Kneel For Me: The Immortal Queen's Shadow

"You people are just jealous of my life."

Aedan Marshall lounged on the velvet sofa, his voice dripping with contempt. He stared directly into the lens of the studio camera, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face. He didn't care that millions were watching. In fact, he loved it.

In the corner of the room, standing just out of the camera's frame, Julian Fletcher wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. The publicist's hands were shaking. He waved his arms frantically, slicing his hand across his throat in the universal sign to cut the feed.

Aedan saw him. He deliberately ignored the warning. He leaned closer to the lens, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You sit behind your screens, typing your little comments, while I live in a mansion you could never afford."

The live chat on the monitor beside him exploded. The text scrolled so fast it was a blur of vitriol. Scum. Cancel Aedan. Privileged trash. The hate was a living, breathing thing, filling the studio with a suffocating tension.

Julian couldn't take it anymore. He lunged forward, his hand reaching for the power switch on the camera rig. "Aedan, stop!" he hissed, his voice cracking.

Aedan's hand shot out, smacking Julian's hand away with a brutal backhand. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "Don't touch my equipment," Aedan snarled.

He stood up from the sofa, his posture rigid with defiance. He looked back at the camera, his middle finger raised high in the air. "This is what I think of your outrage."

The cameraman, acting on pure instinct, hoisted the heavy camera onto his shoulder and stepped forward, shoving the lens right into Aedan's face to capture the explosive moment.

The proximity was a mistake. Aedan's temper, already a lit fuse, detonated. His eyes went wide with fury. He grabbed the front of the cameraman's shirt with one hand and shoved him backward with all his strength.

The cameraman stumbled, his boots catching on a thick cable on the floor. He went down hard, the expensive camera hitting the concrete floor with a sickening crunch. Glass shattered. Plastic splintered.

Silence crashed into the room, broken only by the cameraman's groan of pain. Two production assistants rushed over to help him up, their faces pale with shock.

Aedan didn't even glance at the wreckage. He let out a cold scoff, adjusted his jacket, and turned on his heel. He strode toward the double doors of the studio, leaving the chaos behind him.

"Aedan!" Julian chased after him into the corridor, his shoes squeaking on the polished hardwood. He grabbed Aedan's arm, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric. "Are you insane? You just assaulted a crew member on live television! Your career is over! The family name-"

Aedan whipped around, his arm ripping free from Julian's grasp. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving. "The Marshall family doesn't answer to anyone!" he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. "Not the public, not the network, and