The sound of her breath tore through the night before anything else did.
It came in sharp, ragged pulls that scraped her throat raw as her shoes pounded against the asphalt. The slap of rubber against wet pavement echoed through the narrow street, frantic and uneven. She did not look back. She did not dare.
Streetlights flickered above her, casting trembling halos of pale yellow over the deserted road. Her blonde hair streamed behind her like a torn ribbon of gold, strands sticking to her damp cheeks as the wind clawed at her face. The night air tasted metallic, heavy with the promise of rain, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked, the sound carrying through the darkness like a warning.
Her heart beat so violently she could hear it in her ears.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A pair of headlights swung sharply around the corner ahead.
Inside the sleek black sedan, the atmosphere was suffocating.
"You cannot seriously expect me to agree to this, Desmond!" the woman in the passenger seat snapped, her manicured fingers digging into the leather armrest. "She is our daughter, not a contract clause."
The driver's hands tightened on the steering wheel as the argument behind him escalated.
He kept his eyes forward, though sweat gathered at his temples.
"It is a business alliance, Janette," the man beside her replied coldly. His voice was controlled, clipped, but it carried an edge of steel. "Do you understand what is at stake? If we lose this partnership, everything collapses."
"Everything?" Janette let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Or your pride?"
The driver swallowed as their voices rose, colliding in the confined space of the luxury car. He missed the flicker of movement ahead until it was too late.
"Sir—!" he gasped.
There was the shriek of brakes.
The violent screech of rubber clawing against the road split the night.
A dull, sickening thud followed.
The car jerked forward before lurching to a stop.
Silence.
For one suspended second, nothing moved.
Then Janette's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God."
Desmond's jaw hardened as he opened the door. The night air rushed in, carrying with it the faint scent of blood and rain.
The girl lay crumpled a few feet away, her blonde hair fanned across the dark pavement like spilled silk. A thin trickle of crimson slid from her temple, glistening under the headlights.
"She ran into the road," the driver stammered.
"I swear, sir, she just..."
"Help me lift her," Desmond ordered.
The girl was lighter than expected, her body limp as they carried her into the backseat. Her head lolled against Janette's lap, pale lashes resting against skin that had already begun to lose warmth.
"Drive," Desmond commanded.
The engine roared back to life, and the car sped into the night toward the hospital, tires hissing against the road.
TWO MONTHS LATER.
Sunlight filtered through tall, arched windows framed by ivory silk curtains, bathing the Cuns estate in a soft golden glow. The mansion stood like a silent monarch atop manicured lawns and sculpted hedges, its marble façade gleaming beneath the afternoon sky.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of lilies and polished wood.
Penelope Cuns sat upright in a high-backed cream armchair in the grand sitting room, her fingers folded neatly in her lap. Her blonde hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching the light with every subtle movement.
It was not the brash blonde of vanity, but a soft, natural gold that framed a face too delicate for the sharpness often present in this house.
Her skin held a fragile pallor, a reminder of weeks spent beneath sterile hospital lights. A faint, nearly healed scar rested just beneath her hairline, hidden carefully unless one knew where to look.
She looked composed.
Too composed.
The quiet ticking of the antique clock on the far wall seemed louder than usual.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The front doors opened with a low creak.
Penelope's shoulders straightened.
Mr. and Mrs. Cuns entered first, their presence commanding even in silence. Desmond Cuns was tall, his salt-and-pepper hair immaculately combed back, his charcoal suit tailored to perfection. His sharp features rarely softened, and they did not soften now.
Beside him walked Janette Cuns, elegance personified in a fitted wine-colored dress that accentuated her slim figure. Her heels clicked rhythmically against the marble floor.
Behind them trailed Francesca.
Where Penelope was soft light, Francesca was polished obsidian. Her black hair cascaded in glossy waves down her back, framing a face sculpted with precision and confidence. Her lips curved faintly upward....not in warmth, but in amusement.
Penelope rose from her chair.
"Welcome home," she said gently, her voice calm and melodic.
Janette offered a thin smile. Desmond gave a curt nod.
Francesca's eyes slid over her sister briefly, cool and unimpressed.
"Mother," Francesca said sweetly, leaning in to kiss the air beside Janette's cheek. "I'll be upstairs."
Her gaze flicked to Penelope again. A small, sharp snicker escaped her before she turned on her heel.
The sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor echoed long after she disappeared up the staircase.
Penelope's hands tightened slightly at her sides, though her expression did not waver.
A maid stepped forward quietly. " Ma'am , would you like tea?"
"No, thank you," she replied softly.
Desmond adjusted his cufflinks. "I have work to attend to."
Janette followed him without another glance.
The grand sitting room felt cavernous once they left.
Penelope exhaled slowly before walking toward the staircase, her steps measured and silent against the polished floors. Two maids lowered their gazes respectfully as she passed.
She entered her bedroom....a spacious sanctuary of soft creams and pale golds.
French windows overlooked the gardens, and the faint scent of lavender lingered in the air.
She closed the door gently.
Down the hall, in the master bedroom, the façade dissolved.
The door shut with a muted click.
Janette's posture shifted instantly, the warmth draining from her face like spilled wine.
"It is time," she said, her voice stripped of pretense. "You cannot keep delaying it."
Desmond removed his jacket slowly. "Not now."
"When?" she demanded sharply. "When the board grows impatient? When the alliance collapses?"
He turned toward her, irritation flashing briefly in his eyes.
"You think I do not understand the stakes?"
"I think," Janette replied coldly, "that you are hesitating because you cannot decide which daughter to sacrifice."
The word hung in the air.
Sacrifice.
Desmond's jaw clenched.
"We agreed," Janette continued, lowering her voice, "that this marriage would secure everything. Our empire. Our reputation. Our future."
"And what of what is right?" he muttered.
Janette let out a soft, mirthless laugh. "Right?" She reached for the bedside lamp and switched it off. Darkness flooded the room.
"Do not pretend morality now, Desmond. You built this empire without it."
She slid beneath the covers and turned her back to him.
He remained standing for a long moment before finally lying down, staring into the darkness.
Silence swallowed the room.
Across City 1, neon lights pulsed against the night sky.
Music thundered from inside the most exclusive club in the district, bass vibrating through glass and bone alike. Laughter and intoxicated shrieks rose above the rhythm, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the scent of expensive perfume.
The doors opened.
Conversations faltered.
A tall figure stepped inside.
His presence alone commanded attention.
He moved with controlled confidence, broad shoulders encased in a tailored black suit that clung perfectly to his powerful frame. His dark hair was styled effortlessly, falling slightly over a forehead marked by sharp, masculine angles. His jaw was strong, his lips firm, and his eyes....
His eyes were calculating.
They swept the room once without interest.
Women straightened instinctively. A few men stiffened.
He ignored them all.
The man trailing behind him hurried to keep up.
They moved directly toward the VIP section, where a young man lay sprawled across a velvet couch, clearly drunk.
"Khaos!" the drunk slurred suddenly, attempting to stand.
Before the assistant could reach him, the drunk stumbled forward with open arms.
Khaos stepped aside smoothly.
The drunk collapsed face-first onto the floor with a loud thud.
A few nearby guests gasped.
"Khaos, you're here!" the drunk tried again from the floor, voice muffled.
The assistant bent down, but Khaos raised a hand.
"Do not," he said calmly.
He crouched instead, his polished shoes gleaming beneath the flashing lights.
"I have the video," Khaos said quietly, his voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. "I would be delighted to show Grandfather if you do not stand up right now and walk to the car."
The drunk froze.
Sobriety returned in an instant.
"There's no need for that," he muttered quickly, scrambling to his feet. He brushed himself off with forced dignity. "I was just leaving anyway."
He was the first to head toward the exit.
Khaos stood, adjusting his cuffs.
As he walked toward the doors, a sharp crack cut through the music.
A slap.
"Do you know who I am?" a female voice shrieked.
Another crack followed.
The crowd shifted.
"I am Francesca Cuns, you idiot!" she spat at a trembling waitress. "You should be grateful I even stepped into this place."
Khaos's steps slowed.
His gaze shifted briefly.
Francesca stood there in a glittering black dress, fury blazing in her eyes as the waitress clutched her reddening cheek.
For a moment, silence hovered.
Then Khaos exhaled softly, a breath that almost sounded like a snicker.
"Boastful," he murmured under his breath.
Without another glance, he walked out of the club.