive jacket slung casually over one shoulder, smiling easily as someone presses a drink into his hand.
“My favorite degenerates,” he says with a laugh, clapping one of my friends on the back. “This explains why I found my liquor cabinet half empty.”
The room erupts in laughter.
As if any room in this building could be considered a cabinet. We have enough liquor on this floor alone to gift every family within ten miles a five-hundred-dollar bottle and still not notice the dent.
People love my father. To them he isn’t just the Councilor—he’s the man who throws the best parties and somehow remembers everyone’s name, the one who makes you feel important the second he shakes your hand.
He glides through the crowd with effortless ease. A wave of perfume and silk shifts toward him as the girls close in, their laughter pitched just a little higher. Across the room, men straighten ties and smooth hair, already rehearsing lines under their breath.
‘Lucky bastard,’ is what people always say about me. ‘Must be nice having a dad like that.’
Eventually he makes his way to the bar that I’m standing behind and throws an arm around my shoulders like we’re just two guys enjoying a night out.
“There’s my boy,” he announces to the room. A few celebratory whistles cut through the music.
Pretentious kiss ass bottom feeders.
“What, did my invite get lost? He asks me, smiling around his joke.
“As if the host would ever need an invitation,” I say, loud enough for the crowd to hear, leaning back against the counter with a practiced smirk.
A smile crosses his face. He loves the subtle reminder to everyone that he is responsible for their happiness. Their joy. It may have taken years… but I know what to say to this man to feed his ego.
A few people lift their drinks toward him in agreement.
He laughs, the sound deep, but the hand on my shoulder tightens just enough for me to know he didn’t come up here just to party.
“If only I could stay with you fine people longer,” he says to the crowd as a chorus of playful groans and mock disappointment rises around us.
“I know, I know,” he continues. “But a vigorous leader doesn’t get much time for fun.”
He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I need to borrow Ryker for a moment. You all carry on.”
He leans closer, his voice dropping low enough that only I can hear it. “Walk with me.”
I push away from the bar and follow him without argument as he leads the way towards a locked door to our private elevator tucked behind the lounge area. The noise of the party fades the moment the doors slide shut, leaving us alone in the quiet hum of the elevator as it climbs.
For a moment he just studies me, which makes the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I look into his mossy green eyes that look so much like my own, trying to gauge his mood.
“You’re enjoying yourself tonight,” he says.
I shrug. “Just entertaining some top dogs while I’m home from the academy.”
He smiles at that, though there’s something sharper behind it now.
“Just remember something, son. Parties aren’t just fun and games.”
I already know what’s coming, so I lean back against the mirrored wall and cross my arms, waiting for the lecture.
“When you drink with people,” he continues, “you’re building loyalty through comradery.
When you watch them snort your drugs, you’re building leverage.
When people loosen up around you, they show you exactly who they are, and every mistake they make in your presence becomes something you can use later. ”
The elevator lights tick upward between floors as he speaks.
“Indulgence is a useful tool,” he finishes. “Make sure you gain something from it.”
Doors slide open onto the executive level before I can respond.
It’s quiet and empty in this hallway. The polished golden floors glitter in the soft light above. Greed doesn’t do subtlety when it comes to wealth. Everything here is designed to remind people who holds the power.
My father’s office sits at the end of the corridor behind massive glass doors etched with the Blaise crest.
He pushes them open and steps inside. I follow—and stop when I see who’s already there.
My older brother sits across from the desk, composed as always. Darius Blaise looks like the kind of man who never spills a drink or loses a negotiation, dressed in an immaculate suit with a glass of whiskey resting in his hand.
Of course, he’s already here.
For a moment, irritation flares in my chest. My brothers and I have spent our entire lives competing for the same thing—our father’s favor, the future seat on the council. Being the oldest makes Darius think he deserves it automatically.
I drop into the empty chair beside him, stretching my legs out. I may not look the part of future Councilor right now, but the last thing I’ll do is show it bothers me.
“Didn’t realize this was a family meeting,” I say.
Darius glances at me with a faint smile. “Father said this was important.”
Which means he showed up early.
Our father moves behind the massive obsidian desk and studies the two of us for a moment before pouring himself a drink.
“Ryker,” he says finally, his voice warm with approval. “I wanted to tell you in person how proud I am of the work you did at the academy.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The work?”
“With the girl.”
Ah.
That girl.
My expression doesn’t change, though something uncomfortable curls in my chest as I’m reminded of Arwen again.
“There was no way to know she was entangled with Atticus because of a bond,” my father continues, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
“But you handled the situation as I hoped you would. You got under her skin, kept her defenses down, and created enough distrust that she didn’t complete the bond. That would have been a disaster.”
Beside me, Darius shifts in his chair. That’s a tell of his.
He’s jealous.
Good.
Father doesn’t need to know Atticus did a fine job of sewing her distrust himself.
“If she had been left unchecked,” my father says, sighing, “she could have become a powerful tool for Pride.”
He swirls his glass of amber liquid, staring at it, lost in thought.
I tap my fingers against the arm of the chair and keep my voice casual. The knowledge that Atticus is her true bond still sends a violent rage through me. I have to keep myself in control.
“So what happened to her, anyway?”
The question is simple enough. Strategic curiosity.
Nothing more.
My father looks up slowly, and for just a moment something darker passes behind his smile before it settles back into something pleasant.
“Well,” he says, setting the glass down on the desk, “that’s actually why I brought you both here.”
His gaze moves between the two of us, thoughtful and calculating.
Then he smiles.
“Tell me, Ryker… are you ready to get more involved in the family business?”