CHAPTER 67: THE TROUBLED TITAN

Mr. Captain Koker was a man who never lost.

He had built his empire brick by brick, deal by deal, outsmarting other moguls and staying afloat in the business world of billionaires.

But today, he had lost.

The deal he’d pursued for nearly a year, an acquisition that would have made his conglomerate the largest logistics network in North America, had slipped through his fingers at the last possible second. A rival swooped in, undercutting his bid and luring away two of his allies. Billions in potential profits gone, evaporated in the span of one board meeting.

The conference room in Midtown Manhattan was still thick with the aftertaste of his fury. He had shattered a crystal tumbler against the mahogany wall, a spray of Scotch dripping down like blood. The executives he employed had left in silence, lowering their eyes, knowing better than to remain in the same room when he was angry.

And in the emptiness, Koker sat at the head of the long table, seething. His hand flexed around his fountain pen as if it were the throat of the man who had betrayed him.

Failure was rare to him. Intolerable. But beneath the rage, something else stirred—Fatigue.

For years, he had sacrificed hours, days, months chasing the next victory. Money he had. Power he commanded. But time... time slipped away.

He thought of her then.

Mira. His only child. His light. His world.

Two months since he last saw her, he’d been too busy.

His jaw tightened. He’d been chasing the world, but his world was slipping away from him.

Koker rose abruptly from his chair. The glass crunched under his shoe, but he didn’t mind, they couldn’t penetrate his expensive shoes anyway. He snatched his coat from the back of the chair and strode out, his driver falling into step immediately.

"Home," he ordered. His voice was low, final.

The driver didn’t need to ask where. Everyone knew what home meant when it came from him.

The Koker Estate. Where Mira should be now. Where he hadn’t set foot in two long months.

Tonight, he was a father coming home.

---

A sleek black Maybach rolled through the estate gates, it’s headlights slicing through the mist. It pulled to a smooth stop at the driveway, and a tall man stepped out, his presence commanding even in silence.

Koker.

He entered the house without a word, his shoes echoing against the marble floor as he strode purposefully to his office.

Seated on his expensive leather chair, he pressed the intercom. "Tamara. My office. Now."

Minutes later, Tamara Shaw appeared in the doorway, clutching a folder to her chest. She looked professional as ever, but her shaky eyeballs betrayed her nerves.

"Sir, welcome back. How was Geneva?"

"Spare me the pleasantries," Koker said, lowering into the massive leather chair. "Run me through expenses and approvals. Every transfer. Every disbursement. I want full detail since the day I left."

"Yes, sir," Tamara said quickly, flipping through her notes. "There were minor routine disbursements, utilities, estate maintenance, a few wire transfers to contractors. And—" she hesitated, "—a one million dollar withdrawal to Mira’s account."

His head lifted slowly. "A what?"

Tamara swallowed. "A direct transfer, sir. Mira requested it."

"And you approved it. Without my authorization." His voice was carried steel.

Tamara’s fingers tightened on the folder. "Sir, I tried to reach you. You were unavailable. She said it was urgent. And... she reminded me of her position here."

His eyes narrowed. "Her position?"

"She said if I delayed, she would tell you I was obstructive, inefficient. That I couldn’t execute a simple wire transfer." Tamara’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard. "Sir, I know how much you care for her. And I thought... if she called you, upset, accusing me... you would... you would not be pleased with me."

The silence in the room was suffocating.

Koker leaned back slowly, studying her.

"You assumed," he said, laying emphasis on each word, "that my affection for my daughter gives her the authority to dictate financial policy in my absence."

Tamara’s voice cracked. "No, not authority, sir, she... she threatened me. And I believed you’d have approved it if I had called you."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. The weight of his gaze made her want to shrink into the floor.

"Tamara," he said finally, his voice as cold as marble, "do not ever take my fondness for my daughter as consent to anything and everything again. Mira is my daughter. If she demands, you call me. If I cannot be reached, you wait. And if she threatens you again—you remind her this office answers to me. Not to her. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Tamara whispered, her head bowed.

Koker turned from her, his eyes now fixed on the black horizon beyond the glass wall.

After a moment, he asked, "Where is Mira now?"

Tamara blinked. "I... assumed she was here, sir. She filed the request from this house."

He pressed the intercom again. Within moments, the head housekeeper arrived, wringing her hands.

"Sir?"

"Where is my daughter?"

The woman’s voice shook. "She hasn’t been here in three weeks, sir. She came from school once while you were away, with her friends, and mentioned something about her school cultural exhibition, but they left the next morning and she hasn’t come back since then. We thought you knew..."

"You thought."

The housekeeper dropped her gaze.

Koker rose from the chair, his presence filling the room. He looked from the trembling secretary, Tamara, to the housekeeper, then finally to the endless ocean, where night was deepest.

The only thing more dangerous than his fury was his silence. It was thick and suffocating in the office.

Koker’s hand hovered over the intercom again.

"Get me the aviation desk," he said finally.

Tamara nodded quickly, her fingers fumbling for her phone. Within minutes, the call was patched through.

"This is Reynolds, sir. Operations manager at the hangar."

Koker’s voice was low, "Reynolds. List every flight my Gulfstream has taken in the last three weeks. Every passenger. Every crew change. Now."

There was the faint shuffle of papers on the other end. Then Reynolds cleared his throat. "Yes, sir. Let me see... last logged international flight was Geneva, two months ago. That was your trip. Then..." His voice faltered. "There was another. Three weeks ago."

Koker’s eyes narrowed. "Go on."

"Yes, sir. Destination was to Mumbai. Three passengers. No crew change except the regular captain and flight attendants."

The room went deathly still.

"Mumbai," Koker repeated, the word slicing through the air. "Three passengers."

"Yes, sir. The manifest was filed under Miss Mira Koker’s authorization code. She... she instructed the crew directly. It appears everything was cleared through her channels."

Koker’s grip on the edge of his desk whitened his knuckles. "And you let that happen. Without a single word to me?"

Reynolds stammered, his voice cracking. "Sir, with respect—we all know Miss Mira is your only heir. She’s used your jet before, on short notice. She said it was urgent. And... sir, the truth is, we feared the consequences if she called you to complain. Everyone knows you don’t deny her. If she had reported us—"

Koker’s fist slammed against the desk, the sound like thunder cracking through the office. Both Tamara and the housekeeper jumped.

"You feared Mira?" His voice rose, sharp as a blade. "You feared a spoiled child more and thought it wise to approve her requests without passing through me first? Without passing through the man who signs your checks? Who owns the air you breathe inside that hangar?"

On the other end, Reynolds remained silent.

Koker straightened slowly, his voice dropping to a calm so cold it made Tamara shiver. "Reynolds. You are finished. Every last one of you who touched that flight, captain, crew, handlers, finished. As of tonight, you are dismissed. Security will escort you out of my hangar before midnight."

"Sir—"

"Not another word." He cut the line with a sharp press of the button.

For a moment, the only sound in the office was the faint hum of the intercom.

Then Koker turned to the housekeeper, his eyes burning like coals. "You. You remain here because you raised Mira when her mother walked out. But if you ever conceal her movements from me again, the years you’ve spent in this house will not save you. Do you understand?"

Her eyes filled with tears. "Yes, sir."

Tamara kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her pulse hammering in her throat. She knew what she’d just witnessed wasn’t far from her. It could be her turn any minute.

Koker moved to the window, staring out at the black expanse of ocean. His reflection glared back at him, hard and unyielding.

"Get out of my sight now."

The office emptied immediately, the housekeeper, then Tamara, who closed the door softly behind her as she scurried away.

Silence pressed in. Heavy and suffocating.

Koker remained standing by the window, his hands braced against the cool steel frame, staring out at the black ocean. His jaw worked, but his face usually framed in anger, began to falter at the edges.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since Mira last set foot in this house. Two months since he had seen her in the flesh, heard her laughter echoing through these halls, watched her storm out of a room because she always had to win. He could still picture her, chin high, eyes sharp, with that dangerous mix of his stubbornness and her mother’s fire.

His staff had indulged her because of him, he knew that. Because they knew. They all knew. He could never deny her. He was thoroughly feared in the business world, but the moment Mira looked at him—angry, spoiled, tearful, or sweet—he became weak in the knees and granted her every request.

But now... she was gone.

Koker sank slowly into his chair, his breath unsteady. He pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting against the sudden, alien burn at the back of his eyes.

"She’s just a girl..." he muttered to the silence. "My girl."

His fingers curled into his hair, gripping. He hated the feeling clawing through his chest—fear. Real fear. The fear that came when a father realized his daughter might be out there, unprotected, and for the first time, beyond the reach of his wealth.

The lamp on his desk cast a lonely pool of light across scattered papers. His empire, his fortune, his power, none of it mattered in that moment.

All he wanted was Mira.