The Cross estate stayed active long after most houses slept.
Even at night, when the city dimmed and noise retreated into pockets of shadow, the house remained alert—lights glowing softly behind tall windows, corridors humming with quiet purpose. It was less a home than a fortress of continuity, built to endure generations rather than comfort them.
The library was the heart of it.
Adrian's father sat alone inside it, surrounded by dark mahogany shelves that rose from floor to ceiling, packed with leather-bound volumes he rarely read but insisted on owning. History, economics, philosophy—symbols of legacy more than leisure. A single lamp cast a concentrated pool of light across the broad desk, illuminating the tablet resting beneath his hand.
He did not scroll.
He did not need to.
The headline had been there for the last ten minutes.
MILAN AGENCY SIGNS EVELYN HART — INDUSTRY SHIFTS IMMINENT?
His jaw tightened.
Across from him, standing perfectly still near the edge of the carpet, was his assistant—a man in his early forties who had learned long ago how to exist quietly in this room.
"Say it again," Adrian's father said calmly.
The assistant swallowed. "The confirmation came through this evening, sir. Milan finalized the contract this morning. Evelyn Hart signed personally."
Silence.
The man behind the desk leaned back slowly, fingers steepled, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the shelves—as if the walls themselves had offended him.
"Hart," he repeated. "Of all names."
The assistant shifted his weight carefully. "Industry chatter suggests Milan intends to position her as a long-term investment. Public-facing training has already begun."
"Of course it has," he said coldly. "They wouldn't move without assurance."
He stood then—tall, broad-shouldered, immaculate in a dark tailored shirt despite the late hour. Time had not softened him. It had sharpened him. Where Adrian carried restraint, his father carried certainty.
"Do they think," he continued, voice low and dangerous, "that this is coincidence?"
The assistant did not answer. He knew better.
"This city," the man said, stepping toward the window, "has always understood hierarchy. Milan was allowed to grow because it knew its place."
He turned abruptly. "Apparently, it has forgotten."
The assistant cleared his throat. "Sir… there is speculation that the Harts may be aligning themselves—"
"They are not important enough to align with anyone," he snapped. "They are useful. Or they are irrelevant. There is no third option."
A pause.
Then, with deliberate calm, he added, "Leave me."
The assistant bowed his head slightly. "Yes, sir."
The door closed softly behind him.
The library returned to silence—but it was no longer empty.
Adrian's father stared at the darkened glass of the window, his reflection staring back at him. He had built an empire that bent markets, dictated trends, swallowed competitors whole. Cross Entertainment was not simply the largest force in the city—it was the measure by which all others were judged.
And now, Milan had dared to touch something visible.
Personal.
He returned to the desk, picked up his phone, and scrolled once before pressing call.
The line rang twice.
"Mr. Cross," came the voice on the other end—formal, cautious. "This is unexpected."
"That tells me you already know why I'm calling," Adrian's father replied.
A brief pause.
"Yes," Evelyn Hart's father said. "I assume you've seen the news."
"I don't deal in assumptions," he said coolly. "I deal in confirmations."
Another pause, longer this time.
"It's true," Hart said finally. "Evelyn signed with Milan."
The silence that followed was not shock.
It was restraint.
"You allowed this," Adrian's father said quietly.
"I tried to stop it," Hart replied quickly. "I spoke to her. Repeatedly. She refused to reconsider."
"Refused," he echoed. "Your daughter."
There was something almost amused in his tone now—sharp, humorless.
"She's eighteen," Hart said. "Legally, there was nothing more we could—"
"Do not insult me," Adrian's father cut in. "Eighteen does not grant power. It grants responsibility."
Hart exhaled. "She wanted independence."
"And you gave it to her," he said flatly. "At the worst possible moment."
"This wasn't about you," Hart snapped before he could stop himself.
The response was immediate.
"Oh," Adrian's father said softly. "Everything is about me."
Hart went quiet.
"You have enjoyed protection," the man continued. "Stability. Relevance. You were close enough to the Cross name that others hesitated to interfere. And now—"
"I did not orchestrate this," Hart said. "If that's what you're implying—"
"I don't imply," he replied. "I observe."
He stood again, pacing slowly now, each step measured.
"Milan does not act without leverage. If they believed for a moment that your family remained neutral, they would not have moved so boldly."
"I swear to you," Hart said, voice tight, "there is no partnership. No agreement. Evelyn acted alone."
Alone.
The word lingered.
"Then she is reckless," Adrian's father said. "And recklessness invites correction."
Hart stiffened. "She's still my daughter."
"And she is still a symbol," he replied coldly. "Whether she likes it or not."
Silence stretched between them—thick, uneasy.
"I will not punish you," Adrian's father said at last. "Not yet."
Hart's breath released slowly.
"But understand this," he continued. "Distance does not equal safety. If Milan is using her to provoke Cross Entertainment, the response will be… decisive."
"What are you saying?" Hart asked.
"I'm saying," he replied, voice sharp as glass, "that you should pray your daughter understands the difference between freedom and defiance."
The line went dead.
Adrian's father lowered the phone.
For several moments, he simply stood there, the library pressing in around him, generations of expectation humming through the walls.
Then he allowed himself a thin, humorless smile.
"So," he murmured to the empty room. "My son chooses restraint."
He turned toward the desk, eyes dark.
"And the city chooses chaos."
He reached for the tablet again, scrolling past headlines, forecasts, movements—calculations forming effortlessly in his mind.