The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, painting golden stripes across the wooden floor. A kettle whistled softly, and the scent of cinnamon and warm milk drifted through the house. It was quiet — not the kind of quiet that unsettled, but the kind that wrapped around the soul and whispered, You're safe now.
Nyx stood barefoot by the stove, one hand resting gently on her rounded belly, the other stirring a small pot. Her long black hair, still damp from her shower, clung to her neck. She wore a faded blue T-shirt that had once belonged to Elias — her husband — and it still smelled like him: cedarwood, ink, and something deeply kind.
In the living room, her daughter's soft voice echoed: "Mama! I'm drawing you again, but this time you have a crown."
Nyx smiled. "Make it a dark one. Like midnight."
Zara's laugh was music. "Okay! You'll be Queen Mama of the Shadows!"
It made her laugh too — a quiet sound, rare and precious. No one in this town knew who Nyx Virella truly was. Not the cashier who always complimented her calm energy. Not the midwife who called her "the most graceful mother I've ever met." And certainly not Elias, the man who taught her that peace wasn't a lie — it was a choice.
He never asked about her past. He never needed to.
He just loved her in the present, and for five beautiful years, that was enough.
Nyx carried two mugs to the small table by the window. She sipped one, setting the other where Elias always sat. She was early — he'd return from his morning run soon, all sweat and cheeky grins, pretending to be out of breath just to make her laugh.
She was safe. Loved. Seen.
And then the doorbell rang.
She froze. Not out of fear — not yet — but instinct. The kind of instinct that never dies, even when you've buried it beneath years of warmth.
Nyx turned to look at the clock.
7:13 a.m.
No one ever rang the doorbell this early.
She walked to the window, pushed aside the curtain with two fingers.
A delivery man stood at the gate, holding a bouquet of white lilies. Her brow furrowed. It wasn't her birthday. Not their anniversary.
She opened the door just a crack.
The man smiled. "Delivery for… Nyla Monroe?"
That was her name now. Nyla. A softer version. A lie she'd grown to love.
"Yes?"
He extended the flowers. "Beautiful day for flowers, isn't it?"
She took the bouquet.
That's when she noticed his hands.
Rough. Scarred. Not the hands of a florist.
And beneath the petals… something metal glinted.
Her heart kicked against her ribs. She dropped the flowers instantly, stepping back — too late.
The man slammed his foot against the door and burst in.
Behind him, five others followed. All men. No masks. No hesitation.
They didn't come to rob.
They came to kill.
"Zara!" Nyx screamed.
The living room exploded in chaos. A vase shattered. Feet pounded. Her daughter's scream tore through the air.
She lunged forward, her body moving without thought, maternal instinct overriding fear — but a hand caught her by the hair and yanked her back hard, slamming her onto the floor.
She kicked. Bit. Fought. A knife slashed across her shoulder. Someone pinned her legs.
Another man loomed above her, eyes cold as death.
"You thought you could run from the Adrano Bloodline?" he growled.
The name was a dagger straight into her past.
Nyx's scream was wordless — fury and horror, rage and fear.
They were here. They found her.
Everything she built was about to burn.
She heard Zara cry her name one last time.
Then a single gunshot.
The world stopped.
Then a voice — Elias. Rough, panicked, fighting.
"Take me! Just take me instead! Please!"
Nyx's heart shattered. "No—Elias—!"
Another gunshot cracked through the air. This one was louder. Closer.
It was him.
She didn't need to see it to know.
She felt it.
Like the air had been torn in half.
Then came the sound of a body hitting the floor.
Heavy. Final.
And in that moment, something inside her — something bright — died with him.
Then another shot. It was her mother -in-law the only woman who had been a mother to her was also now dead
Her body thrashed with a strength she didn't know she had. Her unborn baby twisted inside her like it knew what was coming.
They dragged her into the bedroom.
They took turns.
And when they were done, they left her broken on the blood-soaked mattress, belly bleeding, bones shattered, heart in ashes.
They didn't check if she was breathing.
They thought she was dead.
But as the door slammed shut, and their boots echoed away down the hall, Nyx whispered a vow through cracked lips and a mouth full of blood.
"I will come for you."
Her vision blurred. She reached out blindly, fingers brushing the red ribbon that had fallen from her daughter's hair.
She pulled it to her chest and let the world go dark.
---
Five years later, they will remember her name.
Not Nyla. Not Monroe.
But Nyx.
Daughter of the dead. Mother of the murdered.
The storm they should've drowned.