Chapter 1

ESSEN POV

Essen King walked into the building like he owned the place.

Maybe that is because he did.

And not just this one—he owned countless others in Acrocs, a state where only the wealthiest could afford to live.

But today, he has one mission and that is to kill a man who dare to threatened him.

The click of his polished shoes against the marble floor was the only sound as he entered the building.

He adjusted the cuff of his suit, his pace unhurried, exuding the quiet authority of a man who never had to ask for power.

His presence was enough to silence most of the room. The ones who dared to keep shouting were either foolish or new to the game.

They bowed for him as he walked into the conference room passed his employees.

Samuel, his assistant, matched his stride beside him, murmuring under his breath. “They’re expecting a statement from you. Some are speculating you’ll cave to Pella’s demands.”

Essen let out a quiet scoff.

As if.

Samuel continued. “Others believe he has leverage on us. Possibly confidential documents since he was on the board.”

Essen’s jaw tensed. Not because of the claim, but because of the stupidity of it.

Leverage? Against him?

Pathetic.

The thought alone irritated him. Director Pella wasn’t the first man who had tried to threaten Essen King, and he wouldn’t be the last.

But they always failed just like Pella would.

The moment he stepped into the press hall, chaos erupted.

Journalists surged forward. Cameras flashed in rapid bursts, their blinding lights flickering across his sharp, chiseled features.

The air vibrated with shouted questions, each one overlapping the next.

An ordinary man might have faltered under the intensity.

“Mr. King! Are you reconsidering your decision?”

"Will you grant Director Pella’s demand?"

"Is it true he has evidence against you?"

Essen didn’t even blink. He continued walking.

His assistant, Samuel, matched his pace beside him, a clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable behind sleek glasses.

Security flanked them on either side, their stances rigid, scanning for any sign of a threat.

But Essen didn’t need protection.

The true weapon in this room was him.

The journalists fought to be heard over one another. They were starved for a response, craving any reaction from him that could be spun into a headline.

Vultures!

He reached the podium. The hall fell into an uneasy silence.

Seconds stretched, thick with expectation. The cameras kept rolling, capturing the sharp angles of his face, the unreadable expression, the slow inhale before he spoke.

He was worth billions and billions and they knew it. Vultures!

But he let them wait.

Essen gave them nothing but a raised hand.

The expectation pressed down on the room, heavy and suffocating. Journalists gripped their pens.

The soft hum of cameras filled the void. A bead of sweat rolled down the temple of a junior reporter in the front row.

He almost smiled, almost.

He had the power and he knew it.

Finally, Essen spoke.

His voice was smooth, deep, and sexy so much that some women unconsciously closed their legs tighter.

“Director Pella, that bastard,” he began, “embezzled millions from King Enterprises. My company.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A few journalists scribbled furiously, while others lifted their microphones higher.

“Instead of throwing him in jail, I decided to sack him which he should be grateful for, but he made a counteroffer instead.”

The room was tensed. Every eye was locked on him.

Essen tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “He threatened to take his own life and broadcast it live for attention if I do not reinstate him. And you people belived him instead because I'm the bad guy, right?”

Gasps. Whispers. Awkward looks. The frantic scribbling of notes.

A reporter who was very bold yet stupid shot to her feet. “Are you saying Director Pella is leveraging his own life as blackmail?”

Essen didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch, controlled, calculated. The tension in the room coiled tighter.

“He has no leverage because I DO NOT CARE. Just in case you forgot, let me remind you that I, Essen King, do not negotiate with men who has no dignity. I refuse to listen to a man like that.”

The statement sent a shiver through the room.

Click. Click. Click. The sound of camera shutters filled the silence, each capturing a man utterly unmoved. Some were shocked. Others expected nothing less from him.

A senior journalist from Business Weekly adjusted his tie. “Mr. King, don’t you think this response is… cold? I mean…the man is on a building as we speak.”

Essen’s lips barely curved. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“And so?”

More gasps. A few exchanged glances.

“But Mr. King,” another journalist pushed, “if he follows through with his threat…”

“That is his choice,” Essen interrupted, his voice a crisp finality. “Not mine.”

The room held its breath.

Somewhere in the back, a camera shutter clicked. The sound echoed like a gunshot.

Essen scanned the sea of faces. He saw fear. He saw intrigue. But most of all, he saw hunger—the relentless craving for power, influence, survival. They did not actually care about Director Pella.

They wanted more. A statement. An apology. A justification. All from him.

They would get none of it.

A senior reporter adjusted his tie. “Mr. King, don’t you think you are being too brutal? As they say, a man's life is as stake here.”

“This is business,” he said, glaring at the man. “I don't like repeating myself. I don't plan on retaining his position whatsoever. If Director Pella decided to kill himself, that is his up to him.”

The reporter swallowed.

Samuel, standing beside him, checked his watch. A subtle signal. The press conference had lasted long enough.

But the journalists weren’t done.

"Sir, what about the claims that Pella has sensitive company documents?"

"Is it true he threatened to expose classified information?"

"Are you concerned this could damage your reputation?"

Essen exhaled quietly, his patience thinning.

He leaned forward just slightly, enough that the microphones captured every syllable.

“Director Pella has already lost,” he said, voice like steel. “He knew it and nothing would change that wether he is dead or alive.”

The words sent a shiver through the room.

Essen straightened. He had wasted enough time here.

He turned and walked away.

Samuel followed immediately, signaling security to keep the press at bay.

The moment Essen stepped out of the hall, the noise erupted again.

Questions. Murmurs. Speculation.

But none of it mattered.

By the time the headlines hit tomorrow, Essen King would still be Essen King.

If anything changed at all, he still wouldn't care.