Tristen Reflag

The ballroom was a glittering monument to wealth, all crystal chandeliers and marble floors polished to a sheen that reflected the hollow smiles of the elite. The air smelled of imported flowers and the cloying sweetness of desperation—because tonight, beneath the veneer of sophistication, this was nothing more than a glorified cattle call.

Tristen Reflag stood near the grand staircase, one hand tucked casually in the pocket of his tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, the other holding a glass of whiskey that cost more than most people’s rent. His icy blue eyes swept over the crowd with detached amusement, his lips curling into a smirk as he watched the parade of socialites and heiresses flutter about, preening under the attention of lesser men.

Pathetic.

His father—ever the romantic—had insisted he attend this farce. "Time to secure the bloodline, son. Pick someone pretty, obedient, and preferably from a family that won’t embarrass us." As if Tristen needed the reminder. He knew exactly what he was looking for: a woman beautiful enough to flaunt, docile enough to control, and naïve enough to believe she could change him.

A server passed by, and Tristen plucked a fresh glass from the tray without so much as a glance. The man hesitated, as if expecting a thank you. Tristen raised an eyebrow. "Problem?" The server stiffened and scurried away.

Good. Know your place.

Across the room, a cluster of women whispered behind their champagne flutes, stealing glances at him. One—a blonde in a dress that clung like a second skin—dared to meet his gaze. She smiled, tilting her head in that practiced, come-hither way.

Tristen took a slow sip of his drink, letting her squirm under his scrutiny before deliberately turning away.

Too eager. Too obvious.

His attention shifted to someone near the balcony, their posture straight but not rigid, their laughter quiet but not performative. They weren’t throwing themselves at anyone, wasn’t simpering over the other trust-fund idiots in the room. Interesting.

Perhaps he should make a move.

The Reflag Industries headquarters was a steel-and-glass monument to power, a towering edifice where fortunes were made and competitors were quietly dismantled. The boardroom, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, was designed to remind everyone inside exactly who owned the skyline.

Tristen’s father, Victor Reflag, stood at the head of the obsidian conference table, his presence as cold and unyielding as the contracts he enforced. He didn’t turn as his son entered, merely flicked a dismissive hand toward an empty seat.

"Sit. And try not to embarrass me today."

Tristen smirked, unfazed, and slid into the chair with the lazy grace of a predator who’d never been challenged. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Victor finally turned, his sharp, aging features carved into a permanent scowl. "This isn’t one of your parties, boy. These men don’t care how much money you spend or how many women you’ve ruined. They care about results."

"And yet," Tristen drawled, examining his manicured nails, "here I am. So clearly, you do need me."

Victor’s jaw tightened, but before he could retort, the doors opened, and the board members filed in—old-money vultures in thousand-dollar suits, their eyes flickering between father and son with the practiced neutrality of men who knew better than to pick sides.

The meeting began with the usual drivel: quarterly reports, profit margins, expansion strategies. Tristen barely listened, already bored. He knew the real lesson wasn’t in the numbers—it was in the way his father wielded silence like a blade, the way the room tensed when Victor’s fingers tapped just once against the table.

Then, the CFO made the mistake of hesitating on a projection.

"You’re telling me," Victor said, voice dangerously soft, "that after six months, you still can’t guarantee a return?"

The man swallowed. "Market fluctuations—"

"Are excuses." Victor leaned forward. "I don’t pay you for excuses."

Tristen watched, fascinated, as the man’s confidence crumbled. This was the game. Not the money, not the power—the sheer, unrelenting control of it all.

When the meeting ended, the board members scattered like leaves in a storm, leaving only father and son in the cavernous room. Victor finally looked at Tristen, his gaze assessing.

"Well?"

Tristen stretched his arms behind his head, grinning. "You could’ve fired him. Would’ve been more fun."

Victor’s lip curled. "Firing is a last resort. Fear is better. Let them wonder when the axe will fall—that’s how you keep them sharp."

Tristen tilted his head. "And if they’re not sharp enough?"

"Then you replace them." Victor turned toward the window, the city sprawled beneath him like a conquered kingdom. "This empire wasn’t built on kindness. It was built on winning. Remember that."

Tristen’s smile turned razor-edged. "Oh, I will."

The coffee shop was one of those pretentious, minimalist places with reclaimed wood tables and chalkboard menus scrawled in aggressively hipster handwriting. The kind of place where people ordered oat milk lattes with ceremonial solemnity, as if they were conducting a sacred ritual instead of just buying caffeine.

Tristen strolled in like he owned the building, his designer sunglasses perched on his head despite the fact that it was barely dawn. He didn’t need coffee—he could afford to be well-rested—but he wanted it. And more than that, he wanted to watch some underpaid, overworked barista scramble to meet his impossible standards.

The girl behind the counter was young—early twenties, probably—with tired eyes and a forced customer-service smile. Her nametag read "Lena."

Perfect.

He stepped up to the counter, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable before speaking.

"Venti iced caramel macchiato. Quad shot. Extra caramel drizzle—inside the cup, not just on top. Light ice—and I mean light, not just you dumping the same amount and calling it good. Almond milk, but steamed, not cold. And if it’s not sweet enough, I’m sending it back."

Lena blinked, her fingers hovering over the register. "Uh… we usually just do the drizzle on top—"

"Did I ask what you usually do?" Tristen tilted his head, his voice dripping with faux curiosity. "Or did I tell you what I want?"

A flush crept up her neck. "Right. Okay. That’ll be—"

"And I want the cup double-lined. The condensation makes it slippery."

She hesitated, then punched in the modifications with stiff fingers. "That’s… an extra charge for the—"

"Do I look like I care about an extra charge?" He pulled out a black Amex and tapped it impatiently on the counter.

Lena’s jaw tightened, but she took the payment and turned to make the drink. Tristen smirked, leaning against the counter to watch her struggle.

She steamed the almond milk too long—he could hear the screech of the wand—and when she poured the espresso over the ice, it splashed slightly. Amateur.

When she handed him the drink, he took a slow sip, held it in his mouth, and then swallowed with an exaggerated sigh.

"Wow. That’s almost passable."

Her smile was fraying at the edges. "Glad it’s… almost okay."

He took another sip, then held the cup out. "It’s not sweet enough. Remake it."

"You—you didn’t even try it with—"

"I said," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "remake it. Or should I ask for the manager?"

Her hands shook slightly as she took the cup back.

Tristen smiled.