Chapter 73: Chapter 73
"What took you so long?"
Leo’s voice didn’t just cut through the air—it ripped like a dominant growl, sharp and laced with a lethal impatience. He glared down his son, Henri Monroe, eyes burning with a predatory heat.
Leo was already tracking a foul scent. The air in the grand estate still tasted bitter after Damien’s blatant disrespect. His nephew had treated them like stray omegas, dirt beneath the high-and-mighty heel of the true bloodline.
Leo loathed Damien down to the absolute marrow of his bones. The boy should never have inherited the title. But to Leo’s compounding fury, Damien was the sole, undisputed heir to the Duke of Monaco, carrying his father’s devastating aura and flawless regal bearing.
Henri flinched, casting a frantic, submissive glance around the opulence of the grand hallway before invading his father’s personal space.
"There is a problem, Father," Henri whispered, his voice trembling so low it barely stirred the air. "I heard Damien talking about a DNA test."
"A DNA test?!"
Leo’s face contorted into something monstrous. Without another word, his hand shot out like a vice. He clamped down on Henri’s forearm, his fingers digging deep into muscle and bone, and violently dragged him out of the palace complex.
They tore through the gilded corridors and broke out into the shadows of the sprawling garden, far from the prying eyes and sharp ears of the royal guards. Here, amidst the heavy, suffocating scent of blooming night jasmine, they had privacy.
Leo’s grip tightened, threatening to crush the bone beneath Henri’s sleeve. "What did you hear? Give me every word."
Henri swallowed hard, his pulse drumming frantically against his throat.
"Damien was talking to his mother. He thinks he tracked down a girl... he thinks it’s Eugénie. He already submitted samples for a DNA match to seal the claim."
Leo froze. His face hardened into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. Then, a slow, dark exhale slipped past his teeth, and a wicked, calculated smirk curled his lips.
"It’s impossible for that bitch to be Eugénie," Leo murmured, a chilling certainty bleeding into his tone, as if he possessed firsthand knowledge of the grave she should be rotting in.
"But the winds have been blowing against us lately. We can’t leave a single variable to chance." His voice dropped to a sinister purr that vibrated directly into Henri’s mind. "We intercept the labs. We switch the samples before the results are locked."
A lethal light sparked in Leo’s gaze as he pinned his son beneath it. "Find out which facility he’s using. Hunt it down."
Henri nodded, fear and a desperate desire to please his sire warring in his chest. "Yes, Father. Consider it done."
"By the way... we secured the funds from the latest exchange, but it’s a drop in the bucket," Henri added, his posture fracturing under stress. "It will only buy us a few days. The wolves at our door are circling closer, Father. The threats are getting louder."
Leo’s smirk only widened, a depraved, sinful glint flashing in his eyes. "Let them howl. We will wipe the debt clean just like we always do. We just need to accelerate the hunt." He could feel the dark, machinery of his own mind spinning to life.
"But..." Leo held up a single, warning finger, his eyes narrowing to razor-thin slits. "For us to take the crown, you cannot fail this execution. You ensure those test results say exactly what we need them to say. Do you mark my words?"
"Don’t worry, Father. I’ll choke out any complications," Henri assured, straightening his custom suit jacket with a sudden surge of calculated arrogance.
Leo looked at his offspring, a flicker of deep-seated disdain passing through his chest. He couldn’t kill the bitter envy that clawed at his insides whenever he compared Henri to Damien.
Damien was a god among men—smarter, ruthlessly hardworking, a paragon of dominance and dedication. Leo had watched the young Duke fiercely protect the people of Monaco while simultaneously expanding the family’s massive corporate empire until its valuation tripled.
In stark contrast, Henri was a shadow. A parasite incapable of surviving without dragging from his father’s veins. He lacked the killer instinct, the raw ambition to forge his own territory.
It made Leo’s hatred for Damien fester into a toxic plague. He didn’t just want Damien’s status; he wanted to see the golden boy utterly ruined, broken, and bleeding out in the dirt.
Leo’s mind bled into dark memories of his past sabotages—the silent strikes, the whispers in the dark, all while keeping his brother’s fragile widow completely blind to the monster sleeping under her roof. The mere visualization of Damien’s downfall brought a sick, intoxicating euphoria to his soul.
"Do not let your arrogance blind you," Leo growled, locking his intense, furious gaze onto his son. "Damien can smell a conspiracy from leagues away. He is lethal. One misstep, Henri, and he will rip your throat out."
"I understand, Father. Trust my instincts," Henri replied, flashing a sharp, wicked grin. "I am your blood, after all."
Looking at his son’s dark confidence, Leo’s chest swelled with a twisted, possessive pride. The boy had inherited his venom. But Leo wanted more—he wanted his line to sit on the highest throne. Soon, he promised himself. The trap was set.
With a final, unspoken understanding, the two alpha-blooded men strode toward their waiting vehicles, their heavy footsteps echoing like a death knell.
***
In Paris, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Christian had just walked through the doors of his penthouse, the exhaustion of a brutal corporate war settling deep into his shoulders after a grueling conference call with his overseas directors. He ordered a black coffee to be sent up to his quarters and strode into his master suite.
Casting his keys and phone onto the heavy obsidian coffee table, he began to strip away the armor of his day. He unbuttoned his cuffs, tossing his bespoke, diamond-encrusted cufflinks aside, and was just about to pull his crisp shirt from his broad shoulders when his phone began to vibrate against the stone.
His brow furrowed into a deep, irritated V as Mother flashed on the screen.
With a dark sigh, he swiped the screen. "Mother. Make it quick."
"Christian, where on earth are you? Why are you ignoring Carrie’s calls?" Sylvia’s voice bombarded him instantly, sharp and demanding.
Christian closed his eyes, a low, warning growl rolling through his chest. Carrie had been hounding his scent for weeks, completely ignoring the fact that he had severed their contract. She was a ghost he had intentionally blocked out.
"Mother, tell her to cease this pathetic chasing. I’m done tolerating her constant intrusion," he ground out, his voice thick with raw irritation.
"Christian, she is your bonded fiancée," Sylvia pressed, her tone unyielding. "You owe her your presence."
"No, Mother, she is nothing to me," he snapped, the sheer force of his voice crackling over the line. "The arrangement is dead. I will not repeat myself."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the line. Sylvia held her breath, well aware that when Christian’s tone turned this cold, he was not a man to be pushed.
"Fine. We will settle this baseline later," Sylvia conceded softly, pivoting her strategy. "I actually called because I need you to represent the family at the gala in Paris tonight."
"I don’t have time for high-society theatrics, Mother," Christian dismissed coldly.
"Christian, it is vital for our infrastructure. I wouldn’t trespass on your time if it weren’t," Sylvia pleaded, her tone turning soft, maternal, and manipulative.
Christian rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the impending headache. "Fine. Send the coordinates. What time?"
"Tonight," Sylvia said instantly.
"Tonight?" His growl returned, deeper this time.
"Yes, sweetheart. And please, give my warmest regards to our hosts, the Corbins," she added swiftly, cutting him off before his dominant nature could reject the order entirely.
"Yeah," Christian muttered curtly, cutting the call without another word.
On the other end of the line, miles away, Sylvia slowly lowered her phone. A slow, venomous smile bloomed across her face, utterly satisfied.
She had intentionally steered her son right into the trap. Carrie was already waiting at the gala, armed with beauty, charm, and a desperate hunger to reclaim her place at Christian’s side.
Sylvia’s smile turned wicked. She had played her card perfectly. Now, it was time for the trap to spring.
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