Amara's POV:
A sharp noise snapped me out of sleep. For a second, I didn't even know where I was—just the heavy press of night, the hiss of my own breath. Then I moved to the window and froze.
Three black cars stood parked across the street, engines off, doors shut. No lights, no noise—just three predators waiting. My stomach turned cold. I didn't need to think; I already knew what was coming.
I ran to Jia's room, my bare feet almost silent on the floorboards.
"Jia, Jia… wake up." My voice was low but trembling.
She stirred, confused, her eyes still soft with sleep. "Ama? What—what's happening?"
I shoved the papers into her hands, my fingers shaking. "Take these. Go straight to Vihaan's house. Don't look back. Do you hear me?"
Her confusion sharpened to alarm. "What? Ama, what are you saying? What's going on?"
"They found us. They know about the cameras. They're here." My voice cracked. Fear crawled into every corner of the room. But under it was something harder, something clear: I have to keep Jia safe.
She shot up from the bed, eyes wide. "And you expect me to just leave you here? Alone?"
"If leaving is a way, we both leave together," she said, grabbing my wrist, her grip fierce.
For a heartbeat, I saw us as children again—her tiny hand clutching mine in a crowd, her refusal to let go. That same stubbornness lived in her now. And I loved her for it. But I couldn't let her pay for my choices.
"I'm sorry, Jia," I whispered. Tears burned my eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."
Before she could pull back, I pressed my fingers into the nerve at her neck, the way Vihaan had once taught me for self-defense—a spot that could drop someone into unconsciousness without leaving a mark.
Her body went slack in my arms. I caught her as gently as I could, my tears falling into her hair.
"I'll come back. I'll find you," I murmured, knowing I might be lying.
With shaking arms, I carried her out of the house. The night air bit at my skin as I dragged her into the shadows of a narrow corner, far enough from the house that no one would see. I tucked the papers into her jacket, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and kissed her forehead once.
Then I turned back to the house.
It was quiet now, but wrong—like a stage waiting for the curtain to rise on a tragedy. Shadows moved inside, dark shapes shifting across my living room. They were already searching for me.
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, forced my trembling fingers steady, and slipped back inside.
I couldn't keep the papers safe anymore. I knew that. But maybe—just maybe—I could still collect more proof against Liam. I darted to the kitchen, the hall, the living room, adjusting and activating every camera and voice recorder I had left. Each click of the recorder felt like an oath.
Then I stood alone in my own house, the air thick with waiting.
This was it. The moment I'd been running toward all my life.
"Amara, the pretty daughter of my little brother. Look who's here—your Uncle Liam."
His voice rolled through the silence, smooth but venomous. I turned, and there he was, leaning in the doorway like a panther that had already chosen its prey. His smile wasn't warmth—it was a weapon.
"What are you doing, darling?" he drawled, stepping closer, his eyes flicking over the room as if he already knew where every camera might hide. "Trying to persuade your loving uncle?"
I said nothing. My throat tightened, but my silence was deliberate. The only thing I prayed for in that moment was that Jia didn't wake up where I had hidden her. And Vihaan—God, Vihaan must not return until this ended.
"You're here," I said finally, keeping my tone steady, "so you already know about my visit."
His grin widened, slow and cruel, like a knife sliding free of its sheath. "Oh, not just yours, sweetheart. Yours… Jia's… and…" He let the last name hang, savoring it. "…Vihaan." He dragged out the syllables as he sank into the couch, making himself at home in my house as if it were his throne.
My nails dug into my palms.
He chuckled low, shaking his head. "Why are you doing this, Amara? Don't you love your pretty little life with your new family? With your…" His eyes narrowed with mock sympathy. "…lover. Yes, I've seen him. The lawyer, all sharp eyes and sharper tongue. He's head over heels for you."
Liam leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his grin widening to show the cruelty underneath. "But I feel bad for him now. Because he won't see you again."
"I wanted to partner with him," Liam said, voice syrupy with false regret, "but you ruined it. Now he's leaning toward you. Still, trust me—I'm a good man. If after your death he comes crawling to me for that partnership, I'll welcome him with open arms. That young blood—he's made quite the name for himself in law and business."
Each word was a small blade. With every syllable he wounded something inside me, until the end felt like a slow, inevitable thing closing in.
He leaned back, as if discoursing about weather. "You're my late brother's daughter," he said casually. "I won't make it painful. Your death can be smooth—if you cooperate."
From his pocket, he produced a tiny vial and shook it between two fingers. He held it up so the pale liquid caught the lamp light. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, savoring the moment. "Ricin. It makes death… efficient."
My stomach dropped. The name alone was a cold weight. He set the vial down, and his voice hardened. "Now, don't leave behind any trouble for your boyfriend. Give me every paper, every scrap of evidence you have against me. Now."
His smile had vanished; what remained was pure command, a man who expected obedience and punished dissent.
"You think I will?" I spat, the taste of iron already in my mouth. "Either way, you're going to kill me. So why not do the work yourself? I'm not surrendering. Never. You want to kill me—kill me. I will never tell you where the proof is."
The words came out steady, but my hands trembled at my sides. It was the only power I had left.
His smile froze. His ego cracked like glass. Without another word, Liam lunged forward, snatching the vial from his pocket and snapping the seal with a flick of his thumb. His hand clamped my jaw so hard it felt like he'd break the bone.
"So, my dear Amara," he hissed, tilting the vial toward my lips, "drink it. Go to your parents."
The burn hit instantly—a bitter, chemical fire searing my throat. I tried to fight, to claw at his wrist, but his grip only tightened. My body sagged, poison flooding my veins, but my mind still screamed: this is my last chance to face him.
"So this is how you kill people who go against you?" I gasped, my voice cracking, knees buckling beneath me.
"Ah, no, my Amara," Liam crooned, letting me slide halfway to the floor. "Not everyone gets this special treatment. This plan is exclusive. For family." His laugh was a low, vicious sound.
He turned, snapping his fingers at his men. "Go. Tear this place apart. Find every scrap, every trail she's hidden."
Boots thundered through the house. My vision blurred at the edges; every heartbeat was slower than the last. Please, God, I prayed silently. Don't let them find the cameras. Don't let Jia wake up. Don't let Vihaan walk back into this.
They brought papers to him—some of the documents I'd tried to hide. Liam barely glanced at them before flicking his eyes back to me.
"Now you're of no use to me," he said flatly.
I didn't see the knife until it was already buried in my belly. A wet sound, a hot bloom of agony, and blood rushed up my throat. I coughed it onto the floor. The room tilted.
"You know what, dear?" Liam crouched, his face level with mine. "I killed your mother the same way sixteen years ago. My brother died differently—more painfully—but I'm nice to ladies. See? You'll die easy." He pulled the knife out in one smooth motion.
I crumpled. My body was numb now—either from shock or the flood of memories clawing back. My mother's voice rose from the darkness like a ghost.
"Run, Ama. Run. Don't look back. Go to Jia," she had begged, one hand gripping mine, the other pressed to the wound in her stomach.
I remembered stumbling away, small legs pumping, tears blinding me. But within seconds, another blade flashed. Someone stabbed her again—from behind. I turned, unable to stop myself, and the face blurred… then sharpened.
It wasn't a stranger. It was Dad. Albert Morgan. The man I called Father. The man I thought had saved me.
A voice pulled me back to the present. My eyes fluttered open, heavy as lead. Two figures loomed a few feet away—Liam, and next to him… Dad.
"Dad," the word cracked out of my throat before I could stop it. Some foolish part of me still hoped he would step in.
He glanced at me once, then looked away, turning to Liam. "What have you done? Couldn't you do anything better than killing like this?" he muttered. Liam stayed silent.
"By the way—where's my daughter? Did she see you?" His voice sharpened, eyes darting around.
When he didn't see Jia, his hand shot out, fisting Liam's collar. "Don't tell me you hurt my daughter. Where is she?" he demanded, desperate. For a heartbeat, I thought—maybe—he'd see me lying there. Maybe he'd remember I was his, too.
"She wasn't here when we came. I think she's out of the house," Liam said smoothly.
Albert's shoulders loosened. He released Liam, relief flooding his face. He turned to me at last, but there was no pity, no remorse—only irritation. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, lifting my head.
"My daughter," he said, voice low and cold, "why did you do this to yourself? Why did you have to dig into the dead?"
Then he let me drop. Just let go. My cheek hit the floorboards, warm blood spreading under me. And for the first time, I truly understood: I was alone.
.