I search his eyes.
I do love you. But I need to find Clara. Maybe it's better if you don't believe me.
"I want to be in Room Twenty-One."
The words come out plain. Unhidden. Unsoftened. For a second—nothing.
Then his hands drop. Just like that. The warmth disappears. He lets me go. Steps back. Distance. Clean. Immediate. Final.
His expression hardens, whatever was there before sealing shut behind it.
Of course. That's what this is. He turns. No hesitation. No question. Just leaves.
The door opens.
Closes.
And I know—there's no stopping him now.
###
Mohamad stares at the DNA report—then crushes it in his fist.
"You're sure?"
Jason doesn't hesitate. "Mr. Wong confirmed it himself. He only joined Akira Lounge recently—after discovering Clara is his daughter. He hired Ace to find her."
Silence.
The glass in Mohamad's hand tightens. Ice cracks softly against crystal.
"At least now it makes sense," Jason continues carefully. "You were wondering why Ace works at Akira—"
He stops.
Mohamad looks up.
Jason straightens immediately. "I'll take my leave."
The door shuts behind him.
Silence returns.
Mohamad downs the whiskey in one swallow. Then another. The burn does nothing.
A sharp breath leaves him—half laugh, half something darker.
From the beginning.
That night. The way she walked in. The way she stayed. Not coincidence. Not chance.
His hand moves before the thought settles—The glass shatters against the wall. Fragments scatter across the floor.
"She knew."His jaw tightens.From the beginning.Not chance. Not coincidence.
Calculated.
The words come out low. Certain.
His chest rises once, sharply.
A beat. Then, quieter—
"That damned woman."
###
I stare at the DNA report on my screen. Dated eight months ago. My fingers still. This is why? Mr. Wong… is Clara's biological father?
"As you instructed, I dug into the surrounding surveillance," Pi says. "I found this."
The footage loads. I narrow my eyes. A limo pulls into frame.Sleek. Black. Unmistakable. My pulse tightens. Mr. Silence's.
The timestamp flashes. 9:33 a.m. — Sunday.
I don't blink. He left at 5:24 a.m. So why is he back?
Four hours later. My stomach drops. No. Not a coincidence. Not him.
My fingers curl slowly against the desk. Mr. Silence has Clara. The thought lands—and doesn't move. I lean back in my chair, the leather cold against my spine. Villain or not… I have to face him.
A soft chime cuts through the silence.My phone lights up.
Jason. Tonight. 9:30 p.m. Room Twenty-One.
Of course. My lips press together. So this is how it happens.
I stand.
"Power off."
The screens go dark. The room falls silent.
"Are you going to see him for Clara," Pi asks, voice quiet, "or for yourself?"
I don't answer. I walk past her. A thought slips in anyway—uninvited. Is it possible… he knew? My steps slow. Just slightly.
If he did—was that why he booked me? Not coincidence. Not desire. But control. My jaw tightens. I push the thought down. It doesn't matter. Clara comes first. Room Twenty-One.
I'm going.
###
My feet propel forward with the intensity of the swirling questions in my mind. The long hallway of Akira Lounge stretches, distorts—each step heavier than the last.
Room Twenty-One.
I don't slow down. I don't think. I open the door. I expect music. Voices. Laughter.
Instead—The room is dim. The air is thick. Heavy. Wrong. Sound hits me first. A sharp rhythm. Repeating. Unforgiving.
Moans—low, breathless, rising and falling in a pattern that feels… practiced. Controlled. Intimate in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
I freeze.
Something cold slides up my spine, locking me in place. My hand lingers on the door handle. I can't move. I can't breathe.
No. No, this isn't—
The sound sharpens. Louder. Closer. Each beat lands against my chest, syncing with my pulse until I can't tell which one is mine anymore.
My throat tightens.
Don't. Don't go further.
But my feet move anyway. One step. Then another. Each one feels deliberate. Conscious. Chosen.
The woman's voice breaks higher now—breathless, unrestrained—and something inside me shifts. Not a clean break. Not a snap.
A distortion.
Because I know that rhythm. I know that intensity. I know—Him.
My hand presses against my chest, not to hold myself together—but to steady the sudden, unfamiliar surge flooding through me.
This isn't supposed to feel like this.
I know what this is. I've studied it. Written about it. Labeled it. Measured it.
Jealousy. Attachment response. Threat perception.
I've explained this to others—calmly, clinically, like it's something manageable. Something transient.
So why does it feel… different?
I inhale slowly. Then again. Forcing my body to regulate. This isn't ownership. This isn't betrayal.
He can be with anyone. That's not the problem. That was never the problem.
So what is?
My thoughts move too fast, trying to outrun the feeling instead of sitting in it. I shouldn't be analyzing. I should just feel.
But I can't. Because if I stop thinking—I'll have to admit what this actually is. And I don't want to name it. Not yet.
Another breath. Slower this time.
Focus. Clara. That's why I'm here.
The sound pulls at me again—louder now, closer—and I force myself forward.
The dim light flickers as I take another step, shadows shifting just enough. Just enough to reveal movement. Familiar. A silhouette. Broad shoulders. Too familiar.
My breath stills. Everything inside me goes quiet. Not calm. Not steady. Just—contained.
Because in that moment, standing at the edge of the room, watching something I should be able to detach from—I realize the problem isn't that he's with someone else.
It's that—What I felt with him… wasn't interchangeable.
My fingers curl slowly at my side. That shouldn't matter. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't mean anything.
So why—does my body refuse to believe that?
His head tilts—slightly. Like he feels it. Like he knows.
And then—his gaze lifts.
Directly toward me.