The black SUV brought Maya and Mark back to the Gothic castle in the middle of a torrential storm. In the weeks following that night, life inside the isolated estate settled into a strange, gentle calm—more peaceful than ever, yet laced with an unspoken, underlying tension.
Gone were the gloomy corridors, the suffocating presence of black-suited guards at every turn, and the icy cell in the north wing, which had been welded shut permanently. Maya moved into a spacious room on the second floor, right next to Mark’s. Her door was never locked. Her phone sat freely on the wooden nightstand, completely unmonitored and untapped.
Every night, Travis still walked into her room.
He used no force, no intimidation like he had in the dungeon. It unfolded naturally, an inevitable habit between two people whose fates were tangled together. Yet between them lay an invisible, impassable chasm. Maya accepted his touch, sharing long, intoxicating nights in silence, but she never offered him a soft expression or a warm smile. She refused to acknowledge her feelings, withholding every drop of emotional comfort, maintaining a cold, indifferent face whenever he looked at her.
Travis knew it, but he never demanded or forced her to speak. He quietly accepted her sharp silence as the price he had to pay.
The autumn days at the castle drifted by, impossibly smooth and serene.
During the pale, sunlit mornings filtering through the pine ridge behind the house, Maya devoted all her time to Mark. She taught him to paint, folded tiny paper boats to float down the artificial stream weaving through the grounds, or sat on the lawn reading children's storybooks.
Mark smiled so much more now. The five-year-old who used to wander lonely through the massive mansion was now radiant, glued to Maya's side like a shadow. He no longer woke up sobbing in the middle of the night, nor did he fear the dark when the mountain fog blanketed the peaks.
Occasionally, late in the afternoon, Travis would finish his corporate work early. He wouldn't come inside right away, choosing instead to walk quietly out to the back garden.
The powerful tycoon, dressed in a sharp black vest, would lean against the trunk of an ancient pine tree a short distance away. He would quietly light a cigarette, his ash-grey eyes lingering on Maya's every movement—watching her gently pick a fallen autumn leaf from Mark's hair or meticulously fix the boy's collar.
In those moments, Maya knew full well he was standing there. She could feel his warmth and the scent of sandalwood mixed with heavy tobacco drifting over on the breeze, but she never once raised her head to look at him, never uttered his name. She acted as if he didn't exist, softly keeping Mark entertained, driving away the dark shadow of power that hung over the space around them.
That fragile peace lasted for two full weeks.
It was a morning in mid-October, a rare clear day after a long stretch of storms. The early season chill dusted a thin layer of frost over the wild rose petals in the garden.
Around ten in the morning, Maya held Mark's hand as they walked out to the garden behind the stone cottage—where a wide lawn stretched out to the side iron gate. Mark held his favorite light-brown plush bunny in his arms, scampering ahead to chase small butterflies perching on the fence line.
"Slow down, Mark! Watch out for the sharp stones!" Maya smiled faintly, lifting the hem of her grey cardigan as she jogged to keep up with him.
"Look, Miss Maya! There's a giant yellow butterfly!" Mark cheered happily, running headlong toward the side gate—where the stone perimeter wall met the mountain pass road.
It happened in a matter of seconds.
CRASH!
The side iron gate—usually secured with three heavy chain locks—was suddenly smashed open. A small, unplated grey truck rammed straight into the garden, tearing up the wild rose beds and the lawn.
Maya gasped in terror. "Mark! Come back!"
Before she could reach him, the side door of the truck flew open. Four burly men wearing black ski masks and holding silenced handguns leapt out.
"Grab the kid and the girl!" one of them growled.
"Get off me! Let go!" Maya screamed, throwing herself in front of Mark, shoving the boy behind her back. "Mark! Run inside and get your dad! Run!"
But the five-year-old was frozen solid with terror. One of the thugs lunged forward, grabbing Mark roughly by the back of his neck, hauling him into the air. The brown plush bunny slipped from Mark's grip, falling limp onto the frost-drenched grass.
"Daddy! Miss Maya!" Mark sobbed hysterically.
"Mark!" Maya threw herself forward wildly, punching and clawing at the face of the man holding Mark.
Another thug stepped up from behind, grabbing her arms and twisting them behind her back. A rag soaked in pungent chloroform was slammed directly over Maya's nose and mouth.
Maya thrashed violently, her eyes wide as she watched Mark get shoved into the back of the truck. But the heavy dose of chemical quickly devoured her sight. The bright blue sky collapsed into a thick, pitch-black void. She went limp, dropping like a doll with its strings cut, and was thrown straight into the truck bed.
The truck doors slammed shut with a sharp SLAM. The tires screeched, churning up dirt and stone, speeding out through the broken side gate and vanishing down the endless mountain pass.
Fifteen minutes later.
Travis stepped down from the third floor after wrapping up a video conference with Western shareholders. He didn't hear Mark's laughter echoing through the main foyer like usual.
"Where are Maya and Mark?" Travis asked the housekeeper standing in the hallway, his voice low.
"Mr. Chairman, Miss Maya took the young master out to the back garden about ten minutes ago."
Travis frowned. A sudden spike of unease erupted deep in his chest. The instincts of a man who had lived on the razor's edge between life and death for over a decade put every cell in his body on high alert. He walked quickly toward the side exit, heading straight for the rear garden.
The moment he stepped past the stone house boundary, Travis's ash-grey pupils narrowed to razor-thin slits.
The outer side gate—which was supposed to be heavily guarded—was thrown wide open, its double locks smashed to pieces. Deep, muddy tire tracks tore through the green grass, stretching out onto the mountain road.
And right in the middle of the trampled lawn...
Mark's light-brown toy bunny lay abandoned, crushed and deformed in the mud. A torn piece of Maya's grey cardigan was snagged on a broken rose thorn bush.
A deadly silence enveloped the garden.
Travis walked over slowly. He dropped to one knee on the grass, his hand trembling slightly as he picked up the mud-soaked plush bunny.
The air around him seemed to condense, turning into a wave of dark, lethal aura so thick it was suffocating. His ash-grey eyes lost every trace of warmth, turning deep and fractured like eternal ice.
Buzz... Buzz... Buzz...
The private phone in his vest pocket vibrated frantically.
Travis pulled the phone out. The screen displayed an unencrypted, unknown number.
He hit answer and brought the phone to his ear, but didn't utter a word.
From the other end, the smug, sinister laugh of the rival faction leader rang out, mixed with the sound of wind whistling through a metal doorway:
"Well, well... The high-and-mighty chairman of the Travis family. How does it feel to walk back out to your garden and find the little present I left for you?"
Travis tightened his grip on the phone so hard the tempered glass casing gave a faint crack. His voice was terrifyingly calm:
"What do you want?"
"Simple, Travis," the leader gritted out, his tone dripping with bitter vengeance. "We've been fighting for ten years, and you always win because you're a cold-blooded bastard with zero weaknesses. But now... you went and exposed your two biggest vulnerabilities at the same time. Your heir... and your little intern teacher."
Mark's muffled crying and Maya's weak groans echoed faintly over the speaker.
The leader cackled out loud:
"Wanna see those two stay alive? Then listen real carefully: Exactly twelve noon today, you drive alone to the abandoned warehouse at Pier 4 on the north side. Just you. No bodyguards, no escort cars, no notifying anyone in your family... And especially: NO WEAPONS."
"If I spot a single one of your goons within a two-mile radius... or if you bring so much as a pocket knife... I'll put a bullet through your little teacher's head right in front of your son. You know I'm good for it, right?"
Travis stood up straight in the wind-swept garden. He looked down at the scrap of grey cardigan fabric in his hand, his breathing steady to the point of being ice-cold.
He was silent for two seconds, then spoke slowly, every word carrying the weight of a death sentence for the entire opposition:
"I'm coming."
Without waiting for a reply, Travis cut the line.
He slipped the phone into his pocket, turned around, and walked unhurriedly back into the Gothic castle. Handfuls of guards and staff rushed out, their faces pale. "Mr. Chairman! What happened?! An unknown vehicle breached—"
"Everyone stays here," Travis cut them off coldly, his voice completely void of emotion. "No one leaves the castle. No one follows me."
He walked up to his third-floor office, opening a metallic security vault hidden behind a family portrait painting. Inside lay a black velvet box.
Travis opened the box and pulled out a 9mm silver-plated handgun—the very weapon he had used to personally execute traitors fifteen years ago. He checked the magazine and racked a round with a sharp, dry CRACK.
Straightening his black tie, Travis coldly tucked the handgun into the small of his back beneath his trousers, concealing it under his black shirt and vest.
He turned, walked down the stone stairs, and stepped straight out toward the single black sedan parked in the driveway.
The autumn wind picked up, snapping the hem of the chairman's coat as the car sped through the main gates alone, tearing through the fog toward Pier 4.
