Spoiled princess, Listen to me

The city glowed like it never slept. Neon, headlights, distant sirens. Past the noise, the roads stretched quiet and empty, the kind of quiet that made you forget chaos ever existed.

A black sedan cut through that silence. Smooth. Fast. The engine hummed low as the driver loosened his grip on the wheel.

“Sir, we can stop soon,” he said. “You shouldn’t be traveling this late.”

In the back seat, Alasdiar Whitmore didn’t look away from the window. “I’m old, not dying. Keep driving.”

The driver nodded. It was almost peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

Headlights appeared from the opposite lane, too bright, too fast. The driver cursed, jerking the wheel. Tires screamed. Metal slammed. The sedan twisted, rolling once, twice. Glass exploded around them.

Then everything went still.

Smoke leaked from the hood. Someone yelled for help. Another voice shouted to save the kids in the other car. No one ran toward the burning sedan.

“He’s trapped,” a man said. “He’s bleeding out, leave him before that tank goes.”

Inside, Alasdiar’s breaths came shallow and broken. He could hear them deciding he wasn’t worth saving. The heat licked at his skin. A flame crawled from the hood toward the gasoline pooling beneath him.

He didn’t fear death.

He feared dying alone.

A motorcycle engine roared in the distance.

Then, screech.

A young man jumped off the bike, helmet flying. No hesitation. No calculation. He sprinted straight into the fire.

Twenty, maybe. Dirt-stained shirt. Burned knuckles. Sharp eyes that didn’t blink when the flames flared.

He smashed the window with his elbow, reached through the heat, and dragged the old man out just as the sedan erupted behind them.

The explosion threw them both to the ground. Fire washed across the asphalt.

The young man coughed, arm burned, eyes watering. He didn’t stop gripping the old man’s shirt.

“Take him first,” he kept saying when paramedics arrived. “Don’t touch me, take him.”

Alasdiar’s heartbeat was faint but steady as they loaded him into the ambulance.

The young man staggered up behind them, sucking in smoke like it burned all the way down.

“What’s your name?” a nurse asked.

“Michael.”

“You family?”

“No.”

He looked at the stretcher carrying the only man who chose to survive tonight.

“Just someone who wasn’t gonna let him die.”

He didn’t realize the night had already decided what he’d become.

Not a stranger.

Not a witness.

A thread tied to the Whitmore family.

A thread that would soon strangle all of them.

~~~

Music blasted through the Whitmore mansion like it belonged to a club, not a billionaire’s home. Laughter echoed against marble floors. The chandelier glittered above a messy card table.

Daphne Whitmore lounged in her chair, legs crossed, black-to-pink hair glowing under the lights. She played with a lazy confidence, a glass of champagne warming by the hour.

“Queen,” she announced, tossing a card. “Again.”

Her friends groaned.

“You’re cheating.”

“I’m gifted,” she corrected, stretching her fingers like she’d just painted the Mona Lisa.

Her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with Liam’s name. She ignored it.

It rang again.

And again.

Daphne sighed, grabbed it, and answered with zero patience. “What?”

Liam’s voice trembled. “Miss Daphne… your grandfather’s been in an accident.”

Her fingers stilled on the table.

“He’s at St. Vincent’s Hospital,” Liam continued.

Daphne stared at her untouched champagne. “Is he dead?”

“N-no. But he’s…”

“Good,” she cut in, already standing. “He still owes me a million dollars.”

Her friends froze. One whispered, “Daphne… what the hell?”

She grabbed her purse. “Relax. I’m going to check on him. I’m not a monster.”

Her heels clicked away before anyone could respond.

~~~

White lights. Bleach. Worry bleeding from every face in the waiting room.

Daphne walked in like she owned the place,pink hair, shimmering skirt, perfume cutting through disinfectant. Heads turned. Nurses blinked like she’d stepped out of a movie.

She stopped at the front desk. “I’m here for Alasdiar Whitmore. I’m his granddaughter.”

The nurse exhaled. “He’s in surgery, miss. They’re trying.”

“So he’s not dead.”

The nurse hesitated. “We don’t know yet.”

Daphne tapped her nail on the counter. “Well, he’s not allowed to die tonight. He promised me money.”

The entire room fell silent.

Someone coughed.

Someone else muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Across the room, Michael lifted his head. He recognized the name, Whitmore. And he recognized the arrogance instantly.

This is the granddaughter he talked about?

The one he mumbled apologies for while bleeding out?

She didn’t even try to hide her boredom. She just walked off toward the coffee machine, scrolling her phone while complaining about reception.

Michael stared after her, jaw tight.

The old man had fought to stay alive.

She looked like she’d fight to stay awake.

He leaned back, tired, burned, hurting, and muttered under his breath:

“So that’s who he nearly died for.”

He didn’t know she’d be the one who would ruin his peace, break his rules, and eventually take apart everything he thought

he understood about loyalty.

Neither of them knew it.

But tonight was only the beginning.

The crash wasn’t the real explosion.

They were.