CHAPTER 21: SAINT BY NAME, SINNER BY SOUL.

Louis’ POV

"My enemies don’t live to tell how much of a monster I am.

Everyone thinks I’m a saint — perfect, innocent, untouchable.

But you know the truth now, don’t you, Mr. Journalist?"

I paced slowly, my gloved hand tracing the edge of the table. The sound of my boots echoed against the cold floor. His breathing was ragged, the kind of sound that begged for mercy even when the mouth stayed shut.

"You’d better start talking," I said softly. "Now. Or I’ll do things you can’t begin to imagine."

He whimpered, shaking his head, but I continued, voice calm and level — too calm.

"I already have information about your wife... and your daughters. They live here, in this city. A small apartment barely holding together on your small salary."

I crouched in front of him, watching his pupils widen. "You wanted a big break, didn’t you? That’s what they told you. They used you as bait. You’re disposable, Mr. Pearl — a name on a list. And the only mistake you made was walking into my world."

I stood straight again.

"Michael," I said without looking back, "take care of him. I don’t want to see his face by tomorrow. Get everything you can out of him — and if it’s useless..."

A pause.

"You know what to do."

Michael hesitated. "Louis—"

"No," I said sharply, turning to face him. "Don’t do it yourself. I need you here. Send someone else."

He nodded slowly, eyes uncertain.

I leaned closer to the journalist, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, and Michael," I added, "whatever sounds he makes out of... trauma — record them. Send them to me. I’d like to use them as a lullaby."

A thin smile touched my lips.

"It might help me sleep. Peacefully, at least.

---

I left immediately after I said that, stepping out of the bloody garage.

I was welcomed by the gentle evening breeze and the dark sky.

It was peaceful, the kind of peace that reflects the state of your soul... or at least what you think your soul is.

Charles would have loved that night. He always loved taking pictures of odd things — broken streetlights, empty alleyways, the lonely parts of the world no one else noticed.

He’d grin and say, "It’s so cool! It gives me this feeling, this vibe."

That was him — full of strange wonder.

Maybe before I made him sad.

But it’s better this way...

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Michael came out a short while after, his face long and tired. He looked at me — a little bored, a little disappointed.

"You need to stop doing this," he said quietly.

"Doing what?"

"Hurting yourself," he replied. His tone wasn’t angry. It was gentle. Almost pleading. "You need to stop treating Charles this way. Stop pretending it doesn’t hurt. You’re tearing yourself apart."

I turned away from him, hands in my pockets.

He sighed. "Louis... you’re my best friend. We’ve been friends since forever. To your father, I’m just your assistant, but you know that’s not true. I’m your confidant. No one knows you like I do."

He was right.

And that’s exactly why I didn’t want to hear it.

"Let’s get in," I muttered.

He tapped my shoulder. "We should probably get into the car, shouldn’t we?"

He led me toward our black car — bulletproof, sleek, far too fashionable for the kind of life we lived. I had it painted black because it reminded me of Charles.

But whenever Alistair asked, I always said the same thing: "Black is aesthetically pleasing."

I could never tell him the truth — that it filled a quiet, empty side of my chest.

Michael drove us back to the hotel. The one I was staying in.

Obviously mine.

On the road, the city lights flickered against the glass. I tried to talk about work, to fill the silence — because Michael was, in his own way, part of my mind.

"The foreign investors thought they had me," I said finally.

He smiled faintly. "But you turned the tables on them."

"We did," I corrected. "Our investigations into their illegal businesses were enough to shut them down. You even found out that one of the CEOs was cheating on his wife with some cheap whore from the red-light district in Hellas."

Michael snorted. "I still can’t believe he came all the way from another country for that."

I laughed softly — a hollow sound.

"What about the young heir who wanted to overthrow his father?" I asked.

Michael’s grin darkened. "That’s done too. His father’s... resting peacefully. The car went vroom down the mountain, remember?"

"Right," I said, smirking. "Straight off the cliff. Tragic accident."

"That means our plans are working," he said. "More control of the stock markets. Less competition. More profit."

I nodded, staring out the window. "That’s how it is."

The words tasted empty.

Then I asked, "What about Charles?"

My voice cracked a little.

Michael went quiet.

"He’s not my lover," he said at last. "He’s yours. Don’t try to throw that at me. You made that choice, Louis."

I clenched my fists. "Do you think I wanted to stay away from him? You think this is easy for me?"

Michael’s eyes flicked toward me, calm but steady. "Alistair is the only choice. Didn’t you tell me you loved him? Two months ago you said you were infatuated with Alistair."

"I know," I said softly. "I know what I said."

I leaned back in the seat, voice low.

"I should have never gone back home. Because now... everything’s coming back. Every feeling, every memory."

Michael looked at me. "Do you still love Alistair?"

I took a breath, then whispered,

"I think I do. At least... I think I do."

"Michael, do I still have a lot of work at the office after this?" I asked.

He was still driving, eyes fixed on the road, and he responded, "Yes, you do. Loads of paperwork."

I hummed softly under my breath. "I hate paperwork," I mumbled.

"Well, that’s something," he said, half amused. "You changed the topic," he added.

I grunted. "I don’t like talking about my complicated relationship with Alistair and Charles. It’d give me a headache... and I want to live a little bit longer, even if it’s by two seconds."

He chuckled quietly. "Okay," he said.

My gaze drifted to his arm. There was a small mark there — faint, shaped almost like a bird. It looked strange at first, but somehow familiar.

Michael didn’t have any parents. He was trafficked as a child before my father brought him to me. He became my loyal companion, my assistant. My father always said Michael was trained to help me — to aid me in whatever I needed.

He thought of him as little more than a slave.

But I saw something in him — the same hopelessness, the same quiet emptiness I once felt in myself.

He was more than a slave to me. He was my friend.

And now, here he was — sitting right beside me, bearing my troubles like they were his own.

---

Soon enough, we arrived at my hotel. Michael told me I needed to take a shower before going back to the office to handle the paperwork — because, according to him, once I started working, I’d be too lazy to bathe before sleeping. He said it was reckless behavior and bad for my health.

He always liked to act like an older brother, even though he was only five years older than me. Well, that was something. I always teased him about that and never really treated him like someone older —I treated him more like someone my own age.

He escorted me up to the elevator, and I went to my room. It carried memories — quiet, heavy ones. When I was younger, my father and I used to stay in suites like this. It wasn’t exciting, nor was it happy. Those days only reminded me that every action I took mattered — that if I failed to act, people could die.

It was always about risks. If I took one, there would be losses. But if I didn’t, there would be even more. That’s the kind of game I learned to play. Either I took the throne, or someone else would rise to claim it.

And if that happened, Father would only continue his brutal methods.

I wanted to change things — to reform the company, to make it better, cleaner, slowly but surely. That had been my goal for as long as I could remember. Since I was thirteen, maybe even earlier.

I started when I was thirteen. Now, I’m twenty-five. Twelve years. Twelve years of this same cycle — of risks, losses, and carefully chosen victories. I grew up between numbers and negotiations, between silence and commands. Sometimes, I wonder if I ever really had a childhood, or if I just borrowed one for a little while before Father took it back.

Twelve years. That’s long enough to forget what it means to live for yourself. Long enough to turn duty into instinct and fear into habit. Maybe that’s why I still cling to small things — the quiet of my room, the faint hum of the elevator, Michael’s tired lectures about my health. They’re the only things that remind me I’m still human.