She was trembling.
Not from the cold. Not from weakness.
But from something far worse — fear. And that made my blood boil.
I stood there, fists clenched, jaw locked tight, trying to ground myself in the dim light of her living room. Every breath she took — shallow, broken — fueled something dangerous inside me.
I had seen her break once in her sleep.
But this?This was her awake. Fragile. Haunted.
She didn't even realize her hands were shaking as she held that cup of tea. Didn't notice how her friends surrounded her like she'd shatter if left alone. She wasn't listening to their soothing voices. Her eyes were lost. Somewhere deep. Somewhere I hadn't been allowed into yet.
That had to change.
I was tired of being shut out of her world. Of standing by while she suffered in silence.
I had been patient.I had touched her like glass.But now I needed to know.All of it. Every fucking detail.
Who the hell that old woman was.Why Adelina froze like death was breathing down her neck.Why her eyes — those eyes that used to spark fire — now looked like someone had snuffed out every light in her.
My control was wearing thin. The man in me — the bodyguard, the protector — had stepped aside.
Now, all that was left was the man who was hers.
Obsessed. Claimed. Starving.
I moved across the room without a word, dropped onto the armrest beside her. She was surrounded by her friends, but she still leaned instinctively toward me. Her body knew where it felt safe. Even if her mind hadn't caught up yet.
"I'm not letting this go, doll," I said, voice low enough that only she could hear. "Not this time. You're going to tell me… who the fuck did this to you."
Her eyes flicked up, startled. Silent.
"I don't care how long it takes," I went on, slower now. "But I'm going to drag every demon from your past into the light. And when I do—"
I leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"—I'll make them wish they'd never laid eyes on you."
Because she was mine.
And I protect what's mine.
She finally drifted off.
Her body was curled up like a child's, chest rising and falling in soft, ragged breaths. She'd cried herself into sleep. And even now, in unconsciousness, her fingers trembled like she was still trapped in a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.
And I couldn't fucking take it.
The room was dim, but the tension in the air was electric—so thick it felt like it could snap at any moment. My jaw clenched as I turned around and faced them—Iris, Selene, Ariella, and Aurelia—each of them standing like they were on trial.
"Talk," I said, voice low and dangerous. "What the fuck is happening to her? What is she remembering?"
They hesitated.
That was their first mistake.
"I said talk!" I snapped, my voice slashing through the silence like a blade. "She was trembling like she was being fucking hunted—and none of you looked surprised."
Iris, the psychiatrist, tried to step forward, hands raised. "Lukas, please. We don't know everything—"
"Then tell me what you do know," I hissed. "Every last piece."
Ariella, the bold one, shook her head. "It's not that simple. She hides it, Lukas. She's so good at pretending nothing's wrong that even we fall for it."
"Not anymore," I growled. "I'm not falling for shit."
Selene's voice cracked. "She's always been like this. Restless. On edge. She avoids sleep like it's a curse. Sometimes she spaces out and forgets where she is. Other times she screams in her sleep, like she's being tortured."
Aurelia nodded slowly. "She used to say her mind doesn't belong to her. Like pieces of her were stolen."
That stopped me cold.
Pieces stolen?
"She ever say who did this to her?"
"No," Iris whispered. "But once, just once, she said... 'she's coming back.' And then she refused to talk about it again."
"Who?" I demanded. "Who the fuck is 'she'?"
They all looked at each other.
Then Iris murmured, "There was a name. She mumbled it once in her sleep. Celeste Draven."
That name punched me in the chest.
Celeste Draven.
A name from shadows. I'd heard it years ago. Tied to blood, secrets, and power. I never thought I'd hear it again. Especially not like this.
I turned to look at Adelina—my precious doll, broken and silent in the bed. Her skin pale, her body so small against the sheets.
"I don't care what it takes," I whispered to no one in particular. "I will dig up her past with my bare fucking hands if I have to. And whoever touched her—whoever broke her—I'll bury them alive."
Because no one hurts what's mine.
And walks away breathing.
I sat across from Zane Petrova in the kind of silence that didn't feel respectful — it felt like a warning.
The room was dim. No guards. No interruptions. Just him and me. Two men, both shaped by power, loss, and the one woman who unknowingly controlled every breath I took.
"Tell me about Adelina's past," I said, voice cold, firm — the kind that made most men shift in discomfort. But not him.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back in his chair, the weight of years heavy on his shoulders. For a second, he wasn't Zane Petrova — the ruthless businessman, the feared man in the room.
He was just a father.
"When she was born," he started, eyes fixed on the glass in his hand, "her mother — Amelia — she died during childbirth."
His voice didn't crack. But something in it broke.
"And with her," he continued, "a part of me died too."
I clenched my fists under the table.
"She became my everything… the only woman in a house full of men," he said with a hollow chuckle. "Me and her brother, we were protective."
I scoffed. "Overprotective."
He raised an eyebrow. "No, Lukas. Just… protective. That girl was the only light left. You don't guard light with walls. You guard it with loyalty."
Silence again. But this time, I respected it.
"She didn't have a bodyguard growing up. We didn't raise her in a cage. She went to a regular school. Had normal friends. Played, fell, fought... she was strong, even then."
I didn't say anything.
"She used to laugh easily, talk endlessly, always carrying a small sketchbook. Her mother's trait," he added softly.
"And after play school?"
He paused. Then nodded.
"We sent her to America. For her other studies. From Seoul to New York. She was barely seven. Alone but… determined. She said she wanted to make a name of her own at that little age. Not Petrova's daughter. Just Adelina and we agreed because thing were messed up here."
"And?" I pushed.
"But…" Zane's voice dipped lower. The sharp glint returned in his eyes. "Something happened. Something she never told us. She came back a different girl. Quieter. Distant. She stopped sketching. Started overworking. And those… migraines. They started after New York."
A sharp chill coiled in my spine.
"What happened to her there?" I asked.
He looked me dead in the eye. "I don't know."
But I could tell by the twitch in his jaw — he had a guess.
And I would find out.
Even if it meant burning down the past with my bare hands.
But I knew he was holding back.
There was a flicker in his eyes, a shift in his tone — the kind you don't notice unless you've lived your life reading men before you kill them.
I leaned forward, voice dropping to the kind of cold that doesn't just threaten — it promises.
"Zane Petrova," I said slowly. "You're a man of power. Influence. But let me make one thing very clear — I'm not just her bodyguard. I'm not just some man circling her."
He didn't respond, but I saw his jaw tighten.
"I'm Lukas Volkoff," I whispered darkly, "and I'm not just mafia — I'm the one men like you don't want as an enemy. If you don't give me the truth now, I will dig it up myself. And when I do, it won't be good for anyone — especially those who failed her."
That broke him.
His shoulders sagged. His eyes lowered.
And then… he spoke.
"It was her nanny."
My breath stilled.
"Celeste Draven," he said through gritted teeth. "She was trusted. Chosen by Amelia before she died. We thought she was loyal."
I didn't blink. I didn't breathe.
"She hated Adelina," he whispered. "Called her a curse… said she was the reason Amelia died. Told her… every day, that she stole her mother's life. That she was born of blood."
My blood boiled, fists clenching under the table.
"She burned her," he added, voice trembling now. "With cigarettes. Scarred her wrists, hands — anywhere that wouldn't show in photos. Told her if she ever said a word, she'd kill us. Me. Her brother."
Everything inside me turned to ice and fire at once.
That one time... Adelina had muttered bitterly that her looks were a curse.
I didn't think she meant it literally.
But now it made sense.
Now it fucking made sense.
"She was seven," Zane whispered. "Seven."
I stood up.
Without a word.
Because I couldn't say anything that wouldn't end in blood.
But in that moment, one thing was certain — Celeste Draven was a dead woman walking.
Zane let out a shaky breath and looked down at his hands — hands that once built empires, now trembling like a man stripped of control.
"When she came back from America," he said quietly, "we… we tried to talk to her. About everything. About us. Her childhood. Her mother."
He paused. My stare didn't waver.
"But she barely remembered anything."
My jaw locked.
"She remembered the good things — faint traces, blurry memories. But the dark parts? They were gone. Like her mind had shut them out… sealed them somewhere deep, buried."
I felt my stomach twist.
No. She didn't forget. She was forced to forget.
"And yet," he went on, voice cracking, "she still carried the scars. The migraines. The way she flinches when someone raises their voice. The insomnia. We didn't understand the depth of it until…"
He stopped.
"Until what?" I asked sharply.
Zane looked up, guilt bleeding from every corner of his face.
"Until we opened an investigation. Quiet. Private. We traced old footage, servants' testimonies, even medical records. And then… it all pointed back to her nanny."
Celeste Draven.
Her name burned like gasoline in my chest.
"That woman," Zane seethed, "was a monster. She tormented my daughter in silence, under our roof. Called her cursed. Used fear like a cage. All while smiling in front of us like she was a saint."
My nails dug into the wood of the armrest, cracking it.
"And you didn't kill her?"
His eyes shot up. "She vanished before we could confront her. Disappeared without a trace. No paper trail. Nothing."
Coward.
Of course she ran.
"She took my daughter's childhood," Zane whispered, voice hollow. "And left nothing but fragments… fear… and fire."
I stood up again. This time slower.
Because now I knew.
Now I knew exactly what I was hunting.
And I'd make sure Celeste Draven never had a shadow to hide in again.
I thought — after everything she's been through… all the hell she's walked through alone — she'd be cold. Hardened. Unreachable.
But no.
She still waved hello and goodbye to random kids on the street, as if the world hadn't torn her apart.She still whispered prayers under her breath when an ambulance drove by, hands folded like a child who believed her words held power.She gave to charities without needing a reason.And stray animals — they loved her. Always following her, like they knew. Like they felt the warmth buried beneath all that silence.
After everything… she was still kind.
And maybe that's what broke me the most.