Chapter 3&4
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4PM
From the reinforced steel gates to the grand white mansion, rows of uniformed military guards stood at attention, exuding authority and command, as a matte-black Lamborghini Aventador glided into the palace grounds.
The car came to a smooth, controlled stop in the luxurious courtyard.
At once, one of the guards stepped forward and opened the rear door with practiced precision.
A pair of polished black shoes emerged from the vehicle, belonging to a man whose striking features could rival those of a demigod.
Ocean-blue eyes framed by long, dark lashes, a sharply defined jawline, and irresistibly tempting lips—his striking height only added to his commanding presence.
His mullet-style hair fell effortlessly, while multiple earrings adorned his ears, catching the light with every subtle movement.
Polished black shoes completed his immaculate appearance.
His sense of style was as expensive as his looks, and his cologne lingered in the air, rich and captivating, as he surveyed the vast compound as though seeing it for the first time.
The estate itself was a majestic oasis, enclosed by towering walls adorned with intricate carvings and opulent tilework, its grand entrance marked by an imposing gatehouse that spoke of wealth, power, and legacy.
Surrounded by meticulously manicured lawns and vibrant flowerbeds, with towering trees offering shade and seclusion from the outside world, the estate stood as undeniable proof that no expense had been spared.
He took his time, drawing in the air of the palace as though savoring its very essence, while the security guards retrieved his luggage from the car's trunk.
Scott Wellington—the devil's second heir—had finally returned home after six years away at college in Milland.
Now back in his father's mansion, he was ready to begin his own empire.
This time, he was here to stay.
A cool breeze brushed through his hair, and his lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk.
He was not a man given to smiles; he spoke only when necessary and joked even less. Like his father, he was ruthless and merciless—a man with a heart darker than the deepest night.
As he approached the main building, a middle-aged woman stood waiting, her hair pulled into a neat bun, her elegant attire reflecting quiet sophistication.
Beside her stood another woman of similar age, equally poised and refined.
The woman dressed in red was his mother, Mrs. Kath, while the one in yellow was his stepmother, Mrs. Valencia.
Mrs. Valencia was the mother of Stacy and Dorian, while Mrs. Kath had given birth only to Scott. Despite their differences, there was no division within the family—they lived in harmony, bound together as one.
Mrs. Kath's face lit up the moment she saw him. With a radiant smile, she opened her arms wide as he approached, his hands tucked into his pockets, his expression unreadable.
"Welcome back, son," she said, her voice brimming with unmistakable excitement.
A faint smile touched Scott's lips as he stepped into her embrace, wrapping his arms around her at the foot of the sweeping staircase.
"Welcome back as well, son. I thought you were going to settle in Evanston for good—it's been six long years," Mrs. Valencia added warmly.
Scott gently pulled away from his mother's embrace, his gaze shifting to her.
"I went there to study. Do you have amnesia, Mum? Or perhaps you've had a stroke?" Scott asked coolly.
Mrs. Valencia offered an awkward smile and opened her mouth to respond, but Mrs. Kath cut in before she could speak.
"Let's go inside and discuss this. We have a great deal to talk about. You should go up to your room, freshen up, and then come downstairs for dinner. It's been a long journey—you need to clear your mind first. When your father returns, you can greet him then," Mrs. Kath said gently.
Mrs. Valencia nodded quickly, her smile tight as she silently agreed.
Scott didn't spare either of them a glance. Without another word, he turned and walked into the house.
The two women exchanged a brief look, exhaling softly before following him inside.
*
*
____
Behind the main mansion lay a series of private luxury suites, making the estate one of the largest in the entire city—a true testament to Chief Robert's status as a multi-billionaire.
All three of them still lived within the compound, their suites positioned side by side.
The pink suite belonged to Stacy, the blue to Dorian, and the black—his favorite color—belonged to Scott.
His luggage had already been delivered to his suite, yet he didn't bother going inside. Instead, he turned and made his way to see his brother.
From the second suite, a loud pop music is pulsating through the door, pounding wildly through the walls, he wondered what was the celebration.
That was Dorian's room.
Scott pushed the door open, only to find Stacy, her friend Bianca, and Dorian sprawled across the couch in a haze of reckless indulgence.
Bianca was dancing provocatively in front of him, while Dorian lounged back, clearly entertained. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and alcohol, hanging heavily in the room.
Stacy was the first to notice his presence, catching sight of him in the mirror. Her eyes widened in shock, and she quickly rushed to the MP3 player, pausing the music.
Only then did the others turn to look—realization dawning as their expressions shifted in surprise.
"Motherfucking predator!" Stacy screamed, barreling toward him and leaping into his arms. Scott smiled faintly but didn't hug her back, letting her energy bounce off him.
Bianca casually tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a wide grin on her face as she watched.
Stacy jumped down, shaking her head in disbelief, unable to comprehend what she was seeing.
"Fuck! Predator! You're fucking back!" Dorian yelled, leaping off the bed to envelop Scott in a warm, brotherly hug. Once they pulled back, they clasped hands firmly in a silent affirmation of the unspoken bro code.
"Good to see you again, Scottish," Bianca said, tracing an invisible line on the floor with her foot, a playful smile on her lips.
Scott didn't spare her a glance. At that moment, the only people who truly mattered to him were the two in front of him—his brother and sister.
"And you two were busy celebrating without me," he said, raising an eyebrow. "What's all the celebration about?"
Both of them chuckled, sharing a brief, knowing look.
"You really have no idea, do you? You're missing out on a lot," Stacy said, a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Tonight is Holy Mary's Auction, and Dorian here will be buying her for the night. If it works, it'll be our greatest family achievement." She winked.
Scott turned his gaze toward Dorian, his expression blank, a mix of confusion and disbelief flickering across his face.
His voice dropped, calm and measured.
"Who the heck is Holy Mary?"
*
*
Scott stepped out of the bathroom, a white singlet draped over his shoulder and a towel tied around his waist.
His damp hair fell in loose curls over his face as he used another towel to dry it, his movements measured and calm.
He froze mid-step.
On his bed lay a figure, sprawled across the sheets, legs splayed, hair falling over her face.
Beside her, a freshly wrapped set of bedsheets and a pillowcase rested neatly, untouched.
His eyes traced the scene briefly, from her legs to her face, before a scoff escaped him.
Ignoring her entirely, he turned to the wardrobe and began changing into fresh clothes, his composure unshaken.
A smirk curved Scott's lips as his gaze returned to her. Isn't that… his little stepmom?
Kyla yawned softly as she stretched, her hair still falling messily across her face.
Her lips were pale—likely from dehydration. She couldn't even remember the last time she had eaten or had a proper drink of water in this house.
They only allowed her to eat twice a week, and only then was she permitted to drink. An alarm had been installed on the refrigerator—if she so much as touched it, it would sound throughout the house like a warning.
She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, her body finally giving in to exhaustion. Pulling the pillow closer, she adjusted her head and drifted back to sleep, a faint, uneven snore escaping her lips.
She had never been given the chance to rest since she was married into this house.
This—however brief—was her only chance to sleep, even if it lasted no more than twenty minutes.
Scott let out a quiet chuckle as he turned away, pulling a fresh shirt over his head before slipping into a pair of jeans. His earrings caught the light as he moved.
He stepped in front of the mirror and pulled open a drawer, finding all his hair products neatly arranged—the guards had unpacked everything with precision.
Taking a brush, he ran it through his hair, his movements slow and deliberate.
His gaze flickered to the mirror, catching a brief glimpse of the young woman behind him. Her hair lay scattered across her face, giving her an almost wild, unkempt appearance—something close to that of a restless spirit.
Another quiet chuckle escaped him.
He set the brush down and ran a hand carelessly through his hair before turning his attention back to her. Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he walked toward the bed.
For a brief moment, his hand hovered in the air—hesitating—before he withdrew it and instead nudged the edge of the mattress lightly with his knee.
She stirred.
Reaching out, he gently brushed the strands of hair away from her face. A soft, incoherent sound slipped from her lips, a trace of saliva staining the pillow beneath her. Her lips parted slightly, and beads of sweat glistened across her forehead.
A faint rumble echoed from her stomach, and even in her sleep, she instinctively clutched it, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her eyes squeezed shut at intervals, as though fighting through discomfort even in unconsciousness.
The sound was unmistakable—hunger.
Scott left the bed, and just then his phone rang.
He walked over to where he had left the phone and picked it up. At the sight of the caller's name, a faint, dark smirk tugged at his lips.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he moved to his wardrobe, opened it with deliberate ease, and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, sliding one smoothly between his fingers.
He placed the cigarette between his lips and sparked the lighter, the brief flare casting a sharp glow across his face.
With a flick, he sent the pack tumbling onto the dresser.
He drew in a long, measured drag, the smoke curling lazily around him as he crossed the room and sank onto the couch, legs crossed. The phone stayed pressed to his ear while his free hand toyed with the lighter, flicking it open and closed, his expression entirely unreadable.
Scott inhaled another long drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing brighter in the dim light. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling slowly, the curl of smoke drifting upward as his eyes remained fixed on the floor, unreadable.
"Status?" His voice was calm, controlled, almost lethally quiet.
"We found a woman matching the description you provided, Presidente. I'll send you her pictures. We've also located her residence, and she has a daughter—around twelve years old," the voice reported.
Scott's dark smirk deepened. His fingers tapped idly against the lighter, the slow, deliberate rhythm echoing sharply in the quiet room.
He hung up, and shortly after, a flurry of messages pinged across his phone.
Opening them, he saw a woman in a red dress guiding her daughter to school. Her hair was tucked beneath a black scarf tied neatly under her jaw, and her eyes were locked on something, wide with unmistakable fear.
Scott zoomed in, following her gaze, and spotted a sleek black car.
The license plate came into focus, and for a brief moment, he froze—his fingers pausing mid-flick with the lighter.
The plate looked hauntingly familiar.
Without a word, he left the message open and flipped to his phone's diary, scrolling back sixteen years. His eyes landed on a record from that day: a license plate he had noted at the time.
Slowly, he compared the numbers—and a cold smirk spread across his face.
It matched.
Scott took a long, deliberate drag from his cigarette, the glowing tip cutting through the dim light. He exhaled slowly, smoke curling around him like a shadow, before returning his attention to the pictures.
They told a story: her stepping out of a mall, opening her car door, then a shot of her inside the vehicle, phone pressed to her ear.
Another showed her standing in front of a company, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance.
He zoomed in, following her gaze—and there it was again.
The same black car.
A faint, dark smirk tugged at his lips as he resumed flicking the lighter, the clicks echoing sharply in the room.
Then a recorded voice note appeared. Scott pressed play, and the haunting voice rang through the room. His fingers began trembling, the phone shaking violently as he listened to the malicious tones.
The lighter slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His breath came in heavy, uneven bursts, beads of sweat forming across his forehead. His eyes burned red with barely contained fury, and the cigarette rolled from his grasp onto the floor.
He shut his eyes tightly, letting the voice consume him. As it played, his mind drifted back twenty three years—to the memory that had never left him.
___
★TWENTY—THREE YEARS BACK★
Inside the pitch-dark room, countless cobwebs hung from ceiling to floor, teeming with spiders that scuttled across every surface.
At the center, a very young Scott sat, clad in his elementary school uniform.
His hands were tightly bound behind his back, and a thick black scarf blinded his eyes.
Deep, jagged cuts streaked his arms, blood trickling down his skin.
A small piece of tape muffled his cries, each stifled sound piercing the oppressive silence.
Spiders crawled over his trembling legs, their tiny limbs brushing against raw flesh, while rats scuttled across the floor, claws tapping sharply against the wooden boards.
The door creaked open, and a red stiletto stepped inside.
The woman was tall, her short hair framing a face hardened by malice.
Smoke curled from the cigarette between her fingers as she moved, her multiple waist beads and bracelets jingling with every step.
Her long, sharp nails, painted a deep crimson, caught the dim light, and the clicks of her heels echoed through the room, shattering the oppressive silence.
"Hello, pretty gentleman," her malicious voice slithered through the room, followed by a low, cruel laugh that made the shadows tremble.
Scott continued struggling, his muffled cries cutting through the silence, raw and desperate.
It had all started at school.
The day had ended, and in front of the gates, Adrian and Stacy were waiting with him for their driver to take them home. Hours passed, the driver never arriving, until finally, after what felt like an eternity, a sleek car pulled up.
The window rolled down, and there she was—the woman.
Her smile was sharp, predatory, and utterly devoid of warmth. The world seemed to narrow around her gaze as she stared at them, calculating and cold.
"Hello, pretty gentlemen… and pretty lady," she purred, her voice both sweet and venomous. "Get in. Your papa, Mr. Robert, assigned me to be your driver today. Got it? I'll take you home to your mama and papa before it gets dark."
With no choice, the children exchanged uneasy glances.
The shadows of evening were already stretching across the street, and hesitation gave way to compliance.
Slowly, they climbed into the car.
The engine purred to life, and as the vehicle carried them down the quiet streets, exhaustion overcame them. One by one, their heads nodded, and they drifted into uneasy sleep, unaware of the danger that waited just beyond the glass.
She carefully dropped Adrian and Stacy off by the side of the road, her movements precise and deliberate.
Then, with a sudden roar of the engine, she sped off—leaving behind everyone except her true target: Scott Wellington.
For the past two days, he had been trapped in that dark, suffocating room—forced to sleep amidst spiders and rats, the silence broken only by the scraping of claws across the floor and the occasional scuttle of crawling things.
"Oh, my little gentleman," she hissed, each word laced with venom. "Are you scared? Do the rats… the spiders… frighten you, hmm?"
A shiver ran down Scott's spine.
Scott's head jerked toward the sound, but the thick black scarf over his eyes offered no comfort—he could only hear her footsteps circling, slow and deliberate, the jingling of her bracelets punctuating each step.
She stopped in front of him, her presence pressing down like a shadow. With the tip of her finger, she carefully peeled the tape from his mouth.
The scuttling of spiders and rats at his feet only amplified her cruelty, and some ants even crawled against his skin, a horrifying reminder of his helplessness.
As she peeled the tape away, a trickle of saliva escaped his mouth, and he erupted into a desperate, muffled cry.
Her laughter rang out, sharp and cruel, echoing through the room.
Without hesitation, she clamped her hand over his mouth, squeezing it mercilessly, drawing his face closer to hers.
Leaning in, she savored the fear radiating from him, her eyes glinting with twisted delight.
"The more you cry, the closer your death becomes," she hissed, each word dripping with venom.
"So it's far better to shut that mouth of yours and enjoy the company of your little friends—the rats and spiders. Or, if they bore you, I can always bring in more. Friends who are far more eager to keep you company."
_____
★BACK TO PRESENT★
Kyla's eyes fluttered open, and she sat up on the bed, running her fingers through her tangled hair as her breath came in heavy gasps.
A low, anguished groan cut through the stillness, drawing her gaze. Her heavy, drowsy eyes landed on Scott, collapsed on the floor before the couch. He hugged himself tightly, hands clutching his head, eyes squeezed shut, sweat glistening on his skin like dark rivulets.
Her own eyes widened in startled horror.
Suddenly, Kyla remembered where she was—inside his room. She had come to make the bed with fresh sheets, only to end up dozing off herself.
But why was he like this? What was happening to him?
Her brow furrowed in concern as she slowly pushed herself off the bed, brushing her hair back from her face. Step by careful step, she moved toward him. His hands clutched his hair tightly, trembling with every shudder that racked his body.
Her gaze fell on the lighter lying abandoned on the floor, then drifted to his phone, its screen cracked and smeared—evidence of it slipping from his grasp in a moment of panic.
What could he have heard… or seen… to leave him in such a state?
Her heart thudded violently in her chest.
She wanted to run, to call his mother—but fear rooted her to the spot. What if they turned it against her? What if they claimed she was the cause of his condition? In this house, everyone hated her.
They might… they could even kill her if she dared to speak.
She clenched her fists tightly, forcing herself to focus, and turned her gaze back to him. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she sank to the floor, squatting in front of him.
She didn't know where to begin, her own hands trembling with the same fear and uncertainty that gripped her heart.
Her eyes darted across his face, searching for any sign of recognition, any crack in the wall of anguish that had imprisoned him.
He remained huddled, hands gripping his head, shuddering with every ragged breath.
She drew in a deep, steadying breath, then carefully pried his hands from his hair, easing them away from his head. Slowly, deliberately, she began guiding them down, her movements gentle yet unwavering.
He flinched at the sound, a low, guttural groan escaping him, yet he did not pull away. Sweat dotted his forehead, his lips quivering, while his eyes remained tightly shut.
A faint jingle echoed in his mind, followed by the haunting rhythm of heels striking the floor. He flinched even harder, his ears burning red with the memory.
"You have to breathe in and out, and I promise you, you'll not see the horror again. Imagine your mother right beside you, whispering these words to you—just you and her in that world. Trust me, you'll be fine," Kyla said, hesitating slightly before pulling his head to her chest and hugging him tightly, gently stroking his back with soft, soothing motions.
His hands circled her waist as he rested his head more fully against her chest.
His breaths gradually slowed, and before long, he drifted into sleep. She continued patting and stroking his back, gentle and steady—just like a stepmother would.
She looked down at him, seeing that he was already fast asleep.
Exhaling deeply, she closed her eyes.
She needed to leave—if anyone found her in this room like this, it would not end well; she would surely pay, just as she had the first time she accidentally burned her husband's clothes.
Gently, she placed him on the floor and stood, moving toward the door. Her hand reached for the doorknob, but she clenched her fists instead, turning her head back toward him one last time.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," she muttered, stepping toward him.
Summoning all her strength, she lifted him carefully and laid him gently on the couch. Flexing her arms, she crossed back to the bed, retrieved the fresh bedsheet she had brought, and returned to drape it over his sleeping form.
She exhaled deeply, a quiet release of tension, before finally leaving the room, flexing her hands as she stepped away.
She glanced cautiously down the stairs, seeing no one in sight. Exhaling in relief, she descended and hurried out of the mansion.
"Tonight, I'll find out if you're really the infamous Holy Mary," a voice whispered from the shadows, the scent of cigarette smoke curling through the air.
*
*
___
6PM
«CHICAGO MILLAND, FENCING SALLE»
"En garde!"
Max surged forward, his crisp white fencing uniform gleaming under the salle lights, black mask concealing every flicker of emotion. His sword extended, precise and deliberate, aimed squarely at his opponent.
The other fencer hesitated, then retreated—only to suddenly advance, the tip of his blade slicing toward Max's chest with flawless timing, registering a point.
"Damn it!" Max muttered through clenched teeth.
His coach exhaled deeply, hands settling on his hips, a mix of frustration and fatigue shadowing his face. They had been training like this for over a year, yet Max still fell short of readiness for the national Olympic fencing championship.
"En garde!" the referee barked again, and Max's eyes narrowed behind the black mesh of his mask.
He lunged, blade cutting through the air, fast and precise.
His opponent twisted, parrying with a sharp clang that reverberated through the salle. Max stumbled slightly, recalibrating, his heart hammering.
Sweat drenched the area beneath his mask, and his breath came in ragged bursts.
He tightened his grip on the foil and retreated as his opponent advanced. With a sudden, precise thrust, the tip of the blade struck Max's mask, scoring another point.
"Holy fucking shit!" Max shouted, yanking off his mask. He dropped his foil to the piste and stormed off the field, anger radiating from every movement.
His coach let out a weary, almost deadly sigh, cracking open a bottle of water and taking a long, measured drink.
Max's opponent, still breathing heavily, lifted his own mask, wedging it under his armpit. Sweat streaked his forehead, which he wiped away with the back of his arm, before turning to leave the piste as well.
"Cove!" the coach called.
Cove turned, and the coach tossed a bottle of water toward him. He caught it effortlessly, raising it slightly in silent thanks.
Brushing his damp hair back, Cove's breath came in heavy, ragged pulls. He twisted the cap, took a long drink, and finally stepped off the piste, leaving the salle behind.
___
Max finished changing, carefully packing his fencing gear into his locker.
As he turned to leave, he noticed Cove entering the locker room, squeezing a bottle of water and swallowing deeply, the liquid filling his mouth before he tossed the empty can into the dustbin beside him.
Cove walked over to his own locker, opened it, and placed his mask neatly inside, his movements deliberate and controlled.
"You could've at least let me win," Max hissed, his eyes blazing with fury.
"Instead, you made me look pathetic in front of that old man—defeated, stagnant, with no sign of progress. You want all the praise. You want the championship for yourself. You want to bring home the trophy alone—fucking alone!"
Cove let out a low scoff, the corners of his lips curling into a cold, dark smirk. His gaze locked onto Max's, calm, calculated, and entirely unreadable.
Cove snapped his locker shut and strode toward Max.
Instinctively, Max stepped back.
"Both of us want the same thing—the damn trophy," Cove said, his voice low and cutting.
"But you? You're never serious. You practice once a week, maybe. I train every single day—three hundred sixty-five days, sleepless nights. And what do you do at night? Go to clubs, fucking around, thinking that'll make you unbeatable?"
His eyebrows rose with a sharp intensity as he closed the distance. Max's back collided with the locker behind him.
Cove leaned in, placing a hand on the locker beside Max's head, effectively caging him in. His piercing gaze bore into Max, unwavering.
Max swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry, a shiver running through him as the weight of Cove's words—and his presence—pressed down like steel.
"Tell me, Max… when was the last time you actually practiced?" Cove's voice was cold, sharp, sending a chill straight down Max's spine.
The air in the room grew suffocating, heavy with tension.
"I…"
Cove raised an eyebrow, silent and piercing. Max shut his eyes, biting his lip, then opened his mouth again—but the sudden ringing of his phone cut him off.
Seizing the moment, he shoved Cove roughly aside, snatched his bag and phone, and bolted from the room. Glancing at the screen, he saw it was Adrian calling.
Cove brought his hand to his face, feeling the sting of the cut Max had left.
He glanced down at his palm, noticing the smear of blood, and casually rubbed it away. His gaze flicked toward the door, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
With deliberate calm, he turned back to his locker and began removing his gear.
Max rushed out of the salle, but his eyes widened, and he froze. Adrian and Scott were leaning casually against the car, hands tucked into their pockets.
The breeze tousled Scott's hair, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone, giving him an effortlessly commanding presence.
Max didn't wait for a minute he immediately ran towards him and hugged him tightly, Scott chuckled, and hugged him back.
"Are you actually fencing, or are you busy fucking and fencing with some bitch, huh?" Scott asked, breaking the hug.
Max and Adrian chuckled at his bluntness.
"It's been six fucking long years. Welcome back to the world of fucking chaos," Max replied, lightly pounding his chest with his fist.
TBC
DO NOT GHOST 🚫
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