The next morning, Kelvin stood in front of the Morrowgate Holdings headquarters, craning his neck to see the top of the towering glass skyscraper.
It was massive.
Intimidating.
The kind of building that made you feel small just by standing in its shadow.
‘I don’t belong here,’ he thought.
But he straightened his blouse, adjusted his wig, and walked through the revolving doors anyway.
The lobby was even more impressive on the inside—marble floors, a soaring ceiling, and a reception desk that looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel.
Employees in sharp suits walked past with purpose, their footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
Kelvin approached the reception desk.
“Hello, I’m Kelly Austin.
I’m here to see Mr.
Morrowgate.” The receptionist’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
A flicker of recognition.
Then a smile—professional, practiced, and utterly fake.
“Ah, Miss Kelly!
Welcome to Morrowgate Holdings.
Mr.
Morrowgate is expecting you.
Please take the executive elevator to the 28th floor.
Someone will meet you there.” “Thank you.” Kelvin turned and walked toward the elevators, keenly aware of the eyes on his back.
He could feel the whispers before they even started.
‘That’s her?’ ‘The fiancée?’ ‘She’s prettier than the photos.’ ‘I heard she came from nothing.’ ‘Gold digger.’ He kept his expression neutral and his back straight.
‘Ignore them.
You’re here for Gabriella.
You’re here for Gabriella.
You’re here for—’ The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside.
******** The 28th floor was a world of difference from the bustling lobby below.
It was quieter here.
More exclusive.
The walls were lined with original artwork—paintings Kelvin recognized from his art history textbooks.
A Picasso here.
A Monet there.
Pieces worth more than his entire life.
‘And I’m supposed to curate this collection?’ A young man in a sharp suit approached him.
“Miss Kelly?
I’m Mr Morrowgate’s assistant.
Call me John.
Mr.
Morrowgate is in a meeting, but he asked me to give you a tour of the collection and introduce you to the team.” “Thank you, John.” “This way, please.” The tour was overwhelming.
Floor after floor of curated art.
Storage rooms with climate-controlled vaults.
A conservation lab where specialists restored centuries-old paintings.
A viewing room with adjustable lighting for private showings to potential buyers.
“The private collection spans three floors,” John explained as they walked.
“We have over two thousand pieces, ranging from classical American paintings to contemporary international works.
The previous curator handled acquisitions, exhibitions, and loans to museums.
You’ll be taking over those responsibilities.” Kelvin nodded, trying to absorb everything.
“It’s…
a lot.” “It is.” John smiled.
“But you have a degree from Marbeck, right?
Top of your class?
I’m sure you’ll manage.” Kelvin’s stomach flipped.
‘Marbeck again.
Alexander must have told them.’ “Thank you for your confidence,” he said smoothly.
They stopped at a desk near the window—clean, modern, with a fresh vase of flowers and a nameplate that read: ‘Kelly Austin’ ‘Assistant Curator, Morrowgate Holdings Private Collection’ “This is your workstation,” John said.
“If you need anything, my desk is just over there.
The team is excited to work with you.” ‘Excited.
Or curious.
Or suspicious.’ Kelvin sat down at his new desk, his heart pounding.
‘I have a job.
A real job.
At Morrowgate Holdings.’ His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, expecting another message from the unknown number.
Instead, it was a text from Alexander.
[Alex: Don’t embarrass me.] Kelvin stared at the message for a long moment.
Then he typed back: [I’ll try my best.] The reply came instantly: [Alex: Try harder.] Kelvin wanted to throw his phone across the room.
Instead he rolled his eyes at the message but felt a wave of relief wash over him nonetheless.
Alone time.
Precious, glorious alone time.
No Alexander watching his every move.
No silent judgment.
No reminders that he was nothing more than a well-dressed puppet dancing on strings.
He sank even more into his ridiculously soft leather chair and spun around once like a child.
He work table was close to Alexander’s office.
The office was empty.
The door was locked and there was nobody around looking at him.
For the first time all day, he could breathe.
“Not bad,” he muttered, running his fingers along the polished wood grain.
“Maybe this fake fiancée thing isn’t so terrible after all.” He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let the silence settle around him like a warm blanket.
Then his phone rang.
Kelvin’s eyes snapped open.
He grabbed the device, his heart doing a stupid little flip when he saw the word [Unknown] flash on the screen.
‘Finally.’ The unknown number had been texting him for days, taunting him, watching him, playing games.
But now the bastard was calling.
Kelvin could ‘hear’ his voice.
Could finally get some answers.
He answered without hesitation.
“Hello?” he said, his voice sharp, ready for a fight.
“Who is this?” But the voice that came through the speaker wasn’t the smooth, teasing tone of his mysterious stalker.
It was worse.
Much worse.
“Kelvin, my boy.
Long time no hear.” Kelvin’s blood turned to ice.
‘Marcus.’ “Surprised to hear from me?” Marcus’s voice was cheerful, almost friendly—the kind of tone a snake might use before it struck.
“You’ve been avoiding my calls, Kelvin.
Blocking my numbers.
Changing your routines.
I thought we were friends.” Kelvin’s hand trembled.
His mouth went dry.
“Marcus, I—I don’t have the money yet.
I swear, I’m working on it.
I just need more time—” “Time?” Marcus laughed, a low, ugly sound.
“You’ve had two months, Kelvin.
Two months of me being patient.
Two months of me being ‘kind.’ And how do you repay me?
You run.
You hide.
You treat me like I’m some debt collector you can just ignore.” “No, that’s not—I wasn’t—” “Shut up,” Marcus said, and his voice dropped.
The friendliness vanished, replaced by something cold and sharp.
“I’m tired of your excuses.
I’m tired of your games.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands.” Kelvin’s stomach lurched.
“What do you mean?” “I mean I did some digging.
And guess what?
I found out where your little sister is staying.” For a complete second, Kelvin forgot how to breathe.
His vision tunneled.
His heart stopped.
“She’s in St.
Louis General Hospital, isn’t she?
Room 407.
Such a peaceful room.
Quiet.
Clean.
Lots of machines keeping her alive.” “Marcus, no—” “I’m looking at her right now, Kelvin.” Marcus’s voice was almost casual, like he was describing the weather.
“She looks so peaceful.
Like she’s just sleeping.
It’s almost a shame to disturb her.” Something wet and hot was sliding down Kelvin’s cheek.
He didn’t realize he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking.
“Please, Marcus.
She’s all I have.
She’s sick.
She doesn’t have anything to do with this.
Please don’t hurt her.” “I’m not going to hurt her,” Marcus said.
“Not yet.
But I’ve got a video here.
A nice one.
Want to see it?” Kelvin’s phone buzzed.
A short video came through.
His sister.
Gabriella.
Lying in her hospital bed, tubes running in and out of her pale body, her chest rising and falling only because the machines made it so.
And sitting in the visitor’s chair, smiling at the camera, was Marcus.
Kelvin let out a sound he didn’t recognize.
A sob.
A scream.
Something in between.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Marcus said, his voice calm, businesslike.
“You’re going to come to the hospital.
Right now.
You have thirty minutes.
If you’re not here in thirty minutes, I’m going to start unplugging things.
And we’ll see how long your sister can breathe on her own.” “No!
Marcus, please!
I’ll get the money I owe you!
I swear I’ll get it!
Just give me—” “Twenty-nine minutes,” Marcus said.
“Tick tock, Kelvin.” The line went dead.
To be continued…