The morning sun rose softly, golden rays painting the marble floors of the Moore estate. Another day, another pretense of peace. A fragile facade erected to conceal the rot that festered beneath. The emptiness of the house pressed in on me, heavier than usual, a suffocating blanket woven from unspoken resentments and carefully concealed lies.
The house felt unusually quiet—too quiet. The silence was suffocating, like the calm before a storm, a pregnant pause before the inevitable explosion. Maybe they were gone. Maybe Caroline, that viper in designer clothing, had finally managed to drag my father and Ella, her equally venomous offspring, out to flaunt their fake perfection somewhere else. A charity gala, perhaps, where they could preen and posture, basking in the glow of stolen wealth and borrowed prestige.
Good for them. I didn't care. Or at least, that's what I told myself. The truth was, their absence left a void, a hollow echo that amplified the loneliness that had become my constant companion. Their presence was a torment, but their absence was a stark reminder of my own isolation.
My phone vibrated on the bedside table, its insistent buzz a jarring intrusion on the oppressive silence. Faye. A lifeline in a sea of despair, a beacon of light in the encroaching darkness.
"Zup, wanna hang out? My treat "
A faint smile tugged at my lips, a fleeting expression of gratitude for her unwavering friendship. Faye always knew when to pull me out of the mess, when to offer a distraction from the suffocating reality of my life. She was my anchor, my confidante, the one person who saw me for who I truly was, the one person who didn't judge me for the choices I had made, the compromises I had been forced to endure.
The bar was crowded when I arrived—an odd thing for midday. A kaleidoscope of colors, a cacophony of sounds, a sensory overload designed to drown out the noise of the soul. Perfume, liquor, and laughter mixed into something heady and careless, a potent cocktail of escapism and oblivion. Neon signs blinked lazily, casting lurid shadows across the faces of the patrons, each seeking solace in the bottom of a glass, each trying to forget the pain that haunted their days. The air pulsed with bass from hidden speakers, a rhythmic throb that vibrated through my very bones, a primal beat that echoed the frantic rhythm of my own heart.
"Ly! Over here!"
Faye's voice carried from a VIP booth near the glass wall, a welcome sound in the chaotic symphony of the bar. I slid in beside her, letting the noise wash over me, hoping to drown out the thoughts that were clawing at my head, the memories that haunted my waking hours, the fears that plagued my dreams.
She leaned closer, mischief dancing in her eyes, a spark of rebellion in her smile. "I heard from Benj… your father's playing saint again. Showering his mistress with Moore money."
I rolled my eyes, a gesture of weary resignation. "I came here to forget, not gossip about him." The mere mention of my father's name was enough to sour my mood, to drag me back into the darkness that I was desperately trying to escape.
Faye chuckled, a low, throaty sound that was both comforting and conspiratorial. She waved at the bartender, signaling for our usual drinks. "Whiskey for her. Strong one."
I sighed, the weight of the world settling on my shoulders. "Why invite me here, Faye?" The question was laced with a hint of suspicion, a fear that she had an ulterior motive, a hidden agenda.
Her brows furrowed, her expression softening with genuine concern. Maybe I sounded colder than intended, more cynical than I had realized. "Because you need to breathe, Lysandra." Her voice was gentle, understanding, a soothing balm on my wounded soul. "You can't keep bottling everything up. You need to let it out, to release the pressure before it explodes."
Before I could reply, before I could voice the doubts that swirled within me, the sound of shattered glass cut through the music, a sharp, discordant note that silenced the laughter and shattered the illusion of carefree abandon.
Across the room, a waitress trembled, her face pale with fear, her eyes wide with panic. Three men cornered her, their laughter loud, vile, and predatory. They were circling her like wolves closing in on their prey, their intentions clear, their menace palpable. One of them grabbed her wrist, yanking her closer, his grip tight, his touch possessive.
Faye muttered a curse under her breath, her eyes narrowing with anger. "Damn. That's Houseff's son—Eliot—and his spoiled friends."
The name was familiar, a name whispered in hushed tones at business parties, a name synonymous with wealth, power, and unchecked privilege. I'd seen him before, at those suffocating social gatherings, drunk, arrogant, untouchable, surrounded by sycophants who catered to his every whim.
I stood up before Faye could stop me, my instincts taking over, my anger boiling over. "Time to ruin someone's fun." The words were spoken with a quiet determination, a steely resolve that belied the turmoil raging within me.
Crossing the room, I moved with a purpose, my senses heightened, my focus narrowed. I pulled the waitress behind me, shielding her from their predatory gaze, asserting my presence as a barrier between them and their intended victim. My gaze found Eliot's—sharp, unflinching, defiant.
He grinned, teeth flashing, his eyes gleaming with arrogant amusement. "And who might you be, sweetheart? Why don't you join us? I promise I'll make you happy tonight." His words were dripping with condescension, his tone laced with threat, his eyes promising a night of humiliation and degradation.
His friends howled in laughter, their faces flushed with alcohol and anticipation, their eyes raking over me with undisguised lust. One of them—a blonde idiot with more money than brains—brushed a hand over my hip, his touch possessive, his gaze predatory.
He didn't even finish his chuckle before he was on the floor, clutching himself and groaning in pain, his face contorted with shock and agony. I had moved with lightning speed, my years of self-defense training kicking in, my anger fueling my movements.
"Gross," I muttered, shaking my hand, disgusted by his touch.
And then came that voice—smooth, velvety, edged with danger, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air around us. It was a voice that commanded attention, a voice that silenced a room without even trying, a voice that sent a shiver of both fear and fascination down my spine.
"Have mercy on the girl," the voice drawled, the words laced with amusement, a hint of mockery in the tone. "She can barely handle one of you."
The crowd stilled, the laughter dying in their throats, the murmur of conversation fading into an expectant silence. Heads turned, drawn to the source of the commanding voice, their eyes widening with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
From the shadows emerged a tall man—dark coat, impeccably tailored, accentuating his broad shoulders and lean frame. Cold blue eyes that glinted like sharpened steel, piercing and assessing, seeming to see straight through me, into the darkest corners of my soul. His presence was commanding, an aura of power that radiated from him, silencing the room, demanding respect, inspiring fear. It was the presence of a predator, a wolf among sheep, a force to be reckoned with.
"L-Laurel…" one of the men stammered, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and awe. Eliot, the arrogant, untouchable heir, suddenly looked small, insignificant, vulnerable.
The stranger's lips curved faintly, a subtle expression of amusement that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And yet, you still choose to make noise." His gaze was unwavering, his tone dismissive, his power absolute.
His gaze slid to me, brief but piercing, lingering for a moment too long, assessing me, evaluating me, as if trying to determine my worth, my value in his world. It was a gaze that made my heart skip a beat, a gaze that sent a shiver down my spine, a gaze that both terrified and intrigued me. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, returning to Eliot, focusing on the task at hand. "Apologize."
Eliot swallowed hard, his face paling beneath his tan, his bravado evaporating in the face of the stranger's cold authority. "It was just a misunderstanding, Mr. Anderson. Right, Miss?" His voice was a pathetic whine, a far cry from the arrogant boasts he had been making just moments before.
I smirked, a flicker of satisfaction crossing my face, a brief moment of triumph in the face of overwhelming darkness. "Misunderstanding? You call harassment that?" My voice was sharp, defiant, refusing to back down, refusing to be intimidated.
Eliot's face paled even further, his eyes darting nervously between me and Anderson, his fear palpable.
Anderson—so that was his name—Laurel Anderson. The name resonated with power, with danger, with an unspoken promise of both pleasure and pain. He pulled a gun from his coat, the movement swift and fluid, a display of casual violence that sent a collective gasp through the room. He raised the gun, aiming it not at Eliot, but at the ceiling.
BANG.
The sound was deafening, shattering the silence, sending screams erupting through the bar. Glass shattered, raining down on the patrons, adding to the chaos and confusion.
I didn't flinch. My heart raced, adrenaline coursing through my veins, but I held his gaze, fascinated by the cold precision in his movements, the casual indifference to the chaos he had unleashed. It was a display of power, a demonstration of control, a reminder that he was not to be trifled with.
He exhaled softly, smoke curling from the barrel of the gun, a faint scent of gunpowder filling the air. "I hate liars. Now—choose. Life… or death." His voice was calm, almost conversational, but the threat was unmistakable, the consequences dire.
No one spoke. The room froze in collective terror, the patrons holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable.
My phone buzzed, breaking the tension, a jarring intrusion on the deadly silence. Dad.
Of course. The timing was perfect. Always the puppet master, pulling the strings from behind the scenes, always trying to control my life, even from afar.
I declined the call, silencing the intrusive buzz, refusing to be distracted. Then, I looked back at Anderson, meeting his gaze, holding his attention, acknowledging the power he held over the room, over me. His eyes caught mine for a second longer than they should have, something unreadable flickering there—curiosity, perhaps, or perhaps something darker, something more dangerous.
Then I turned away, breaking the connection, dismissing the power he held, refusing to be drawn into his game. "Let's go, Faye. I have a weak wolf to tame at home." The words were spoken with a quiet determination, a subtle defiance, a reminder that I had my own battles to fight, my own demons to conquer.
The mansion greeted me with unwanted faces, their presence a stark reminder of the life I was trying to escape. Caroline and Ella sat on the couch beside my father—perfect picture of betrayal, a tableau of deceit and manipulation.
Caroline, her face etched with a perpetual scowl, her eyes narrowed with suspicion, slid a folder across the table, her movements precise, her expression cold. "Sign this, Lysandra."
My eyes skimmed the document, recognizing the familiar legal jargon, the carefully crafted clauses designed to strip me of my inheritance, to leave me with nothing, to make me completely dependent on their goodwill. Transfer of Assets.
I almost laughed, a bitter, hollow sound that echoed through the empty room. "You think I'm that stupid?" The question was rhetorical, a statement of defiance, a declaration that I would not be so easily manipulated.
My father's tone cracked through the air, a whip of anger that sliced through the silence. "Then get out. From this day forward, you are no child of mine." His words were cold, calculated, designed to inflict pain, to sever the ties that bound us together, to banish me from his life.
Slow applause escaped my lips, a sarcastic gesture of mocking appreciation. One… two… three.
"My pleasure," I said softly, my voice laced with venom, my eyes burning with hatred. "Cutting ties with a man who sold his soul long ago feels like freedom."
I turned to leave.
But paused, my voice low and sharp, cutting through the silence like a shard of glass. "Remember this, Ricky Brooke—you may use my mother's name, but you'll never own her blood." The words were a curse, a promise of retribution, a declaration that I would never forgive him for what he had done, for the way he had betrayed our family, for the pain he had inflicted on my mother.
His face turned crimson, rage twisting his features, his eyes burning with a fury that threatened to consume him. But I didn't look back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing my pain, refusing to acknowledge the power he held over me.
Outside my room, Nely waited, her eyes red from crying, her face etched with worry. She held out a small pouch and a set of keys, her hands trembling with fear.
"Take these," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes pleading with me to understand the danger I was in. "Money, keys to your mother's old car. Leave, Lysandra. Before they destroy you too."
I hugged her tightly, my throat tightening with emotion, my heart aching with gratitude for her unwavering loyalty. "I'll find you, Nely. Once everything's settled. I promise." The words were a vow, a promise that I intended to keep, a commitment to protect the one person who had always been there for me, the one person who had always shown me unconditional love.
Before she left, she gave me a trembling smile—the kind that breaks your heart because you know it might be the last, a fleeting expression of hope in the face of overwhelming despair.
Inside, I went to my mother's old closet, a sanctuary of memories, a refuge from the harsh realities of my life. I knelt before the hidden vault, my fingers tracing the familiar contours of the lock, my mind replaying the words she had spoken so many times, her voice echoing in my head, soft and distant. Her voice echoed in my head, soft and distant:
"Your birthday, Aubrey. The numbers that made my world beautiful."
I typed the code, the numbers of my birthdate, the numbers that had once held so much meaning, the numbers that now represented a life that was slipping away from me. Click.
The vault opened, revealing its hidden treasures—documents, deeds, company shares. Everything my father craved, everything he had been willing to betray his own family for, everything he had sacrificed his soul to obtain.
I packed them carefully, my movements deliberate, my mind focused on the task at hand. Folded clothes, a few personal belongings, the bare necessities for survival. I was leaving everything behind, severing all ties to my past, embracing an uncertain future. I was becoming a ghost, a shadow, a fugitive from my own life.
I walked out, my head held high, my eyes fixed on the horizon.
No one tried to stop me. They just watched, silent, their faces unreadable, their intentions unknown. Maybe they finally realized who I was, the force they had underestimated, the storm they had unleashed. Maybe they were afraid of what I was capable of, the lengths I would go to protect myself, the price they would pay for their betrayal.
Faye welcomed me into her apartment with open arms, her embrace warm and comforting, a haven from the cold, cruel world outside. "This is your room, Ly. Small, but safe." Her voice was gentle, reassuring, a promise of sanctuary, a guarantee of unwavering support.
Her place was warm, soft lights glowing against the walls, creating a cozy atmosphere, a stark contrast to the sterile emptiness of the mansion. It wasn't luxury—but it was peace, a sanctuary from the chaos and the conflict that had consumed my life.
As she cooked, the familiar aroma of pasta sauce filling the air, my phone buzzed again, its insistent vibration a reminder of the dangers that lurked just beyond the walls of Faye's apartment. Benjie.
"I heard your dad tried to arrange you with Alaeric Grayson?"
"Not anymore," I said, staring out the window as the city lights blurred below, a million tiny sparks in the vast darkness. "I broke the leash." The words were spoken with a quiet satisfaction, a sense of triumph over my father's control, a declaration of my own independence.
Benjie's sigh was audible even through the static, his concern palpable, his worry a comforting presence in the face of overwhelming uncertainty. "You don't have to endure this, Lys."
I chuckled lightly, a hollow sound that betrayed the fear that gnawed at me from the inside. "I can handle it."
His voice sharpened, his tone laced with frustration, his patience wearing thin. "You always say that. But you're human too, Lysandra. You're his daughter, damn it. I can't keep watching you lose yourself."
For a second, his concern warmed me, a flicker of hope in the encroaching darkness, a reminder that I wasn't completely alone. Then I laughed softly, pushing the emotion away, refusing to allow myself to be vulnerable. "Relax, Benj. I'm safe. I'm not in that house anymore."
A pause, then his voice softened, his tone laced with a mixture of relief and apprehension. "Good. Just… promise me you'll be careful. Your dad's moving into dangerous territory. Grayson isn't the only one involved."
The line crackled, the connection weakening, the distance between us growing. Then—a crash, a sudden, violent sound that shattered the silence, sending a jolt of fear through my body.
A vase? A window breaking? Something more sinister?
I turned sharply, my senses heightened, my instincts screaming danger. "Benj?"
No answer. Only static, a deafening silence that amplified the fear that threatened to consume me.
Faye's voice cut through from the kitchen, her tone cheerful, oblivious to the danger that lurked just beyond the walls of her apartment. "Ly, food's ready!"
I hung up, silencing the intrusive static, refusing to allow Faye to see my fear. Scanning the room, my eyes darting from shadow to shadow, my mind racing to assess the threat. My instincts screamed—someone was there, watching me, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
"What are you doing there?" I called out, my voice low, steady, trying to project an air of confidence that I didn't feel.
A silhouette shifted by the balcony, a dark figure lurking in the shadows, a silent predator waiting to pounce.
"Nothing," the man replied, his tone calm, almost nonchalant, but his presence radiating danger, his silence a threat. Then, before I could move, before I could react, he leapt down—vanishing into the shadows, disappearing into the night.
My pulse quickened, adrenaline surging through my veins, my body tensing in preparation for a fight. He knew how to hide, how to move unseen, how to disappear without a trace. He was a professional, a trained killer, a force to be reckoned with.
Faye appeared, holding plates of pasta, her expression concerned, her eyes searching mine. "Ly, dinner's getting cold!"
I forced a smile, pushing down the fear, refusing to allow her to see my vulnerability. "I'm coming."
I joined her at the table, forcing myself to eat, to appear normal, to maintain the facade of calm that I had so carefully constructed.
Her food smelled divine, the aroma of garlic and herbs a comforting reminder of normalcy, but I could barely taste it, my senses heightened, my mind racing, my body on high alert.
My phone buzzed again, its insistent vibration a constant reminder of the danger that surrounded me. Unknown number.
"You owe me gratitude, Lysandra Moore."
I froze, my blood turning to ice, my breath catching in my throat.
"Who is it?" Faye asked, noticing my expression, her concern deepening.
"Probably a prank," I said, though my voice betrayed me, my tone laced with uncertainty.
She frowned, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "Block it. You've had enough drama." Her voice was firm, protective, her concern for my well-being overriding her usual lightheartedness.
I did, swiping the number away, silencing the intrusive buzz, but the words lingered in my mind, echoing in the silence, a chilling reminder of the debt I owed, the danger I faced.
You owe me gratitude.
Eliot? His friends? My father's spy? Or someone else entirely? The possibilities swirled in my mind, a vortex of paranoia and fear.
The image of Anderson's blue eyes flashed in my mind—cold, knowing, piercing. A predator's gaze, assessing, evaluating, claiming.
"Ly," Faye said softly, snapping me out of it, her hand reaching across the table to cover mine, her touch grounding me, bringing me back to the present. "You're overthinking again."
I nodded, pushing my plate away, my appetite gone, my stomach churning with anxiety. "I just need some air."
Stepping out onto the balcony, I inhaled deeply, the cool night air a welcome relief from the suffocating atmosphere of the apartment. The city lights twinkled below, a vast expanse of anonymity, a million stories unfolding in the darkness.
I called Benjie again, my fingers trembling as I dialed the number, my heart pounding with dread.
He picked up instantly, his voice strained, his tone urgent. "Lys? Are you okay?"
"I got another message," I whispered, my voice barely audible, my words laced with fear. "It said I owe someone gratitude. I don't know who."
Benjie cursed under his breath, his anger a comforting presence in the face of my own terror. "Lys, listen to me. This isn't a joke. Leave the city tonight if you can. Your dad's involved with people who—"
Footsteps.
Behind me.
I turned, slowly, my senses heightened, my body tensing in preparation for a fight. The line crackled in my ear, the static amplifying the silence, the distance between me and Benjie growing with each passing second.
The air shifted, a subtle change in pressure, a silent warning that someone was there, watching me, waiting for an opportunity to strike. Half-hidden in the shadowed corner of the balcony, a dark figure lurked, a silent predator poised to pounce.
A tall figure stepped into the light, his features slowly emerging from the darkness, his presence radiating power and danger. Blue eyes caught the glow of the city, reflecting the lights like chips of ice, cold, knowing, unsettling.
My breath caught in my throat, my heart skipped a beat, my blood turned to ice.
He smiled faintly, a subtle expression of amusement, a hint of mockery in his tone. His voice low and deliberate, a silken caress that sent shivers down my spine, awakening a long-dormant desire that I had tried so hard to suppress.
"Looks like we meet again… Miss Moore."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, a promise of things to come. My mind raced, trying to process the impossible, trying to understand how he had found me, how he had managed to infiltrate Faye's apartment, how he had managed to get so close without me even realizing it.
He was a ghost, a shadow, a phantom. He was everywhere and nowhere, always watching, always waiting.
"What do you want?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, a pathetic attempt to assert control, to regain some semblance of power in the face of overwhelming fear.
He stepped closer, closing the distance between us, his presence overwhelming, his gaze piercing, his power absolute. "I believe I made myself clear, Miss Moore. You owe me gratitude. And I always collect my debts."
He reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through my body, awakening every nerve ending, making my skin prickle with a strange, unsettling awareness.
I closed my eyes, surrendering to the inevitable, knowing that I was trapped, caught in his web, with no hope of escape.
The night was just beginning. And I was his.