Night had fallen over the Jeju Island estate, painting the landscape in deep blues and restless shadows. The wind carried the scent of saltwater from the cliffs—and something else. Something colder.
Something wrong.
The black car idled in the driveway. Its headlights cut through the dusk like searchlights. The engine purred softly, almost too softly.
Kian approached it first, his posture sharp, protective. He extended his arm, signaling for Lianna to stay behind.
"Let me check first," he said, voice flat.
Lianna's hand reached out instinctively, catching the edge of his coat sleeve. Just a second—barely a touch. But enough to say be careful without needing words.
Then she let go.
Her lips curved in the faintest smile. Quick. Almost invisible.
But Kian saw it. And his jaw clenched.
He opened the driver's side door slowly, cautiously, as if expecting someone—or something—to lunge out.
Empty.
No driver.
No movement.
Just the low hum of electronics and a faint blinking light on the dashboard. A USB was plugged into the console. As Kian leaned closer, the screen flickered to life, casting a cold blue glow over his face.
A video began to play.
It showed a room—luxurious, high-ceilinged, familiar.
Henry Vale's private office.
Cassandra stood inside it, placing a thick leather folder onto the desk. She wore a black coat, her hair swept into a sharp chignon. Calm. Poised.
Then she slid a small velvet box across the desk toward a man seated behind it.
James.
He opened it.
Inside, a sleek, black drive.
No markings. No label.
But Kian knew what it was.
The master key to Vale Corp's offshore accounts. The real power behind the company. The last thing his enemies should ever have.
Cassandra leaned in and whispered something close to James's ear. The camera didn't catch the audio. But the way James smiled—slow and assured—said it all.
On speaker, Juno's voice came through, slightly crackled through the open line in Kian's pocket.
"He's not just after the company," she said. "He wants the narrative. He wants to rewrite history."
Back inside , Lianna's phone rang. Shrill. Abrupt.
She answered on the second ring, heart already thudding.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Then a voice.
"We're calling from Arin Vale's school. He… he's missing."
Her blood ran cold.
"What?" Her voice rose, high and panicked. "What do you mean missing? He was in class—he was supposed to be in class—"
"Last seen getting into a dark vehicle. The driver… a woman with red hair."
Lianna's breath caught. Her eyes met Kian's across the room.
He was already moving.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The storm had already broken loose.
They ran for the door—Lianna barefoot, Kian grabbing the keys off the wall in one fluid motion. The doors slammed open, slammed shut again. Tires shrieked across the stone driveway.
The car roared to life beneath them.
Lianna pressed both palms against her forehead, her breathing ragged. "No—no, this can't be happening—" she whispered, voice cracking. "Please, God, don't let anything happen to him… not him…"
Her tears slipped freely down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away.
Kian glanced at her, jaw tight, every muscle in his body taut with fury and fear.
"We'll find him," he said, voice low and resolute. "I swear to you. We will."
Somewhere far from where they were—
In the back seat of a moving car, the city lights flickered past the tinted windows .
Cassandra sat still, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable.
Arin lay curled in her lap, fast asleep. His head rested against her chest, small hands tucked close to his face. Peaceful. Trusting.
She stroked his hair with a gentle hand, her nails painted crimson.
"They built a world without me," she whispered, her voice soft and filled with something ancient and sharp.
"Now it's time to make them feel what I felt."
Her eyes closed.
And slowly—
She smiled.
—-
The estate was too quiet.
Night seeped through the windows of Arin's bedroom, it casted long shadows across the floor. Lianna stood frozen in the center of the room, Juno just behind her, both of them surrounded by torn sketches scattered. The walls, the bed, the rug—everything was cluttered with crayon drawings, some crumpled in frustration, others folded neatly like secrets.
Each image twisted something deep inside Lianna.
Shadowy figures loomed in charcoal grays, their faces scratched out. Buildings on fire, red streaks raging upward like screams. And in almost every picture, one recurring image, a small child holding the hand of a taller figure—no face, just a crown.
Lianna knelt and picked one up, her fingers trembling.
"Kian," she called out quietly, her voice dry and strained. "Look at this…"
He walked in from the hallway, his steps halting when he saw the mess. The moment he spotted the image in her hand, he knelt beside her.
In red crayon, faint but unmistakable, a name had been scrawled beneath the crowned figure, James.
It was crossed out.
In its place, shakily but deliberately, Arin had written, Uncle.
Kian exhaled hard, staring at the page. "They talk…" he murmured. "God… they talk…"
—
Two years earlier.
The charity gala had been grand, the main ballroom bustling with donors, waiters in tuxedos, and string quartets. But Arin, just five at the time, had been taken with the quieter space—the children's wing, decorated with balloon animals, clowns, and face-painting stations. Ice cream was being handed out in cones. A magician pulled scarves from hats and smiled as if magic were real.
No cameras. No prying eyes. Only trusted names with background checks.
Arin sat cross-legged on a rug, watching the magician, when a man crouched beside him. He had dark eyes, gentle and steady. The kind of eyes that made a child feel seen.
"You like stories?" the man asked.
Arin nodded shyly, licking his vanilla ice cream.
The man's voice was soft, low—almost like a lullaby.
"There was once a prince," he said. "The firstborn. But his father didn't want him. So he locked him away, far from the world. Far enough that no one could hear him cry."
Arin stared up at him, lips parted.
"But the prince stopped crying. He started planning. Because he knew something the others didn't."
"Was he… bad?" Arin asked.
"No," the man replied gently. "He just knew the crown was meant for him. And one day, he's going to take it back."
He leaned in closer, until Arin could smell the faintest trace of sandalwood and smoke.
"But that's a secret," he whispered. "Okay?"
Arin nodded. "Okay, Uncle."
—
Present day.
Lianna's face went pale. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, stared past the drawings to a memory she'd buried.
That night, after the gala, Arin had trouble sleeping. He'd asked to cuddle with her, curling into her arms. Before drifting off, he'd whispered something she'd brushed aside as a dream,
He said he's my uncle… but I'm not supposed to tell.
Now it wasn't a dream. It was a warning she'd missed.
She lowered the drawing slowly, her fingers numb.
Kian stood and suddenly swung out, his fist crashing into the mirror hanging on the wall. Glass splintered, raining down in jagged pieces. His reflection fractured into dozens of shards.
His voice came low, guttural. "He got to my son… before I even knew he existed."
He gripped the dresser to steady himself, chest rising and falling in broken rhythm.
Lianna didn't hesitate this time. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him. He tensed for a breath, then crumbled into her, burying his face against her shoulder.
They held each other tightly, clinging like lifelines. Two people who had forgotten how to be close, now desperate not to let go.
—
Lianna returned to her office, her arms still aching from holding Kian. Her entire body felt heavy with dread, like something inside her already knew what she was about to see.
A notification blinked in her inbox.
One new message.
She sat down. Clicked.
Subject, : What will you trade for the boy?
There was no name. No signature. No pleasantries.
Just a photo attached.
Arin, curled up asleep in what looked like a dark room. A red ribbon tied delicately around his wrist.
Lianna's hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes blurred with tears as her breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "No, no… please…"
The phone slipped from her grasp and hit the floor.
She didn't even notice.