CHAPTER 149: AT THE ATELIER!!!

Citadel City – SYND Private Hospital

The polished white halls of SYND Private Hospital glimmered under warm lights. The hospital was the pride of Citadel City—reserved only for the most powerful and the wealthiest. Business magnates, politicians, celebrities—people whose names carried weight and whose wallets could move mountains. Getting a bed here required more than just money. It demanded influence, connections, and recognition of status.

Inside one of the VVIP rooms, silence hung thick despite the soft hum of medical equipment.

A tall glass window overlooked the skyline. By the window, Silvey Sterling sat on a cushioned chair, her posture straight, her face calm on the outside—but her eyes betrayed sadness. She had spent the entire night here, her phone untouched on her lap until now.

On the bed lay a man—the once-proud patriarch of a family, now unconscious, tubes and wires hooked across his body, machines keeping rhythm where his strength once did. The faint beep... beep... beep of the monitor was the only sign of his fight for life.

Silvey finally exhaled, pulled out her phone, and dialed a number.

The line connected in a few rings.

"Miles," she spoke quietly, her voice carrying both control and trembling. "My dad met with a car accident."

Miles sat up straight in his chair in Star Harbor, eyes narrowing. "What? When did this happen?"

"Last night," Silvey answered. "The police said he was drunk and overspeeding. But Miles... my dad has never driven drunk. Never in his life. He has the cleanest record. Not even a single fine. When they told me he was intoxicated, I couldn’t believe it."

She paused, her tone lowering as if admitting defeat. "Even the doctors confirmed there was alcohol in his system."

Miles’s voice turned sharp. "How is he now. Tell me his condition."

Silvey looked at the still figure on the bed. His chest rose and fell with the help of machines. Her hand trembled slightly, but she gripped her phone tighter. "He has spinal injuries. His condition is uncertain. He has not woken up since the crash."

Miles did not speak for a long second. His silence pressed on her before he finally asked, "And the family meeting."

Silvey’s calm facade broke for a moment. "It has been moved near. Seven days from now. Uncle Kyle pressed for it. He used the accident to push his way."

The chill in Miles’s tone deepened. "So that’s it. They do not care if your father lives or dies. All they care about is their meeting."

Silvey’s voice lowered further. "I believe Uncle Kyle is behind the accident."

The line stayed quiet for a moment. Miles leaned back, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were cold.

"Listen, Silvey," he said at last. "Stay with your father. Do not leave his side. Take care of him. I will look into the rest. And do not worry about the meeting. I will stick to the plan. Just keep me updated if anything changes."

On the other side, Silvey exhaled softly, a small relief breaking through her worry. "Thank you, Miles."

"Take care," Miles answered, and the call ended.

Miles put his phone on the desk, but his jaw was set. His instincts told him this was no accident.

He picked up the phone again and typed a message.

Silvey’s father is in SYND Private Hospital. Possible foul play. Keep eyes on the hospital. Track everything. Report back immediately.

The message went to Monica.

Miles leaned back in his chair and looked out the tall window of Sterling Enterprises. The city glittered in the morning light, but for him, the day was already cold and sharp. Somewhere out there, Kyle Sterling was moving his pieces.

Miles was ready to move his.

Miles’s phone buzzed on the desk, the vibration sharp in the quiet office.

A notification blinked.

Photos received from Monica. Tagged: Very Important.

Miles opened the file. The first picture showed a man opening the door of Kyle Sterling’s new car. His hand gripped the handle, sleeve pulled back just enough. The image froze Miles in his seat. A half-inked spider tattoo, curling across the wrist, bold even under the grain of the photo.

He swiped. Another photo. Another man, in a different position, same tattoo. The third image left no doubt.

Miles leaned back slowly, eyes narrowed. His thoughts were sharp as blades.

"So," he muttered to himself, "he hired people from the WEB."

The air in the office felt colder.

For a long moment, Miles stared at the screen, letting the reality settle. The WEB—an organization that hid in shadows, made chaos and buried them, demanded loyalty sealed with blood. And now Kyle had welcomed them into his circle, his protection.

Miles shut his eyes for a second. The game had changed.

He leaned forward again, elbows resting on the desk, hands folded under his chin. Why is the princess here. Is she involved with Kyle. Does she already know about me. Is she here because of him...

Questions spun, heavy and fast. There were no answers yet, only possibilities.

One truth stood out—clear, undeniable.

The WEB, whether enemy or not, were opponents. A wall in front of him. A wall that would need to fall, sooner or later. They had the answers to his past, the truth buried years ago. And now they were also a threat to his future, a hurdle to the plans he was building step by step.

Miles’s eyes hardened, his jaw tightening.

He looked again at the tattoo, the curve of the spider’s legs, and whispered under his breath.

"You’ve revealed yourselves. That’s your first mistake."

The device on Miles’s desk beeped, June’s voice flowing out clear and steady.

"Boss, Mr. Smith—the owner of the auction house—is here to see you."

Miles adjusted his coat and leaned back in the chair. "Alright. Send him in."

A knock followed moments later.

"Come in," Miles said.

The door opened, and Smith stepped inside. His expression carried warmth and a touch of reverence. After their last encounter at the auction house, his respect for Miles was evident in the way he moved, cautious yet admiring.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sterling," Smith greeted with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Smith. Please, have a seat."

Smith settled into the chair opposite, posture comfortable but with the attentiveness of a man handling important business.

Miles’s voice was calm. "Tell me, Mr. Smith, how can I help you?"

Smith took a breath. "As you know, Mr. Sterling, the auction of the diamond is approaching. The diamond has just arrived back in the city. And I have recently learned something... it was you who saved us during the robbery attempt last time. I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart." His tone held both gratitude and resolve. "Today, I came here because I want to officially hand over the auction house’s security management to Sterling Security. Permanently."

For a moment, Miles studied him, then the corner of his lips curved into a smile.

"I am very grateful for your trust, Mr. Smith. I will arrange it for you. An executive will visit your location to discuss the security details. Rest assured, you will get the best service possible."

Relief and satisfaction touched Smith’s face. "Thank you so much, Mr. Sterling. Then, I will take my leave. I look forward to seeing you at the auction."

He rose, bowed slightly, and departed, leaving the office quiet once again.

Miles leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against the armrest.

The evening sun spilled through the tall glass windows of Miles’s office, painting streaks of amber across the polished floor.

Miles was bent over his desk, finishing a few notes, his pen scratching steady. Then the phone at his side buzzed sharply. The screen lit up with the secure line from Sterling Security Base.

He set the pen down, expression still calm, but his hand moved quickly to pick up the call.

"This is Miles," his voice carried the authority that always seemed to cut through the static.

On the other end, an agent spoke, his tone precise, measured.

"Boss, remember the person you asked me to flag yesterday?"

Miles’s brow furrowed slightly. His chair creaked as he leaned back, sharp eyes narrowing.

"What about her?"

There was a short pause, the sound of typing and chatter in the background before the agent’s voice came back low.

"She is at your restaurant, The Atelier. Right now."

The pen that Miles had set aside rolled across the desk. His hand tightened on the phone.

"What?" he said, his tone colder, the air in the room suddenly heavier. "What is she doing there?"

The agent answered quickly. "It looks like a simple dinner. Nothing unusual at first glance. But we have eyes on her, and the people with her. We’re waiting for your orders."

For a second, silence stretched. Miles’s mind was already running through possibilities—too many questions, too few answers. His heartbeat was steady, but his gaze hardened.

"Don’t do anything," Miles ordered at last. His voice dropped into that sharp, clipped tone his people knew well—it was final, absolute. "Just keep an eye on her. Everyone around her. Every exit, every movement. I’m on my way."

The agent didn’t argue. "Understood, boss. We’ll keep our distance. We’ll update you every minute."

Miles ended the call, already pushing his chair back. The legs screeched against the floor as he stood abruptly, his coat half-draped across the armrest. His hand swept it up in one motion, slipping it on as he strode for the door.

To be continued...