When Rowon woke, the air felt wrong. Stale. Heavy. He blinked, vision slow to adjust, only to find himself lying on a wide, surprisingly clean bed. The sheets were fresh, crisp even—but the rest of the room was something out of a nightmare.
Dark stains mottled the floorboards and walls, old blood long dried but never scrubbed away. The coppery scent lingered faintly in the air, like a memory refusing to rot. It wasn't neglect. It was devotion. A haunting shrine to the massacre that had unfolded here decades ago.
Rowon tried to sit up, but the rattle of metal stopped him cold. His right wrist, his left ankle—both chained to the bed. His stomach twisted, fury and unease colliding.
There was a chair across from him. The only other piece of furniture that wasn't caked in dust or dried blood. Someone had been sitting there. Watching.
The door creaked open with a sound like bones cracking.
A tall, slim man entered—shoulder-length hair streaked with gray, his frame wiry but not frail. His face, sharp and worn, carried an unsettling resemblance to Felton. Older. Rougher. Eyes with too much history behind them.
Eros.
"You woke up," he said simply, his voice rough, calm.
Rowon's gaze sharpened instantly. "Why? Why did your husband kidnap me? And Felton—does he know?"
Eros chuckled low in his throat, a humorless sound. "My, my. Too many questions at once, child. Catch your breath."
Rowon's eyes narrowed, his tone clipped. "Answer me while I'm still showing respect, sir."
Eros tilted his head, almost amused. "And why respect me at all?"
Rowon's jaw clenched. "Because you're Felton's father. That's enough reason. But not your husband."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Eros's lips, but it didn't soften his eyes. "You're rather calm for someone who just got kidnapped."
"Stop circling me," Rowon snapped. "Answer. Why did Apollo bring me here?"
Eros leaned back in the chair, studying him with a long, knowing look. His silence pressed down heavier than words. Finally, he said, "I know that you know."
Rowon's patience snapped. He pulled against the chain with a sharp clink, eyes burning. "I'll ask one last time. Why?"
"For you," Eros said, his voice steady, almost gentle. "To carry the Brown legacy."
Rowon froze. "…The fuck?"
"You already know," Eros continued smoothly. "I have my own butterflies. They keep me informed about Felton. About Sage."
A jolt of cold panic shot through Rowon. If Eros knew that much, then—did Apollo know? Did he know about Sam?
Almost as if reading his thoughts, Eros shook his head lightly. "No. Apollo doesn't know. Not yet. Not about Sage and Sam. Not about what Sage has done… or the success he's achieved."
Rowon's breath stuttered. His body tensed. The meaning behind those words made his stomach turn violently.
"What do you mean?"
A sudden lance of pain surged low in his abdomen, sharp and unrelenting. He staggered off the bed, barely catching himself against the wall.
"What… what did you do to me?!"
"The same thing that was done to Sam," Eros said, unflinching.
Rowon dropped to the floor, sweat breaking across his brow, trying to force his breathing steady. The pain throbbed like a warning drum. Across from him, Eros calmly pulled out the chair, sat down, and leaned forward as if they were sharing drinks instead of horror.
"You said it yourself," Rowon rasped. "You want me to carry the Brown legacy. But Felton—Felton isn't even a Brown. He's your son. Not Apollo's. So how the hell would I be carrying the Brown legacy? It's Sam. Sam's the one…"
His thoughts spun faster, unraveling as the pain stabbed deeper. He knew Apollo's obsession. He knew Sage had ruined his father's schemes by succeeding first. He knew Apollo loathed Sage—and if Felton now turned his eyes to a man, then Apollo would see no heirs from either of them. So, of course. Of course he'd look elsewhere. To Rowon.
Eros didn't laugh this time. He only looked at Rowon with that calm, infuriating disbelief, as though Rowon was a child reciting nonsense.
"Didn't your friend Rai ever tell you the truth about the Brown family tree?" His tone was cutting now, every word deliberate. "He knows better than anyone."
Rowon blinked, chest heaving. "Rai? What the hell are you talking about?"
He cursed the detective inwardly, that sharp-eyed bastard who always seemed to know more than he let on.
Eros leaned closer, voice lowering as though speaking a confession.
"Sage and Felton are both Browns."
Rowon's head snapped up, fury and confusion blazing. "What? Apollo married Felton's mother? Then what are you—his stepfather?"
Eros clicked his tongue softly. "Tsk, tsk." His expression hardened, though his eyes shimmered with something raw.
"Their mother was our universe. The goddess of my life. The finest sniper I have ever known. Stronger than any man, sharper than any blade. She was love itself. Nicholia."
Rowon's eyes widened, the name ringing like a gunshot in his skull. Nicholia?
Eros's gaze softened—not with warmth, but with the heaviness of memory. His lips curled into a wistful smile, though his eyes looked like they were staring decades back in time.
"You see, child… before the world painted Apollo as the madman you know him to be, before Sage ever became the heir of blood, there was a woman who defined us both. She wasn't just our wife, our comrade, our compass—she was everything. Nicholia Brown."
Eros's voice lowered, carrying the weight of devotion and grief. "The mansion you're chained in… this was her cathedral. Every bloodstain you see… that's not Apollo's legacy. That's hers. Her fight. Her massacre. And we—Apollo and I—we were bound to her, and to each other, because of her."
The dust-choked air grew heavier. Rowon clenched his jaw, torn between disbelief and the gnawing dread that the puzzle pieces were about to arrange themselves into something unspeakable.
Eros leaned back in the chair, as though settling into the comfort of remembrance.
"Let me tell you how it began… the story of Apollo, Nicholia, and me. How love and blood gave birth to 'this' Brown legacy you've stumbled into."
And just like that, the past uncoiled—bleeding into the present like fresh wounds reopening.
*****
( Flashback Begins)
The Brown mansion was alive with cold grandeur that afternoon, its marble halls polished until they gleamed like ice. A subtle chill lingered in the air, as though the walls themselves disapproved of the negotiation about to unfold.
Nicholia Brown stood at the head of the long mahogany table, her presence commanding without effort. Her gaze—sharp, hawk-like—swept across the gathered board members who had orchestrated this "meeting of families." She wore a tailored black suit instead of the usual silks, and her lips curved into the faintest smirk. The air was hers; the legacy was hers.
And yet—her crown came with a chain.
Apollo Augustine entered late, as if to prove a point. The son of the Augustine shareholder dynasty, he carried himself with the arrogance of a man who knew exactly how desirable he was. Shoulder-length hair tied loosely, suit slightly undone, a smirk playing at his lips—he was every bit the reckless charmer the whispers described.
Apollo's gaze landed on Nicholia. For a split second, silence seemed to fall. Then, with a faint bow, he muttered, "So this is the infamous Brown heiress. The woman who terrifies half the boardroom."
Nicholia's eyes narrowed. "And this," she said evenly, "must be the Augustine son. The man who terrifies half the bedrooms."
A few muffled coughs of laughter escaped the room. Apollo tilted his head, amused, unbothered. "Touché. So, shall we skip the pleasantries?"
The deal was set on the table like a contract with no soul:
*Nicholia would marry Apollo.
*They would produce an heir.
*Apollo would gain influence.
*Nicholia would secure her empire.
The board clapped politely, relieved. But when the families withdrew, Nicholia and Apollo found themselves alone in the study. The silence was suffocating, until Apollo broke it first.
"You know," he drawled, pouring himself a glass of whiskey without asking, "most women would kill to be in your position. Marrying me, I mean."
Nicholia's gaze was steady, unflinching. "And most men would kill to be in mine. Running the Brown empire."
Apollo smirked. "So we're both killers, then."
"No," Nicholia said, stepping closer, her voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "We're both survivors. Let's not confuse the two."
They stood inches apart now, the tension between them not quite attraction, not quite rivalry—but something sharper. Something inevitable.
Nicholia continued, "You and I are clear on the terms. There will be no love, no devotion, no illusions. You give me an heir, and in return, I allow you your ambitions. Stray too far, and I'll crush you. Play your role well, and the world will bow at our feet."
Apollo's grin widened, wolfish. "And here I thought marriage was supposed to be boring."
Their deal was sealed—not with affection, but with fire.