Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the Past
Z
The rain beat a relentless, rhythmic tattoo against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Griffin Drake’s penthouse suite. Outside, Seattle was a sea of blurred, neon city lights, drowned in a sudden late-October downpour. Inside, the quiet was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the gas fireplace and the occasional tap of a crystal glass against polished marble.
Griffin stood staring into the storm, a glass of double-casked scotch resting heavily in his palm. It had been precisely three weeks since the night Sloan’s brain nearly ruptured, three weeks since his world was ripped wide open and stitched back together by two eight-year-old girls with his own emerald eyes.
He took a slow sip, letting the amber liquid burn down his throat. On his mahogany desk behind him lay the framed DNA certificate—99.99%. A piece of paper attempting to summarize an agonizing decade of lost fatherhood into a sterile mathematical probability.
A quiet chime echoed through the silent room. Griffin didn't turn around.
"The board meeting is set for nine tomorrow morning, Mr. Drake," his personal assistant, Arthur, said softly from the foyer. "And... the background check you requested on Miss Mercer's recent movements in the city has been completed."
Griffin’s grip tightened around his glass until his knuckles turned ghost-white. Genevieve Mercer. The name alone tasted like venom. The woman his mother had tried to force into his bed, the heiress whose family name had been weaponized to drive Sloan away. For ten years, he had believed Genevieve was just an innocent pawn in his mother’s ruthless social maneuvering. But nothing in his life was ever that simple.
"Leave it on the desk, Arthur," Griffin commanded, his voice dark and smooth.
"There's one more thing, sir," Arthur hesitated, holding a thick leather folder. "It appears Miss Mercer didn't just return to Seattle for her father’s estate. She’s been making inquiries about Sloan’s art restoration studio. She purchased thirty-four percent of the commercial debt on the building two days ago."
Griffin turned around slowly. His green eyes, usually so calculated and cool, flashed with a dangerous, predatory spark. "She's buying up Sloan’s mortgage?"
"It seems she's consolidating the entire block, sir. She has the legal right to foreclose within thirty days if the studio doesn't clear its outstanding liens."
"Get my chief legal counsel on the phone," Griffin said, his voice dropping an octave, deadly quiet. "Now."
The next afternoon, the scent of fresh turpentine, old paper, and drying oil paint filled Sloan’s workshop. High ceilings with exposed timber beams let in the diffuse gray daylight of the Pacific Northwest. Sloan sat on a tall wooden stool, a fine-tipped camel-hair brush in her hand, carefully restoring the faded golden filigree on a nineteenth-century Italian portrait.
Her life was supposed to be settling down. The brain aneurysm had been a horrifying wake-up call, but the recovery was going remarkably well. The twins were upstairs in the loft area they used as a makeshift playroom, their laughter occasionally drifting down over the soft jazz playing on the radio.
And then there was Griffin.
Sloan paused, her brush hovering a millimeter above the canvas. Every time she thought of him, a complex cocktail of emotions churned in her gut—bitter regret, undeniable attraction, and a deep-seated fear that the high-society world he inhabited would eventually swallow her daughters whole. He had been gentle, patient, and unbelievably accommodating. But Griffin was still Griffin Drake, a titan of industry who bought and sold empires before breakfast.
The front bell chimed as the glass door snapped open.
Sloan looked up, expecting a client or a delivery. Instead, a tall, impossibly sleek woman stepped into the gallery. She wore an ivory cashmere coat that cost more than Sloan’s annual rent, high heels that clicked with razor-sharp authority against the hardwood, and dark sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
When the woman slid her glasses down, Sloan’s heart stopped.
Genevieve Mercer.
She hadn't changed. The same perfectly sculpted blonde hair, the same icy blue eyes, the same aura of untouchable wealth.
"It really is a charming little workshop, isn't it?" Genevieve said, her tone dripping with polished condescension as her eyes swept over the paint-splattered floor and modest shelves. "A bit drafty, but I suppose art requires sacrifice."
Sloan set her brush down slowly, wiping her fingers on a rag. "Genevieve. I can't say I expected to see you here."
"Oh, I doubt you expected to see me anywhere near your lovely little haven," Genevieve smiled, stepping closer to the workbench and touching the edge of an antique frame with a manicured fingernail. "I heard about your medical scare. How dreadful. Cerebral aneurysm? It must be exhausting, trying to balance brain surgery, raising children, and running a failing business."
Sloan stood up, her spine stiffening. "What do you want?"
"I like to inspect my investments," Genevieve replied smoothly. She opened her designer leather bag, pulled out a heavy cream envelope, and slid it across the wooden workbench. "As of 9:00 AM yesterday, Mercer Holdings acquired the mortgage debt on this property. You owe three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in balloon payments and back taxes by the end of the month, Sloan."
Sloan felt the air leave her lungs. "That... that's impossible. I have a payment plan with the bank."
"The bank sold the note to me," Genevieve purred, leaning in closer. "And unlike the bank, I don't negotiate. You have thirty days to pay in full, or I foreclose. I take the building, the studio, and every piece of art inside as collateral."
"Why are you doing this?" Sloan’s voice trembled despite her best efforts to stay strong. "I left ten years ago! I gave you Griffin! I gave up everything!"
Genevieve’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp glare. "You gave me nothing, you naive little peasant. Griffin never looked at me. Not once. Even after you ran away like a coward, he spent a decade living like a ghost, obsession consuming him while he searched for you. My family was humiliated when he broke the merger agreement. My reputation was ruined in our circles because he refused to touch me!"
Genevieve took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And now I hear rumors. I hear Griffin Drake is spending his weekends playing house in a middle-class suburb. I hear he has bastards."
"Don't you dare speak about my daughters," Sloan snapped, her fists clenching tightly at her sides.
"They are Drakes," Genevieve sneered. "And whether you like it or not, Sloan, you cannot protect them from the storm that is about to hit you. Pay the debt, or get out of my city."
"She won't have to pay a single cent to you."
The deep, commanding baritone echoed from the open doorway. Genevieve froze. Sloan turned, her breath catching.
May you like
Griffin stood in the entrance, flanked by two men in tailored dark suits holding leather briefcases. He looked towering, immaculate, and utterly terrifying. The calm, forgiving father who had gently fed Hazel pancakes three days ago was completely gone. In his place was the ruthless billionaire who destroyed competitors without blinking.
Griffin stepped into the room, his eyes locked onto Genevieve. "Because as of ten minutes ago, Drake Systems acquired Mercer Holdings' entire debt portfolio. I own your father's company, Genevieve. Which means I own you."
