In the room sat a toddler, lost in her own little world, her small hands busy scribbling across a coloring book with bright crayons. Her chubby cheeks were flushed with excitement, her lips curled in the kind of smile that only children could wear, carefree and untouched by shadows. She was a bubbly girl, brimming with energy, her laughter light and infectious. Whenever she ran through the halls, the mansion itself seemed to awaken, its cold walls echoing with the music of her tiny voice. In a house built on fear and silence, she was the only spark of innocence, the only reminder that purity could still exist within darkness. She was like a living doll, delicate and bright, her hair a crown of soft curls tied into tiny puffs with rubber bands of different colors. The cheerful ribbons bounced whenever she moved, framing her round face and curious eyes. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with her coloring book, she hummed to herself, switching crayons as though the world in her imagination was more important than anything outside her door. Everything about her radiated joy: her curls, her giggles, her clumsy little feet tapping against the pink rug. Beside her sat the nanny, patient and gentle, guiding the toddler's tiny hands across the pages of the coloring book. Her voice was low and soothing as she hummed a soft tune, the kind that filled the room with comfort and made the walls seem less heavy. The little girl, Adeila leaned into her touch, her curls bouncing as she pressed a crayon too hard or let it slip outside the lines. Each mistake sent her into a fit of giggles, and the nanny joined in, their laughter mingling until the room itself seemed to glow. Their moment was interrupted by the sharp blast of a car horn from outside the gates. The sound cut through their laughter, echoing faintly against the villa walls. Adeila froze for only a second before returning to her scribbles, too lost in her world of colors to care.
Driving into the compound was a sleek black car, its tinted windows hiding the faces inside. The sound of its engine was low and commanding, the kind that made the guards at the gate stiffen to attention as it rolled past. The vehicle slid across the driveway like a predator entering its den, finally halting in front of the grand steps of the villa. The passenger's door swung open, and the master of the house stepped out. His presence was immediate, heavy, and absolute. Even before he spoke, his aura filled the compound, a silent force that demanded obedience. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a tailored black suit, he moved with the quiet confidence of a man who feared nothing and owned everything within sight. Behind those glasses were his sharp eyes which were unreadable,his single glance was enough to freeze the air. The guards outside stiffened instantly. Their spines straightened, their hands tightened on their weapons, and their breaths seemed to vanish into silence. No one needed instructions. His entrance alone was command enough. He was a man every woman secretly wished to have, the kind whose presence drew both fear and fascination. His features were sharp, carved as though by careful hands, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and eyes so piercing they seemed to strip away pretenses. His short black hair was neatly styled, the dark strands catching a subtle shine under the fading sun. Dressed in his tailored suit, he looked every inch the untouchable king he was, a man who owned more than wealth, he owned power, loyalty, and silence. His handsomeness was dangerous, the kind that lured hearts while his shadow crushed them. With long strides, he stepped into his house, every movement deliberate, every step echoing authority. At the entrance, a maid was already waiting, her hands clasped respectfully as she collected his work bag without a word. Behind him, the sleek black car was driven away toward the garage. The garage itself was no less a statement of power. Rows of polished machines gleamed under the lights, sleek sports cars in fiery reds, deep blues, and midnight blacks; bulletproof SUVs designed for protection; and a vintage collection that spoke of taste as much as wealth. Each vehicle was more than transportation, they were trophies, symbols of the man who owned them. Inside the villa, the silence shifted with his arrival. Servants moved briskly, lowering their gazes, their steps careful not to disturb the atmosphere he carried with him. It was as though the very walls acknowledged their master had returned.
He entered his room to freshen up. The master's quarters were a world of their own. Dark, commanding, and carefully designed to mirror the man who slept there. Black dominated the space: black silk sheets stretched neatly across the king-sized bed, black curtains drawn halfway over tall windows, and black leather chairs arranged around a low glass table. The walls carried the weight of power, paintings with deep tones, abstract yet sharp, and a few photographs framed in silver, though none showed smiles. A faint scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, blending with the musk of expensive cologne. Dim lights hung from the ceiling, casting soft shadows that made the room feel colder than it was. Everything inside was sleek, organized, and without flaw. Just like him. This was not a room of comfort, it was a throne chamber, dressed in darkness, where silence ruled and vulnerability had no place. The bathtub was already prepared, filled with cold water crowned with thick layers of white bubbles. Steam curled faintly above the surface, carrying with it the deep, woody scent of blackwood that lingered in the air. It was a fragrance both calming and commanding, heavy enough to remind anyone who entered that this was not just a place of rest. It was the sanctuary of a king. He loosened his tie with a slow, practiced motion, tossing it onto the chair. His jacket followed, then the crisp white shirt that revealed the hard lines of muscle beneath. In the glow of the dim lights, his body was a canvas of strength, etched with a few scars that whispered of battles fought and survived. Without hesitation, he stepped into the tub, the bubbles parting around him as he sank into the water. For a moment, the master of the house closed his eyes. The world outside, with its noise and blood, faded into silence. In here, he allowed himself brief solitude though never weakness. After thirty minutes, he stepped out of the bathroom, droplets of water trailing down his skin. His movements were unhurried, controlled, as though even time itself obeyed his pace. On the bed, neatly folded, lay his bathrobe and pajamas. The servant who had prepared them had already slipped out in silence, careful not to linger longer than necessary. The robe was black, as expected, its fabric soft yet heavy with understated luxury. He slid into it, tying the sash firmly around his waist, before moving toward the dresser where a crystal decanter of whiskey waited beside a single glass. Everything in the room was always in its place, order, precision, and obedience defined his world. Even here, in the privacy of his quarters, nothing was left to chance. The man lived in power, and power demanded control.