Kyla remained still for a moment after Adrian left, her hand resting lightly against the edge of the counter. The kitchen suddenly felt too quiet—too empty—after all the noise and movement.
She let out a slow breath, steadying herself, then reached for the pot, stirring it absentmindedly.
But her thoughts were no longer on the food.
That moment—when she had stumbled, when he had caught her—it replayed in her mind far too vividly. The firmness of his grip, the way his expression had changed… it hadn't been teasing. It had been something else.
Something real.
She shook her head sharply, as if trying to rid herself of the thought. "Ridiculous," she muttered under her breath.
Yet her hand paused again.
And then there was Scott.
She trembled slightly, recalling the look on his face at the doorway. The tension in his jaw, the tightness in his grip—it hadn't gone unnoticed.
Kyla remembered the way he kissed her in the club the night before, and how, earlier today, his lips had traced the curve of her neck before drifting lower.
The memory lingered, warm and unsettling.
She touched her neck, rubbing it slowly, then shifted her gaze to her thigh—especially the spot where her nickname was inked.
He was the only one who had ever made her feel something so unfamiliar, so intense.
But if Robert ever found out, she knew she would be in serious trouble.
She pushed the intrusive thoughts aside and resumed her cooking.
Gathering the carrots and other vegetables, she placed them into a bowl before carrying it to the—sink.
Turning on the tap, she let the water cascade over them, carefully rinsing each piece. Once finished, she arranged them neatly on a tray and began chopping with—steady precision.
"Once you have finished with whatever nonsense you are preparing, you will make three glasses of juice and bring them out to the garden. And if you dare serve them tasteless, I assure you—I won't merely ruin your clothes; I will have them torn into shreds," Stacy said as she stepped into the kitchen.
Kyla did not so much as spare her a glance.
Her hands remained steady as she continued slicing, the knife gliding through the vegetables with quiet precision. If Stacy's words unsettled her, she gave no sign of it.
The kitchen fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rhythmic tap of the blade against the board.
Stacy lingered for a moment, as though expecting a reaction—an apology, perhaps, or even defiance. When none came, her expression hardened, irritation flickering across her face.
"You heard me, didn't you?" she pressed, her tone sharpening.
Kyla finally paused.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze—not fully, not enough to meet Stacy's eyes, but just enough to acknowledge her presence. There was something restrained in that movement, something deliberate.
"I heard you," she replied calmly, her voice even and devoid of emotion, then, without another word, she returned to her task.
Stacy's expression darkened, her patience snapping like a frayed thread. Was she being mocked? Had Kyla just responded to her so nonchalantly—as though she were not merely a maid in this house?
Anger surged through her.
In a swift, furious motion, Stacy strode forward and swept the bowl of vegetables off the counter.
They scattered across the floor in a careless mess. In the same breath, she seized the knife and flung it out through the open window, the metallic clang echoing faintly from outside.
Kyla's eyes widened, but before she could turn, Stacy's slapped her across the face.
The force sent her staggering sideways.
She caught herself against the edge of the counter, a sharp sting flaring across her cheek. Her hand flew up instinctively, pressing against the throbbing skin as strands of hair fell across her face in disarray.
A metallic taste filled her mouth—her lip had split.
"It appears you have entirely forgotten your place," Stacy said, her voice laced with cold, cutting contempt. "You are nothing more than a maid in this house, and yet you dare address me in such an insolent, ill-mannered tone."
Her eyes narrowed, glinting with scorn.
"You—who, from birth, have never known even the slightest taste of luxury—now find yourself married to the richest man, living beneath the same roof as him." A faint, mocking smile touched her lips. "Do not delude yourself into believing that fortune has made you worthy."
Her voice dropped, each word measured and merciless.
"Your parents borrowed three hundred million from my father, and you became the price of that debt. And still, you presume to speak to me as though you are my equal?" Without warning, Stacy seized her by the lips, twisting them with cruel force.
"Use that tone again," she whispered, her voice dark with menace, "and I will carve that tongue out of you."
Kyla winced, tears spilling from her eyes as she endured the pain in silence.
Stacy released her with a rough shove before casually brushing her hair back, as though nothing of consequence had occurred.
Without a second glance, she stepped away, carelessly crushing the scattered vegetables beneath her feet as she made her way out of the kitchen.
The door closed behind her with a final, echoing silence.
Kyla let out a soft, pained chuckle as she gathered her hair into a ponytail, her fingers moving with practiced ease. She exhaled deeply, as though trying to steady herself, before quickly wiping away the tears threatening to fall.
The vegetables Stacy had ruined were the last on the shelf. She would have to go to the market and restock.
Without lingering on the thought, she retrieved a broom and dustpan and began sweeping up the mess.
*
*
«THREE YEARS—AGO»
«Mr. Peterson's Apartment»
In the living room, Kyla's parents knelt before Robert, their bodies trembling as sweat trickled down their skin.
Their hands were clasped together in desperate pleas, but no words seemed strong enough to save them.
He sat on the couch like a man born of darkness itself, he leaned back against the couch, a cigarette resting between his fingers. Smoke curled slowly from his lips, filling the room like a warning no one could escape.
Behind him stood three of his men—silent, imposing figures dressed entirely in black, their faces concealed by scarves, their guns held with unwavering steadiness.
"Three hundred million," he repeated softly, as though savoring the weight of the number. "That is not a mistake one simply walks away from."
Behind the wall, Kyla stood frozen, her body pressed tightly against the surface as though it were the only thing holding her upright. Tears blurred her vision, spilling silently down her cheeks.
She clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling the sobs threatening to escape.
From where she stood, hidden yet painfully present, she watched everything unfold.
Robert exhaled slowly, tapping ash into a glass tray as though the trembling family in front of him were nothing more than background noise.
"You had time," he said calmly. "Years, in fact."
"We understand that, but our business has collapsed. We are doing everything we can to recover it. Please grant us a little more time. I promise we will not fail this time," Mr. Peter said, his eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion and desperation.
His wife nodded repeatedly in agreement, her eyes swollen with tears.
Robert let out a dark, menacing chuckle, leaning forward toward them as he exhaled a stream of smoke.
"Time?" he repeated. "Time is what I gave you when I didn't break your legs the first month."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Robert's words lingered in the air like smoke that refused to fade.
Mr. Peter's lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His throat worked as though he were trying to swallow something too heavy to bear.
"We… we didn't think it would get this bad," he finally managed, his voice breaking under the weight of shame and fear. "We were misled. The market crashed, investors pulled out—everything happened so fast."
Robert tilted his head slightly, watching him with quiet detachment.
"Everything always happens 'so fast' when responsibility arrives," he said coolly.
Behind the wall, Kyla pressed her hands more tightly over her mouth, her entire body trembling as hot tears streamed down her cheeks.
So the money her parents had been sending her all along—the tuition for her college, the rent for the house she lived in, every expense she had ever depended on—had all come from this devil?
Everything she had been told was a lie.
Whenever she asked, they had always claimed it was their wealthy uncles supporting them. But in truth, every penny had been borrowed from him.
Kyla bit her lip so hard it nearly drew blood as she watched her parents crumble before him, crying helplessly like children.
Robert leaned back again, the cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers as the room sank into another heavy silence.
His gaze moved lazily between Mr. Peter and his wife, as though deciding something that had already been settled long ago.
"You people always think money is something you can borrow and later figure out," he said calmly. "As if consequences wait politely at the door."
Mr. Peter swallowed hard. "Please… we are begging you. Just a little more time. We will sell everything, we will—"
"Enough." The single word cut through the air like a blade.
Robert stood slowly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. One of his men immediately stepped forward, placing a thick folder on the table in front of him. He opened it without urgency, flipping through the pages as though he were reading a casual report.
Kyla, still hidden behind the wall, held her breath.
"I gave you a loan," Robert said finally. "You signed. You agreed. You defaulted, that makes this simple."He closed the folder.
Mrs. Peter broke down completely. "Please… she is just a child. Kyla has nothing to do with this. Let her go. We will take responsibility—"
Robert's eyes flickered at the mention of her name.
A pause, not long, but enough to feel it, then he spoke again, voice colder. "She already has something to do with it."
Kyla's heart jolted behind the wall, Mr. Peter looked confused, panicked. "What do you mean?"
Robert turned slightly, as if addressing the room itself rather than any one person.
"When people fail to pay debts," he said, "they don't lose money. They lose choices." He stepped forward, stopping just in front of them.
"And I always collect what is owed." a suffocating silence followed, then—He gave a small nod, one of the men behind him moved instantly.
"No—please!" Mrs. Peter screamed.
But it was already too late.
The sound of shuffling papers, rough hands grabbing Mr. Peter, the chair scraping back violently—everything happened at once. Not shown in detail, not lingering, just the terrifying certainty of power being enforced.
Kyla's vision blurred.
Her knees nearly gave out, she pressed herself harder against the wall, shaking uncontrollably, as if she could disappear into it.
Robert's voice came again, calmer than ever. "Take them out. Separately."
That was when Kyla finally moved, a mistake, a tiny shift of her foot against the floor, but in a room ruled by men trained to notice everything—it was enough.
One of the guards paused, his head tilted slightly. "…Boss," he said quietly, "there's someone here."
Kyla froze, her breath stopped completely, the room seemed to tilt, slowly—too slowly—Robert turned his head toward the wall she was hiding behind.
Silence stretched, then his voice, low and certain.
"Kyla."
Her name landed like a lock clicking shut, and for the first time that day, Robert didn't sound like a man discussing money.
He sounded like a man who had just found something he never lost.
"Come out."
*
*
»BACK TO PRESENT»
«RAZORPOINT—PRISON»
___
At the center of the room sat a woman, bound to a chair with her arms tied behind her back.
Her hair fell messily across her face as she struggled weakly against the restraints, but her efforts were futile, a strip of duct tape sealed her mouth, silencing every attempt to cry out.
She was dressed in a red suit, now wrinkled and stained from the struggle.
Above her, a single flickering bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly with every passing second, as though even the light itself was uneasy to remain.
The room was vast, its oppressive heat rising from a large pool of boiling water set at a distance from her.
Even from where she sat, the intense temperature radiated through the air, pressing against her skin until it felt tight and stifling, as though it were shrinking under the unbearable heat.
Her muffled screams escaped through the duct tape, broken and distorted, swallowed by the heavy silence of the room.
Then the door opened, and Scott stepped into the room, his hands tucked casually into his pockets.
He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and denim trousers.
Matrix, his informant, followed closely behind, dressed in a black cap, a black polo shirt, and black jeans.
Matrix closed the door behind them with a soft click.
Scott walked toward her and gently brushed the scattered strands of hair away from her face, tucking them neatly behind her ear. As her sweat-drenched features came fully into view, he studied her in silence.
He then removed the duct tape from her lips, revealing her entire face.
She was not the woman he was looking for, but she might still know something—some connection, some lead that could bring him closer to the truth.
So far, she kept stealing fearful glances toward the same car—the one linked to his kidnapping twenty years ago.
Scott didn't speak immediately.
He just stood there for a moment, eyes fixed on her face as if he was searching for something hidden beneath it—something she might not even know she was giving away.
Then he crouched slightly, bringing himself closer to her level.
The woman trembled, eyes darting toward Matrix behind him, then back to Scott as fear tightened her expression.
Scott tilted his head.
"Who owns the car with this particular plate number—A 482 MP 77 RUS?" he asked coldly, his tone laced with menace. "You've been watching it like your life depends on it."
The words sent a chill racing down her spine.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry, and her eyes flicked nervously toward Matrix before returning to Scott. He was still—completely still—watching her with piercing eyes that seemed to strip her down to her fear alone.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about… I don't know anything about that car," she muttered, her voice trembling uncontrollably.
Before she could say another word, Scott's hand shot out and clamped around her neck, tight and merciless, cutting her sentence short.
Matrix stood by in silence, watching without a single attempt to intervene.
Her breath hitched violently as his grip tightened, cutting off the air in her throat.
"Lying won't help you," Scott said quietly, his voice more dangerous for its calmness. His fingers pressed just enough to remind her how fragile she was beneath his hand.
"In fact… it will make this much worse. If you fail to answer correctly, your daughter will suffer your fate. I will kill her instead"
The woman's eyes widened instantly at his words.
Her daughter, the single word shattered whatever fragile resistance she had been clinging to.
She shook her head repeatedly, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face.
Scott's grip tightened for a split second—just enough to make her feel the edge of death—before he released her roughly.
She collapsed forward against the chair, her body convulsing as she coughed violently, dragging in desperate, ragged breaths like someone who had just been pulled from deep water.
Air.
She needed air.
Her chest heaved painfully, each inhale sharp and uneven as her vision blurred from the lack of oxygen. Tears and sweat mixed on her skin, dripping down her trembling jaw.
"N–No… please…" her voice broke, barely audible, trembling violently as tears streamed down her face. "She has nothing to do with this… please don't touch her…"
"Then talk," he said flatly, his face unreadable.
The woman's chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, her entire body trembling as she struggled to steady herself.
Tears clung to her lashes, spilling freely down her cheeks as the weight of Scott's threat crushed whatever composure she had left.
"I'll talk… I'll tell you everything," she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken, she swallowed hard, forcing herself to speak despite the fear clawing at her throat.
"I'm Elena Daniels, the Operations Manager of Veltrix Holdings," she said in a trembling voice. "That car has been following me around. I keep receiving threatening calls from unknown numbers, and whenever I see that call, I look around and the car was always there. I don't know who is inside it because the windows are heavily tinted."
Her breath hitched as she continued.
"The threats started shortly after my interview last month, when I spoke about the kidnapping that happened at the underground club two weeks ago."
"The interview," Scott repeated slowly. "Who interviewed you?"
"Talia Vance," Elena said. Scott's lips curled into a dark smirk as a memory surfaced—twenty-three years earlier, he had heard a voice through the malicious woman's phone, someone possibly shouting at her, calling her Lia.
"Talia Vance," Scott muttered, his fingers tightening around the armrest of the chair until his knuckles turned white
*
*
«COVE—APARTMENT»
Inside the bathroom stood Max, his eyes closed beneath the steady downpour of the shower.
His jaw remained tightly clenched as he struggled against the haunting memories of the dirty things Cove had done to him.
The water streamed relentlessly over his face, but it did nothing to wash away the images clawing at his mind.
He lifted his head slightly, water dripping from his lashes.
The shower continued to roar around him, drowning out everything except the chaos inside his own head.
He remembered how Cove had grabbed his dick, his grip firm and unrelenting, and how he had squeezed him until pre-cum had trailed out of it.
He recalled how Cove had kissed his neck, carelessly exploring his body in a way that stirred unfamiliar sensations within him—feelings no woman had ever evoked before.
Max suddenly slapped himself repeatedly, as though trying to snap out of it, then drove his fist into the wall.
He dragged his hand through his hair, pushing it backward in agitation, his breathing ragged.
"I'm fucking straight," he muttered fiercely to himself. "Not… some stupid gay."
A knock echoed at the door, and Max turned his furious gaze toward it.
"You're taking longer than usual," Cove's voice came from the other side, calm yet edged with impatience. "Are you planning to stay in there until the rapture begins? Open the damn door."
Max's fists tightened at his sides, his knuckles blanching white as veins corded sharply beneath his skin.
"Get the fuck out. I'll leave when I'm fucking done!" Max yelled angrily.
Cove let out a dark chuckle that echoed through the air. Max ran a hand through his hair in frustration, brushing it backward.
"You've been in there for over an hour and you're still not done," Cove said. "Maybe you're just in there masturbating… missing my touch. Should I come inside and fuck you senseless?"
Max wanted to scream, but he held it back, forcing himself to stay in control.
"Just leave me alone. I'll be out when I'm done, Cove," Max said angrily.
He strode to the door and yanked it open—only to freeze the moment he saw Cove standing there shirtless, his hands tucked casually into his pockets.
Cove's gaze slowly traveled over Max's exposed body, a faint smirk forming on his lips as he lifted one eyebrow in quiet amusement.
Max's eyes widened in shock. Instinctively, he moved to close the door, but Cove caught the handle and pushed it open further, stepping into the bathroom.
Max quickly reached for his towel, grabbed it, and wrapped it around his waist. He then turned back to the running shower and shut off the water.
"Can't you at least leave me the fuck alone? Just because I decided to bathe here doesn't mean I liked what you did to me. I'm straight—not some stupid gay!" Max shouted.
But Cove only stepped closer.
Max instinctively moved back, hating the fact that he felt afraid of him.
Cove stopped just a short distance away, his expression unreadable. The usual teasing edge in his eyes had faded, replaced by something calmer—more grounded.
"Is that really what this is about?" he asked quietly.
"Even a straight branch will eventually bend. And, Max, I'll make you bend so completely that you'll forget the taste of those pussies—I'll see to it," he added, leaning closer.
Max pulled back, visibly irritated.
"Take your face away from me and get the hell out. You think you can turn me gay? Think again—my life revolves around women. I'd like to see exactly how you intend to bend me, Cove," Max muttered, shoving him in the chest.
Cove staggered back, letting out a low, dark chuckle.
"Then shall we make a wager?" Cove asked, smoothly brushing his hair back.
Max scoffed, a subtle, knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
Cove arched a brow, his hands resting casually in his pockets.
Max held Cove's gaze, the smirk on his lips lingering just long enough to be a challenge.
"A wager?" he echoed, his tone edged with skepticism. "And what exactly do you think you stand to win?"
Cove's expression didn't falter. If anything, it sharpened—quiet confidence settling into his features.
"You," he replied simply.
Max scoffed, then strode toward him until they stood face to face, their eyes locking in a tense, unyielding stare.
"Then what do I get if I win?" Max asked, one brow lifting in challenge.
Cove's lips curved slowly into a knowing smile.
"Then I'll never trouble you again," he said. "I'll leave you alone, and you can go on enjoying your pussies in peace." The faint smirk lingered at the corner of his mouth.
For a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered across his face—but it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that same defiant edge.
Max nodded curtly, then turned and strode out of the bathroom, his shoulder deliberately colliding with Cove's as he passed.
Cove exhaled softly, his gaze following Max's retreating figure for a moment before he pushed himself off the wall and followed after him.
*
*
—MRS HARTWELL—
»PSYCHIATRIST HOSPITAL»
The fluorescent lights in Ward C flickered like they were struggling to remember how to stay awake.
Dr. Evelyn Hartwell stood at the end of the corridor, clipboard pressed to her chest, listening to the distant sound of a patient laughing—too sharply, too long. The kind of laughter that didn't belong in a hospital, or anywhere meant for healing.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see one of her nurses, Nurse Jane, standing there with an iPad in hand.
Dr. Evelyn let out a deep sigh, already knowing why she had come. Would there ever be a moment of rest in this hospital?
"New admission?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
Nurse Jane nodded.
"Yes, Doctor. Female, mid-thirties. No identification at first. She was found wandering along the highway, repeatedly uttering the same phrase—we don't fully understand it yet. We've sedated her, but even in sleep she was smiling and still whispering it. You really need to see her."
Dr. Hartwell didn't respond immediately.
Instead, she tightened her grip on the clipboard, her eyes drifting briefly toward the flickering lights as if they might offer an explanation no one else could.
"What phrase?" she asked at last, her voice quieter now.
Nurse Jane hesitated, as though repeating it might somehow make it real again. Then she swallowed.
"We wrote it down," she said, tapping the iPad. "She says it constantly. Even under sedation."
She turned the screen, Dr. Hartwell read it once, then twice.
"She killed all my friends" she read, her expression didn't change—but something in her gaze sharpened, like a locked door having just found its key.
"Show me the patient," she said calmly.
Nurse Jane hesitated for only a second before nodding and leading the way.
The corridor stretched longer the further they walked, as if the hospital itself was trying to delay what waited at the end of it. The flickering lights above them buzzed faintly, each one stuttering like a thought that refused to form properly.
Ward C-7.
A heavy steel door stood at the end, reinforced and painted a dull grey that had long lost any trace of its original color. A small glass window sat at eye level, but it had been partially fogged from the inside—warm breath, constant movement or something worse.
A guard stood beside it.
"Doctor Hartwell," he greeted, stepping aside immediately.
Dr. Evelyn gave a short nod. "Open it" the lock clicked, the door groaned as it was pulled open, the smell hit first, antiseptic mixed with something faintly metallic.
Inside the room, a single bed was placed in the center, straps already loosened but still hanging like restraints that had recently been tested. The walls were padded, though not evenly—some sections looked newer than others, as if repairs had been made in a hurry.
And on the bed sat the patient, female, mid-thirties, just as reported.
Her hair was dark and tangled, falling over her face in uneven strands. Her hospital gown was slightly askew, one shoulder slipping down as she rocked gently back and forth.
"She killed all my friends,' the woman whispered.
Dr. Evelyn stepped closer to the bed and stared down at her, her expression unreadable.
Dr. Hartwell didn't move at first.
The words hung in the room like a stain that refused to dry.
"She killed all my friends," the woman whispered again, softer this time—almost affectionate, as if she were recalling a fond memory rather than a tragedy.
"Kill her. Her presence here will only complicate matters for me. Administer the red injection to rupture her intestines, and once she is dead, dispose of her body along the riverbank at night," Dr. Evelyn said, turning away as she left the room, already reaching for her phone to place a call.
Nurse Jane swallowed hard, exchanging uneasy glances with the guards in the room.
"Seems one of them escaped the kidnapping. Be more careful with your men next time, Lia," Dr. Evelyn said, setting her phone down.
Almost immediately, it rang again.
She glanced at the screen and saw her daughter, Bianca, calling. With a weary sigh, she answered as she continued down the stairs, already anticipating the conversation.
"I love him, Mum, please! Invite his family to my birthday next week—please, Mum!" Bianca pleaded through the phone, her voice trembling with urgency.
Dr. Evelyn exhaled slowly, the weight of the request settling over her like an old, familiar burden.
*
*
7PM
«CHICAGO MILLAND, CHIEF ROBERT WELLINGTON— ESTATE»
Kyla opened Robert's door and stepped inside.
Robert was seated on the couch, completely unclothed and smoking, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he noticed her.
Kyla quietly closed the door behind her, briefly closing her eyes as she exhaled slowly. When she opened them again, she fixed her gaze on him.
She wore a black nightgown, her hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail.
"And what took you so long? Were you preoccupied with deciding whether to go to my son or come to me?" Robert asked, raising his eyebrows as he exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
He watched her eyes widen, and his smirk deepened.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about. Mrs. Valencia asked me to make her a coffee on my way here, so I turned back, prepared it, and delivered it to her room before rushing over," Kyla said.
Robert nodded repeatedly as he exhaled smoke, watching her closely. Kyla swallowed hard, beads of sweat forming on her forehead.
He leaned back against the couch, the smoke curling lazily around him as his gaze remained fixed on her.
"You already know why I called you. You're the only one who's best at this blowjob. I never regretted buying you that day—it's always been in my favor. You're the best at what you do, excellent at pleasing. Now crawl over here and do what you do best, Lala," Robert muttered, his tone more like an order.
Kyla swallowed hard, clenching her fists tightly in her clothes. Her chest pounded violently with fear as she stood frozen in place.
She dropped to her knees and began crawling toward him like a puppet. His smirk deepened, growing darker as he watched her approach.
"If you save me from him tonight, I promise I'll reward you, a good fuck tonight" she remembered telling Scott earlier.
Now, she forced herself to stay calm, clinging to the hope that he would truly rescue her from this man—this monster who dealt only in brutal sexs.
"Please.. Scott.. please" She prayed silently.
*
*
TBC
DO NOT GHOST 🚫
YOUR ACTIVENESS DETERMINES.