No machines. No body in the bed. Just the pale green walls and the somber echo of everything I didn’t say.
I turn quickly and head for the family bathroom down the hall. I don’t want to fall apart where anyone can see.
The light above the mirror flickers. My reflection is pale, lips bloodless, mascara smudged beneath glassy eyes. I grip the sink, knuckles white, chest aching. I splash cold water on my face and press both palms flat to the counter, breathing through the ache.
He was the only one who ever looked out for me.
He used to sneak candy into my room when I was grounded. Walk me home from school when our father sent guards instead. He covered for me when I started stashing cash and fake documents and whispering about a life beyond our gates.
He always said, “If you go, I won’t stop you. But don’t forget I’ll always be here, I’ll always be your brother.”
The ache in my chest sharpens into dread the second the door creaks open behind me.
My head jerks up. In the mirror’s reflection, cold eyes meet mine. Broad shoulders filling the frame. A square jaw cut from stone. One of my father’s men. I don’t know his name, but I don’t need to. I know what he is here to do.
There’s no time to scream.
A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, smothering sound and breath in one brutal grip. His other hand fists at my waist, dragging me back with strength that feels inhuman. My nails rake across flesh, desperate, catching skin—I feel the sting of contact, but he doesn’t even flinch. He’s a machine.
The world blurs as he hauls me into the side hallway like I weigh nothing. My shoes scrape the floor. My body bucks and thrashes. None of it matters. His grip is iron.
An unmarked door. A metal staircase. Down, down, every step harder to fight than the last. By the time we reach the bottom, my lungs burn and my throat aches from screams that never made it past his hand.
The door flings open, and the afternoon air slaps me in the face. We spill onto the loading dock—cold concrete, oil stains, the hum of electricity overhead. And there it is.
A black SUV idles at the curb. Windows tinted so dark they look like voids. The engine humming like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
The back door opens with a smooth click.
My blood turns cold.
My father sits inside, legs crossed, posture relaxed, one hand resting on a cane that’s more theater than necessity. His navy suit is immaculate, not a wrinkle, not a drop of grief or weather daring to touch it. Gold glints on his finger—the Kavanagh crest carved into the ring, the same one he once made my brother kneel and kiss like a blessing.
His gaze lifts, finding mine and I feel it spear through me.
I haven’t seen him in over seven years, but he hasn’t aged a day. Same sharp smile. Same rot beneath the polish.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he says, voice smooth, warm in a way that makes my skin crawl. “I knew you’d come back for him.”
My throat tightens, fury and grief tangling like barbed wire. Before I can react, his man shoves me into the leather seat beside him. The door slams shut. The lock clicks like a final verdict.
My father studies me with quiet amusement, lips curving into something that could almost pass for affection. “You’ve been hard to find, Zara.”
I force the words past the bile rising in my throat. “You were looking?”
“Of course. You’re my daughter.”
“You sent someone to drag me out of a hospital.” My voice cuts sharp, brittle. “That’s not fatherly love.”
He tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t make this dramatic.”
“You showed up the morning my brother died.”
For a flicker of a second, his gaze hardens. Then he shrugs. “Yes. Tragic, isn’t it?”
The way he says the words makes my stomach clench. “Did you know there would be a hit?”
A beat. Then, calm as ever, “I knew he was vulnerable.”
