Star walks down the empty street, her footsteps echoing off the pavement as she heads toward the cab stand that will take her back to campus. But her feet move on autopilot; her mind is elsewhere—trapped in the past, in the years she can't escape.
Twenty years.
Her mother had endured twenty years of marriage to Tomas. For as long as Star could remember, the bruises were just part of their household, like the worn furniture and the silence that filled the rooms whenever he was home.
She was five years old the first time she saw it.
Her mother—still healthy then, still vibrant—had worked an extended shift at Summit Heights Medical Centre. They arrived home late, Star bundled in her mother's arms, eyelids heavy but not yet closed. Louise had laid her gently on the bed, careful not to wake her. But Star's eyes had stayed open, watching through the crack in the door as her mother returned to the living room.
Tomas was sprawled on the sofa, a bottle dangling from his fingers, his eyes glassy and unfocused.
"Where were you?" The words slithered out of his mouth, thick with alcohol.
"Our shift ran late." Louise's voice was calm, measured—the voice of a woman who didn't yet know what was coming.
"Are you lying to me?" Tomas rose from the sofa unsteadily, his body swaying, his mind drowning in liquor.
Louise frowned. This was new. This was different. In five years, she had never seen him like this.
"What's wrong with you—"
She never finished the sentence.
His fist connected with her face before she could react. The crack of bone against bone split the silence, and Louise crumpled to the floor, confusion and pain warring across her features. But Tomas didn't stop. He drew back and swung again. And again.
Star's small body moved before her mind could catch up.
"Dada!" she screamed, her five-year-old voice tearing through the room. "Dada, stop!"
He didn't stop.
He didn't stop until Louise's eyes rolled back and her body went limp against the cold floor.
That night was the beginning. For fifteen years, it continued and she never went back to wrok again. And now, standing on this empty street, Star still can't understand why her mother refuses to leave it all behind.
Why do you stay? she thinks. After everything. After all of it.
The answer is always the same: What will people say?
Prick.
The sharp sting in her neck is sudden, unexpected. Her hand flies to the spot, fingers closing around something small—a dart. She pulls it out, staring at it as her vision begins to blur.
She hadn't noticed the black SUV trailing her. Too lost in the past, too consumed by memories that had her in a chokehold.
She turns. Sees it.
Her knees buckle. The street tilts. And then there's nothing but darkness.
***
Louise sits in her living room, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the wall but seeing nothing.
The divorce papers are hidden beneath a stack of magazines. Her daughter's attempt to set her free. Her daughter's desperate, bleeding heart trying to save her from a prison she walked into willingly twenty years ago.
What will society think?
The question gnaws at her, sharp and insistent.
What will people say about a woman who couldn't keep her marriage together? Who couldn't keep her husband satisfied? Who couldn't—
A knock at the door yanks her from the spiral.
She moves quickly—too quickly—wiping the tears from her face with practiced efficiency. She smooths down her blouse, arranges the cushions on the sofa, and sweeps the divorce papers into the trash bin with a swift, guilty motion. She checks her reflection in the window, schooling her features into something neutral, something pleasant.
Tomas didn't come home last night. She doesn't want to upset him this morning. She never wants to upset him.
"Welcome—" The smile she plasters on doesn't reach her eyes. It never does anymore. But the name on her lips dies the moment she opens the door.
Lucian stands on her doorstep, still clad in black from head to toe, his motorcycle visible just beyond the gate. His expression is unreadable, carved from stone.
"Lucian." Her voice is flat now, the false warmth evaporating. "What are you doing here?"
"Mrs. Set..." He pauses, something flickering behind his dark eyes. "Pardon my urgency. Is Star home?"
Louise's brow furrows. "She left a minute ago."
"I've been calling her." His jaw tightens. "It goes straight to voicemail."
"She must be in a cab back to res." Louise crosses her arms, hugging herself against a chill that has nothing to do with the weather. "I'm sure she's fine."
Lucian nods slowly, already turning to leave. But Louise's hand shoots out, catching his arm. She steps outside, pulls the door closed behind her, and wraps her arms around her chest like armor.
"Lucian." She exhales, and the sound carries the weight of years. "I know Star tells you everything. Literally everything."
His frown is barely perceptible. "There are some things she doesn't tell me," he says carefully.
Like that she's been crushing on the city's billionaire, Adrian Stark, he thinks, but keeps the thought buried.
"You grew up together." Louise's voice tightens around something deep, something raw. "You have a scar to show for it."
Lucian's eyebrow lifts, waiting.
"I need you children to worry about your own lives," she continues, her tone shifting—tender one moment, threatening the next. "Your future. Leave me and my marriage out of it."
The words hang in the air between them.
And then it clicks into place—the divorce papers, Star's desperation, Louise's fear. Understanding dawns, and with it, something else. Something that makes Lucian's posture straighten, his hands curl into fists at his sides.
"You're talking about the divorce Star got for you."
His voice is low, controlled—but the anger simmering beneath it is anything but.
"Star is just a bruised five-year-old who got tired of the pain." He steps closer, and for a moment, Louise sees something in his eyes that makes her breath catch. "You need to choose a side. Your bruised daughter—or your abusive, cheating excuse for a husband."
The words land like a slap.
Lucian doesn't wait for a response. He turns, swings a leg over his bike, and roars down the street before he does something he can't take back. Before he strangles the woman who helped raise him.
But his hands shake on the handlebars.
And in the rearview mirror, Louise stands frozen on her doorstep, arms still wrapped around herself, looking smaller than he's ever seen her.
***
At the Stark residence, the flat-screen TV blares so loudly it practically shakes the walls. Bonita lounges on the sofa, watching a fashion show with the volume cranked to maximum, her irritation radiating off her in waves.
"Your show is too loud," Maria's voice drifts from the dining room, calm but edged with annoyance. "Might want to lower the volume, honey."
Bonita's jaw clenches. "What, am I disturbing your archtectual research, Mom? Do I need to wake up Adrian to help you out instead?"
The sarcasm drips from her words like poison. She's been awake since dawn—summoned awake, dragged from sleep to "help" with architectural research that her mother refuses to let her actually participate in. Instead, she's been sitting here, watching Maria do all the work, pretending Bonita is anything more than an audience.
Maria sighs—the long, suffering exhale of a woman who has perfected the art of making her children feel like burdens.
"Boni, I'm doing this for you."
Maria sits at the glass table, surrounded by scattered papers and architectural renderings, her face a mask of exhaustion layered over something colder.
She's a middle-aged woman who looks tired—not the tired of late nights, but the bone-deep tiredness of someone who has been carrying something heavy for far too long.
"Your brother just closed a big deal with Mr. Jackson. He needs his sleep right now, and I can't disturb him. You're the next best I can work with."
"You mean the next best to watch you," Bonita snaps, her voice rising. "If you haven't noticed, I'm more business management than architecture."
"Like I said." Maria doesn't look up from her papers. "I'm doing this for you."
"Yes, Bonita." A new voice cuts through the tension, light and airy. "Mrs. Stark is doing this for you."
Tiffany descends the staircase in a thin linen sleeping gown, her movements unhurried, her smile satisfied. She lands on the grand sofa with a bounce, crossing her legs like she owns the place.
Bonita's eyes widen. "Wait... did you sleep here?"
"Yep." Tiffany's grin widens. Then, before Bonita can ask: "No, we didn't do it." Her voice carries a note of disappointment, as if the fact is merely a technicality.
"Good morning, Mrs. Stark," Tiffany calls toward the dining room, her manners suddenly impeccable.
Bonita shakes her head slowly. "Adrian must really be in a good mood to let you sleep over."
"Why?" Tiffany tilts her head. "You mean he wouldn't do that on an uneventful day? We're dating. We'll be married soon."
Maria looks up from her phone, scrolling absently. "She's right. It's only natural."
Bonita's lips press into a thin line. "It's just new..."
"Can I get a cappuccino?" Tiffany's voice shifts, taking on the casual authority of someone ordering at a café.
The nearby maid dips her head. "Yes, Ms. Tiffany."
As she disappears into the kitchen, Bonita watches her go, a knot forming in her stomach that she can't quite name.
***
Lucian's bike tears through the streets, the engine screaming as he pushes it faster, faster. The wind whips against his face, but he doesn't feel it. All he feels is the clock ticking in his chest.
Three hours since he first tried Star's phone. Three hours of voicemail.
Three hours since he found out someone ordered a bounty on her. Seventy men. Seventy rapists.
The word burns in his mind, white-hot.
He pulls into Crestfall University just as the lunch crowd spills across the quad. Students part around him like water around a stone, their conversations stuttering to silence as he passes.
"Who is that?" The whispers follow him. Girls stop mid-step, hands flying to their mouths, eyes wide. He walks like a gentleman—measured, controlled, his public mask firmly in place. No one looking at him would guess he's the mafia boss the rumors whisper about.
But he doesn't care about any of that right now.
He's here for his Star.
Across the quad, Tiffany spots him before Bonita does. She freezes, a hotdog halfway to her mouth, and watches him move through the crowd with an intensity that makes Bonita frown.
"Hey." Tiffany's voice is low, almost reverent. "Bonita. If I didn't know Adrian, I would say that guy looks much more like him."
Bonita follows her gaze. Her eyes narrow.
"Yes, except my brother wears glasses and has black-and-white hair." Her voice is clipped, annoyed.
Tiffany finally takes a bite of her hotdog, still watching Lucian disappear toward the residence halls. "What's wrong with you today? You've been moody since we got to campus."
"Nothing." Bonita looks away, her gaze going distant, lost in thoughts she won't share.
Lucian finds Mrs. Welma, the matron of Crestfall University Residence, in her small office off the main lobby. She's a stout woman with kind eyes and no patience for nonsense, and she knows Star well.
"Star left this morning for her mother's," Mrs. Welma says after a few clicks of her keyboard. She glances at her screen, then back at Lucian. "She hasn't clocked in yet."
"Are you sure?" His voice is calm. Too calm.
"I'm sure." Mrs. Welma's brow furrows. "Star comes to me the first thing when she enters campus. If she can't make it, she calls me. She hasn't clocked in, and she hasn't called. Meaning she's still outside campus." She shrugs. "Just call her."
Lucian is already out the door.
His mind races through the possibilities, each one darker than the last.
If Star left home hours ago. If she never made it back to campus. If her phone is off.
There's only one conclusion.
Whoever ordered the bounty on her already has her.
His phone vibrates. He answers before the first ring finishes.
"Speak."
"Star's phone went off right near her home." Lyrl's voice crackles through the speaker. "I can't track it further without a signal."
Lucian's expression doesn't change. But beneath the mask, something cold and lethal unfurls in his chest.
"I can." His voice is steel wrapped in silk. "I bought her that phone. I still have the box. Meet me at the mansion."
He hangs up before Lyrl can respond.
Who has you? The question echoes in his skull as he swings onto his bike. At this point, it's not about where she is. That will be a mercy—if whoever took her even plans to let her live.
His engine roars to life.
And in the back of his mind, a single thought burns brighter than all the others:
If they've hurt her, there won't be a hole deep enough for them to hide.
***
The building is old. Abandoned. The kind of place that smells of rust and rat droppings, where the walls sweat moisture and the floors groan under the slightest weight. Water drips somewhere in the darkness, a steady, maddening rhythm.
Star wakes gasping, her lungs fighting for air like she's been pulled from the bottom of the ocean. Her eyes snap open, but the darkness doesn't recede—it presses in, thick and suffocating.
She tries to move. But can't.
Her wrists are bound to a metal chair with rope so tight it cuts into her skin. Her ankles, too. Whoever tied her made sure she wouldn't get any ideas when she wakes.
Her heart plummets into her stomach.
"Oh, you're awake?"
The voice comes from somewhere in the shadows. Footsteps echo off concrete walls, slow and deliberate. A man emerges into the sliver of light filtering through a boarded window. His teeth flash yellow when he grins—a grin that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Ramon!" he calls over his shoulder, never looking away from her. "She's awake."
Star's throat constricts. "Who are you?" Her voice cracks. "What do you want with me?"
The man laughs—a high, manic sound that bounces off the walls. "See, you messed with the wrong person. And we're going to teach you a lesson."
He laughs again, and the sound makes her skin crawl.
Another figure appears from the shadows. This one is broader, with heavy-lidded eyes that rove over her like she's something to be consumed.
"Oh, God." Ramon's voice is almost soft, almost pitying. He touches his lips, staring at her. "She's beautiful."
He turns to the first man.
"Sister, do we have to kill her?"
"Yes." The answer comes from behind her, and Star's blood turns to ice. "She's to die."
She knows that voice. Would know it anywhere.
Footsteps circle around, and then Frieda steps into the light, her face half-illuminated, half-lost in shadow. Her smile is serene. Serene and terrible.
"You."
Star's heart drops to her feet.
"Yes." Frieda squats down in front of her, close enough that Star can smell her perfume—something floral, something sweet, utterly at odds with the scene unfolding. "Me."
Star flinches when Frieda reaches out, but Frieda only laughs.
"First you destroyed my family." Star's voice breaks. "And now you want to kill me?"
The laugh that tears from Frieda's throat is genuine, surprised, almost delighted.
"Destroyed your family?" She tilts her head, her expression shifting from amusement to cold, calculated fury. "Me loving Tomas destroyed your family?"
She rises, and the warmth drains from her face like water through cracked glass.
"You watched your boyfriend break mine's arm." Her voice drops to a whisper, venomous and low. "And you watched."
She paces now, her footsteps measured, her anger barely contained.
"See, when Tomas proposed to me, I was going to let you and your mother go." She stops, turns, and her eyes lock onto Star's. "Given our friendship, I was actually considering it. But now..." Her lips curl. "You just signed her death sentence. Yours too."
She moves to a table in the corner—a table Star only now notices, cluttered with tools that glint dully in the dim light. Frieda's hand closes around the handle of a sledgehammer.
"I'm sorry." The words tumble out of Star's mouth, desperate, pleading. "I'm sorry, Frieda, please—"
"You're sorry?" Frieda hefts the hammer onto her shoulder, testing its weight. Her smile returns, but there's nothing kind in it now. "Oh, you'll be sorry."
She walks toward the table beside Star's chair, and two of her men step forward to force Star's hand flat against the splintered wood. Her palm presses against the grain, fingers splayed, trembling.
"I've known you a long time, Star." Frieda's voice is almost gentle now, almost maternal. "I've known you and all your little plans. But those plans stop now." She raises the hammer. "Because I have you. And I will make you beg for me to kill you."
Star's breath comes in sharp, panicked gasps. "Frieda, please—"
"You're not going anywhere."
The hammer rises.
"Please—"
It falls.
***
At Crestfall General, Tomas sits on the edge of his hospital bed, signing discharge papers with one hand while the other cemented one checks his phone for the tenth time.
The door swings open.
"I'm so sorry, babe." Frieda sweeps in, all apologies and smiles, her arms open wide. "I'm late. Traffic was a nightmare."
He leans into her kiss, the tension in his shoulders easing. "Where were you? I've been waiting forever."
Frieda settles beside him, her hand finding his, her thumb stroking his knuckles. A smile spreads across her face—soft, loving, utterly convincing.
"I was taking care of a bug in my house."
She presses another kiss to his cheek, and in her mind, she sees the hammer rising. Hears Star's screams.
Her smile never wavers.