My Fanged Protector

"Time of death: 9:47 PM."

The paramedic's voice was flat, clinical. My knees hit the cold marble floor. I couldn't cry. It felt as though an invisible hand had reached into my chest, dragging my heavy, hollow organs downward. Every breath I took tasted of copper and iron.

Just three days ago, in this exact spot, my father had pulled me into a fierce embrace. In front of a ballroom full of elite guests, he had proudly declared, "Vivian is the greatest pride of my life."

"Ms. Ashworth," the paramedic said, stepping toward me. His expression carried a trace of hesitation. "We found this on the rug near the desk. I'm sorry, but it's completely empty."

He held out a small plastic pill bottle.

I stared at it, the label swimming in and out of focus. "Impossible," my voice cracked, sounding like it belonged to someone else. "He had his assistant pick up three new bottles of his emergency heart medication yesterday afternoon. He would never leave an empty bottle within reach."

The paramedic frowned, opening his mouth to speak.

"Vivian!"

A pair of strong arms wrapped around me from behind. It was Derek. He was wearing a custom-tailored black suit—something he usually despised—and was out of breath, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"I'm so sorry, I got here as fast as I could. I drove like a madman," he choked out, his voice cracking with pitch-perfect sorrow. He pulled my trembling body against his chest. "God... how could this happen? Richard was so healthy..."

His large hand rubbed soothing circles into my back. But in that moment, for reasons I couldn't explain, I noticed his heartbeat beneath the crisp white shirt. It was eerily steady. Calm. Rhythmic.

I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of the paramedic dropping the empty pill bottle into a hazardous waste bag out of the corner of my eye. A cold, sharp sliver of doubt lodged itself deep in my mind.

Seventy-two hours later. Ashworth Manor.

The funeral had just concluded, and the grand hall was packed with the board of directors of the Ashworth Group. The air was thick with the scent of white lilies and unspoken tension.

The family lawyer unzipped his leather briefcase. "Per the amended documents updated by Mr. Richard Ashworth last month, the following are the final, binding terms of his will."

A graveyard silence fell over the hall. I sat in the front row, Derek's hand gripping my right hand tightly.

"It was my father's deepest wish that the Ashworth Group be managed by someone the family trusts absolutely," the lawyer read aloud, his eyes scanning the watermarked paper. "I hereby transfer the total voting rights of my shares, and the appointment of acting CEO, to Mr. Derek Cole. I leave her in your hands, Derek."

Chaos erupted.

Several board members jumped to their feet, their faces purple with outrage. "Preposterous! Hand over a global empire to a scholarship boy fresh out of a trailer park?" one of them shouted over the noise. "Vivian is the sole heir! This document has to be forged!"

I didn't move. I just stared intensely at the signature on the projection screen. It was my father's handwriting. The microscopic hesitation and heavy pressure at the tail end of the 'h'—nobody could fake that.

Derek looked at the lawyer, the picture of absolute shock. "No, this is impossible..." He buried his face in his free hand. "Why would he do this? I don't deserve it... Vivian, I can't accept this. This is your legacy, not mine!"

I looked into his red-rimmed eyes. The doubt from three nights ago—the mystery of that empty pill bottle—pricked at me like a poisoned thorn.

"We are getting our marriage license next month anyway," I said smoothly, standing up. I flipped my hand to interlock my fingers with his, turning to face the lawyer and the restless vultures on the board. "My father made this choice because he trusted you. Take the company. Prove to him, up there, that he didn't pick the wrong man."

Derek sucked in a sharp breath.

He pulled me into a fierce, overwhelming hug. "I will protect this company with my life, Vivian. I swear to you," he declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

But in those few seconds, hidden entirely from the crowd's view, I felt something terrifying. The fingers of the hand wrapped around my waist were drumming against my ribcage. It was a rapid, rhythmic, exhilarated tapping.

Like a gambler who had just swept the table.

2:00 AM.

Sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, all I saw was that empty, white plastic bottle.

Needing something to ground me, I left my bedroom barefoot, intending to go downstairs and retrieve the framed family photo my father always kept on his desk.

The heavy mahogany door to the ground-floor study was slightly ajar, a sliver of golden light slicing through the darkness of the hallway.

I reached out to push the door, but a familiar voice froze my hand in mid-air.

"...cut the crap and stop overthinking it. Your legal fees will be wired to your offshore account by tomorrow morning."

It was Derek.

Gone was the grieving future son-in-law. His tone was arrogant, laced with a venomous sneer.

Squeak.

The sound of the $10,000 Italian leather chair turning. Two days ago, that had been my father's exclusive seat.

"The old man actually did me a favor dying when he did," Derek chuckled, the sound devoid of any humanity. "If he had held on for another two weeks, those geriatric auditors would have found the three-million-dollar hole in the accounts. I wouldn't have been able to explain it even if I had eight mouths."

The person on the other end of the phone muttered something.

Derek burst into a sharp, grating laugh. The sound made my scalp prickle and the blood drain from my face.

"A prenup? Do you honestly think that stupid brat ever breathed a word about a prenup?" Something heavy slammed onto the desk. "You all laughed at me. Laughed at me for playing the devoted, submissive lapdog for three years. Fetching her tea, kissing her ass. But look at me now. Her daddy's dead, and the entire Ashworth empire is mine! She eats because I allow it. One word from me, and she'll be back on the streets digging through trash."

My legs gave out entirely. I leaned all my weight against the doorframe to keep from collapsing.

Three days ago. The sea of ninety-nine red roses. The gentle promises. All of it shattered, melting into poisoned blades that twisted right into my gut. He didn't just want the wealth; he had completely discarded every shred of human decency.

"Just make sure your end is clean," Derek's voice dropped, growing deadlier. "Wipe the hospital logs. And specifically, scrub the pharmacy surveillance feed from the day his assistant picked up the prescription. The last thing I need right now is someone trying to figure out why his emergency bottle was completely hollow."

My blood boiled, a searing heat shooting straight to my head.

Through the narrow crack in the door, just as he was about to hang up the call, I saw it clearly.

Derek stood up. With an expression of profound disgust, he shrugged off the expensive black suit jacket he had worn to play his little part at the funeral, tossing it haphazardly onto the velvet sofa.

As the fabric folded, something slipped out from the inner breast pocket. It bounced softly and rolled to a stop on the Persian rug.

A white plastic bottle.

It was full. The exact prescription meant for my father. Leaving nothing but a carefully planted, empty shell beside a dying man.