DARIUS POV
The soft hum of the blinds stirred me from sleep, letting in the first traces of Manhattan light. Pale gold stretched across polished floors and reflected off glass surfaces, casting long shadows through the penthouse. My eyes adjusted slowly, catching the distant outlines of a city that never really slept but somehow paused for me in these early hours.
I sat upright, the sheets sliding away as cool air brushed against my skin. Across the room, the skyline loomed beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, buildings reaching for a sky still painted with dawn. It didn't just look like success—it felt like it. Every steel beam out there was a reminder of the years I gave up everything to get here.
A knock, gentle but familiar, came from the double doors.
"Come in."
Martha stepped inside, a silver tray steady in her hands. Gray curls framed her face, and her uniform, though formal, looked like second skin. She had worn versions of it since I was a boy.
"Morning, Darius," she said, setting the cup down on the table beside me.
"Morning." I reached for the coffee without needing to ask. She already knew how I took it—black, no sugar, extra heat. Same as always.
She was one of the few who still called me by my name. Not out of disrespect—but because she'd earned it long before titles ever mattered.
She started as my nanny, then became my housekeeper. Now, she took on whatever quiet role suited her best. Still watching out for me.
She looked at me for a moment. "Sleep okay?"
"Not really."
She nodded like she expected that. "Try to get more tonight."
I took a sip, and she turned to leave without another word.
I changed quickly—dry-fit joggers, long-sleeved tee, earbuds in—and headed down to the street level. My driver, Mitch, was already parked discreetly at the curb in the black SUV, waiting like he did every morning.
"I'll take the loop through the park," I said through the open window.
He nodded. "I'll trail you."
My morning jog was a ritual. My feet hit the pavement in rhythm. The city hadn't fully woken up yet—just a few early commuters and dog walkers. But three blocks in, my breath came faster than usual. My legs felt like concrete. My chest tightened.
I stopped.
Leaning forward, hands on my knees, I tried to slow my breathing. The dizziness was back. It swirled behind my eyes like a warning light.
I pulled out my phone and pressed Mitch's name.
Seconds later, the SUV pulled up, window rolling down. "Boss?"
"I'm done," I muttered, pulling the door open. "Take me home to change. Then straight to the office."
"Got it."
Back in the penthouse, I showered quickly and pulled on a black suit. Slim cut. Custom made. I skipped the tie and went with a black T-shirt underneath instead. Today was going to be a long day.
The drive to Vale Industries took fifteen minutes. My building stood like a black monolith in the heart of New York City, all glass and steel—a monument to my ambition. Thirty-eight floors of dominance.
I stepped out, and my secretary, Alina, caught up with me in heels that clicked like gunfire.
"Mr. Vale—your board meeting's been moved to noon," Alina said, flipping through her tablet. "You have a product briefing this afternoon, and the award show starts at five. I finished typing your speech last night."
I nodded without looking up. "Noted."
She glanced at her notes. "Your mother called three times yesterday. She—"
"Alina."
She paused, caught off guard.
"Not now."
"Yes, sir."
My office took up the entire top floor. The dark marble floors stretched out cool and smooth beneath a massive, hand-carved desk that commanded the room. Behind it, floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, spilling in natural light most days. Heavy black drapes hung at the sides, rarely drawn, leaving the view unobstructed.
Along the left wall, built-in shelves held an array of awards and framed photos—snapshots of key moments in my life: firm handshakes, triumphant smiles, deals sealed with confidence. Each one a reminder of what I'd built—and what I had to keep fighting for.
I sat, the leather chair hugging me like a throne. I had barely opened my laptop when my phone buzzed. Mom.
I sighed and picked up. "Hi, Ma."
"Dari-bear," she sang—only she could get away with that.
I leaned back, eyes closed. "Don't call me that."
"I'll call you that till the day I die," she teased, then quickly added, "Which might be sooner than yours if you don't stop scaring me half to death."
I rubbed my temples. "What did I do now?"
"You jogged again, didn't you? Don't lie. You sound out of breath."
"I'm fine."
"You passed out last month, and you still think jogging is a good idea?"
I didn't answer.
Her voice softened. "Sweetheart… I haven't slept right since. And you know I won't until you see that doctor."
"I have an appointment. I'll go."
"You promise?"
"I said I'll go, Ma."
A pause. Then, "I love you, Dari-bear. Don't forget that. No amount of money is worth your life."
I hung up before she could make me feel any more like a boy instead of a man.
The rest of the day blurred into motion, filled with back-to-back meetings, endless calls, and a flood of emails that never seemed to end. I nodded through presentations, offered clipped feedback, and let Alina handle the small fires. It was efficient and seamless.
Alina kept me on track like a machine—dropping reminders, updating me on calls, confirming the car pickup for the evening. I barely looked up from my screen.
By 4:30 p.m., I was still at the office, reviewing product reports I should've delegated and ignoring three new texts from my mother. Alina popped in again with a reminder.
"You need to leave now if you want to be on time for the awards," she said. "Your driver's waiting downstairs. Your tux is already in the car."
I stood, straightened my jacket, and headed out without a word.
We made it to the venue in record time. I was ushered backstage, into a narrow dressing room.
Backstage at the event venue was chaos —staff rushing, camera crews adjusting lights, murmurs echoing through the corridors. I was escorted to a dressing room tucked behind the curtain wall of the stage.
I reached for the clean white shirt hanging beside me. By the time I'd slipped my arms through the sleeves, a wave of heat flushed up my spine. My breath came shorter. Tight.
I braced a hand on the table, chest tightening again. Steady breaths didn't help.
Then the door swung open without warning.
"Mr. Vale?"
I jerked my head up, vision swimming slightly. A young woman froze in the doorway, folder clutched in both hands.
"Oh God—sorry!" she squeaked, backing up a step. "I didn't know you were—um—changing. I should've knocked. Definitely should've knocked."
I didn't recognize her. She had that half-panicked, wide-eyed look.
She spun toward the door. "I'll come back! I'll just—"
"Wait," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "You're already in. What do you want?"
She turned back slowly, clearly trying hard not to glance at my half-buttoned shirt.
"Alina sent me. ? I'm interning with PR. She asked me to bring your speech notes for tonight. There were some last-minute changes from the sponsor. She said it was urgent."
I reached for the folder, but my hand faltered midway. She noticed.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked, frowning now.
"I'm fine," I said, although my voice sounded far away.
"You don't look fine," she said gently.
I ignored that. "Just give me the folder."
She stepped forward carefully and handed it over, eyes scanning my face.
"Are you sure you don't need—"
I didn't hear the rest. My knees buckled. The folder dropped.
"Mr. Vale?!" Her voice shot up an octave as I hit the ground hard. "Oh my God—oh my God—hey!"
She dropped to her knees beside me, nearly falling in the process.
"Hey—hey!" She crouched beside me, panic flooding her voice. "Oh my God. Are you okay? Can you hear me?"
I tried to answer, but the words didn't come out.
She hovered, one hand hovering inches from my chest, like she didn't know what to do. "Should I call someone? I—I think I'm supposed to call someone. "
Her hands fumbled for her phone. "I'm calling 911. Or Alina. Or maybe both?"
My eyes fluttered open briefly, and she stared down at me, worry written across her face.
"Please don't die," she whispered. "I really don't want to be known as the intern who killed Darius Vale."
I blinked, the ceiling blurring, her voice breaking through in pieces.
Of all the ways my day could've ended—this was not the one I saw coming.