THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER

My Father's Enemies

The grin didn’t fade as I turned away from the mirror, my mind racing.

Fun. That was one way to put it. Insane was another.

I ran my fingers over the expensive watch, the weight of it foreign against my skin. The bruises on my knuckles, the ache in my ribs, the ghost of Dylan’s boot against my side—those felt real. But this? The palatial estate, the staff treating me like royalty, the ten million dollars sitting in my account?

It was like stepping into someone else’s life.

And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of cedar and wealth, then crossed the room to the massive walk-in closet. Rows of suits in deep charcoals and midnight blues hung perfectly pressed, their designer labels whispering a price tag I didn’t even want to guess at. The shelves held rows of polished Italian leather shoes, and the glass display cases glinted with cufflinks, tie bars, and watches worth more than my old bartender’s salary in a year.

I ran my fingers over the fabric of a jacket, my pulse steadying.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t powerless.

I wasn’t a joke.

I wasn’t just David anymore.

I was David Lancaster.

And if the world wanted to hand me a fortune on a silver platter?

Well. Who was I to refuse?

***

When Sophia returned, I was dressed.

The suit was a perfect fit, the silk lining cool against my skin, the tailored cut giving me a confidence I wasn’t used to. My hair was still damp from the shower, my face still bore the bruises of my old life, but somehow… I looked the part.

Sophia’s dark eyes flickered over me approvingly. "Master Vincent is waiting in the dining hall."

Dining hall. Not dining room.

Because of course, a place like this wouldn’t have just a room for eating—it had to have a hall.

I followed her through the endless corridors, my footsteps muffled by the lush carpets. Chandeliers cast a golden glow over oil paintings and antique vases, and I could still hear the distant hum of the staff moving through the estate, maintaining the illusion of effortless perfection.

Then we stepped into the dining hall.

And for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

The table was massive—longer than a city bus, carved from dark mahogany, set with fine china and crystal so delicate I was afraid to touch anything. A row of golden candelabras cast flickering light over the gleaming silverware. At the head of the table sat Vincent Cole, his fingers steepled, watching me with a knowing smile.

"Impressive, isn’t it?" he mused.

Understatement of the century.

I pulled myself together, striding forward as if I’d belonged here my whole life. A footman pulled out my chair—because apparently, that was a thing now—and I sat, keeping my expression carefully neutral.

Vincent lifted a glass of deep red wine. "To new beginnings."

I hesitated, then picked up my own glass. The crystal was finer than anything I’d ever held before, but my hand was steady as I clinked it against his.

"To new beginnings," I echoed.

The wine was smooth, expensive, probably aged longer than I’d been alive.

"As you settle in, there are things you must understand," he said. "The Lancaster empire is vast—businesses, properties, connections that span the globe. And as its sole heir, you will be expected to take control."

Control.

I picked up my wine glass, studying the deep red liquid. "You talk like this is some kind of kingdom."

Vincent smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "In many ways, it is. And every kingdom has its enemies."

A chill ran down my spine. "Enemies?"

"Andrew Lancaster was not a man without rivals, Master David. There are those who would prefer his empire to fall. Now that you have inherited it, you will have to decide—will you rise to protect what is yours, or will you let the wolves tear it apart?"

I set the glass down carefully.

I’d spent my whole life at the bottom, clawing for scraps, watching men like Dylan laugh as they crushed people beneath their boots.

But now, I wasn’t at the bottom anymore.

Now, I was the one with the power.

I leaned back in my chair, meeting Vincent’s gaze head-on.

I leaned forward, my fingers curling around the base of my wine glass as I studied Vincent. His gaze was unwavering, his posture effortlessly composed. He had the air of a man who had seen too much, a man who had served my father long enough to know things few others did.

"You said my father had enemies," I said, my voice steady. "Who were they?"

Vincent exhaled, setting his fork down neatly beside his plate. "Two men, in particular, stood out among the rest," he said. "They were not just rivals. They were men who despised your father, men who would have benefited greatly from his downfall."

I narrowed my eyes. "Who?"

Vincent met my gaze, his voice calm but firm. "The first is Marcus Montgomery, CEO of Montgomery Enterprises."

My breath caught, and my fingers clenched tighter around the glass. That name—I knew it. My mind raced, piecing together the realization that sent a chill down my spine. Marcus Montgomery. A billionaire. A man whose influence stretched across industries. And worst of all…

"Dylan's father," I muttered under my breath.

Vincent inclined his head slightly. "Yes."

Dylan Montgomery had tormented me for years, flaunting his wealth and power, making sure I never forgot my place. And now, his father was being named as one of my father’s greatest enemies? The connection made my skin crawl.

I forced myself to swallow my shock, setting the glass down before looking back at Vincent. "And the second?"

"Anthony Sullivan," he said. "CEO of Dominion Holdings."

I sucked in a breath. I had heard that name before. Anthony Sullivan was a giant in the business world, one of the top ten richest men in the country. His name graced the covers of financial magazines, his face appearing on news segments discussing corporate takeovers and billion-dollar deals.

Both of them—Marcus Montgomery and Anthony Sullivan—were not just wealthy. They were two of the most powerful men in the nation.

And they hated my father.

Vincent studied me for a moment before continuing. "These two men loathed your father, Master David. Their battles with him were not just about business. It was personal. And that is why they are the prime suspects in his death."

A sharp tension coiled in my chest. "Do we have proof?" I asked, my voice low.

Vincent shook his head. "No solid evidence. Only whispers, suspicions, and the knowledge that both of them had every reason to want Andrew Lancaster out of their way."

I inhaled slowly, my mind working through the implications. "How did my father die?"

Vincent’s expression darkened. "A car accident," he said. "It happened on his way to an important meeting. The official report states it was a brake failure, but those close to him knew better. Your father was always cautious. He never took unnecessary risks. The timing of his death was too convenient for his enemies."

I clenched my jaw. "You think Marcus Montgomery and Anthony Sullivan orchestrated it?"

Vincent nodded. "I do."

A cold rage simmered beneath my skin. My father hadn't just died—he had been taken out. And the men who had likely orchestrated it were still out there, living their lives, untouched, unchallenged.

But now, I had something they didn’t expect.

I had his empire.

And I wasn’t going to let them get away with it.