The ride to the hospital was quiet. Elena pressed her forehead against the cold window, her hands trembling in her lap. Every bump in the road made her chest tighten.
When the car pulled up to St. Mercy's Hospital, Elena wasted no time. She pushed open the door before the driver could help her and ran toward the glass entrance.
Her sneakers squeaked against the polished tiles as she reached the reception desk, breathless.
"Please," she panted, gripping the counter so tightly her knuckles turned white. "My aunt. My aunt is here. Her name is Lily Cruz. She was admitted days ago. Please, I need to see her."
The receptionist looked up, eyes flicking over her. Calm, detached. She began typing slowly. "Lily Cruz, you said?"
"Yes, yes—Lily Cruz. Please check properly. She's very sick. They were supposed to do surgery."
The woman scrolled, then shook her head. "I'm sorry, miss. There's no one under that name here."
Elena's chest squeezed painfully. "No—no, that's not possible. You must have made a mistake." She leaned over the counter, desperate. "Please, check again. Lily cruz. She's in her late fifties. Thin, dark hair, very weak. She—she was here!"
"I've checked twice," the receptionist said, tone clipped. "There's no record of her in our system."
Elena felt her throat closing. Her aunt couldn't just vanish. She slapped the counter, voice cracking.
"Then where is she? She was here! I saw her here, she was admitted, the doctors"
"Miss, calm down or I'll have to call security," the woman said sharply, her expression hardening.
Elena shook her head violently, tears spilling. "No! Don't you dare tell me to calm down when my aunt is missing—"
"Ma'am," a deep voice interrupted, and Elena turned to see two security guards approaching, hands out as if to restrain her. "You need to step aside."
Her chest heaved. She stumbled back, ready to scream, when her gaze darted across the lobby
and landed on a familiar figure.
The doctor. The very one who had spoken to her about her aunt's surgery.
Hope ignited. She tore away from the guards, running toward him, her voice breaking. "Doctor! Doctor, wait!"
The man turned, startled, as Elena grabbed his coat sleeve. "My aunt—Lily Cruz —you said she needed surgery. Where is she? Where is she now?"
The doctor's expression flickered, and for a split second, she saw something—hesitation, maybe guilt—in his eyes.
He gently pried her hands from his coat, glancing at the guards. "Miss Elena, your aunt was transferred."
Elena froze. "Transferred? What do you mean transferred? Transferred where?"
The doctor sighed, his face carefully neutral. "I… don't know the details. The decision wasn't mine. The patient was moved the next day before her surgery.
Her heart dropped. "How do you not know, shewas your patient? Tell me where! Please, she's all I have!" She clung to his arm again, frantic.
"You can't just move her like she's nothing! I need to know where she is!"
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, eyes darting nervously to the guards. "I don't have the information. That's all I can tell you."
The guards stepped forward again. "Miss, you need to leave now. You're disturbing the hospital."
"No!" Elena cried, resisting as they reached for her arms. "Please, just tell me where my aunt is—please! You can't do this to me!" Her screams echoed across the lobby, raw and broken, as tears blurred her sight.
The doctor pulled free and walked quickly away, his back stiff. The receptionist turned back to her screen as if nothing happened. The guards pushed her back toward the doors.
"Elena!"
Her head snapped up. Through the glass, she saw Viktor standing near the car, his tall frame calm but his eyes sharp, fixed on her like a tether.
"Elena,," he called firmly.
Her chest cracked with grief, but she let the guards shove her out the doors. She stumbled into Viktor's shadow, trembling.
He caught her by the shoulders, steadying her. His voice dropped low, measured. "You're shaking."
"They moved her," Elena gasped, sobs breaking her words. "They took her. I don't know where—I don't know if she's safe—"
Viktor's jaw tightened, his hand pressing gently against her back to guide her toward the car. He didn't answer immediately, just shielded her as whispers rose in the hospital entrance behind them.
Inside the car, Elena buried her face in her hands. "She's all I have left, Viktor. If I lose her…"
For a moment, silence filled the space, thick and heavy. Then Viktor's voice came, low and grim.
"You won't lose her," he said. "But if she's been moved without your consent…" He trailed off, eyes narrowing as he stared out the window.
Elena's head jerked up, tears still clinging to her lashes. "What if it was Damian…?"
Viktor didn't answer.
***
The room was dimly lit, the air thick with smoke from half-burned cigars and the tang of expensive whiskey. Damian sat at the head of the long table, his black suit immaculate, his expression carved in stone.
Around him were seven of his most trusted men, each presenting figures, updates, and strategies for their international dealings—arms shipments, coded bank transfers, contracts hidden.
Damian never allowed interruptions during meetings. His rules were iron, his focus razor-sharp. The world could burn, and he would not so much as twitch until his business was concluded.
So when his phone buzzed against the polished wood, every head at the table turned.
He didn't glance at it—until his sharp eyes caught the name flashing across the screen. The Head butler. His household.
His jaw tightened. He knew instantly. This wasn't a mistake. He would never dare call him unless it was about her.
Elena.
Damian's hand twitched once on the table, then he lifted the phone. "Speak," he snapped.
A nervous breath echoed on the other end. "Sir… forgive me for disturbing you. But—miss Elena…"
The sound of her name was enough. Chairs scraped slightly as men shifted, sensing the sudden storm brewing in their leader. Damian's fingers tightened on the phone. "What about her?"
"She left the mansion," Andrei rushed out. "She… she was seen leaving with Viktor. The guards tried to stop them, but Viktor said—"
"She what?"
The men around the table glanced at each other, not daring to breathe.
Viktor.
His disobedient friend.
And Elena his plaything, daring to leave without his permission.
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping violently against the marble floor. Every man at the table flinched back at the sheer venom radiating from him.
"Meeting's over," he barked, his voice cutting like a whip.
"Sir, the numbers—" one of them started weakly.
"I said it's over!" Damian roared, his palm slamming against the table with such force that glasses rattled and one cracked down the middle.
The room went dead silent.
"Handle it yourselves," he spat. "I have more important matters."
And with that, he walked out, the door slamming shut behind him.
The men in the room exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief at his absence.