Ethan Vale did not intend to take Lena Hart with him.
The decision was made in the space between gunfire and instinct—between danger and control. As the black car cut through the night streets, Lena sat rigid in the passenger seat, her hands clenched so tightly together that her knuckles had turned white. The city lights streaked past the window, but she barely noticed them. Her heartbeat drowned out everything else.
Ethan's jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. The man who had smiled at her in the mall was gone. In his place sat someone colder, sharper—someone forged by violence.
"Where are we going?" Lena finally whispered.
"Somewhere you shouldn't have been dragged into," Ethan replied, his voice calm but distant.
The car slowed as they reached a secluded villa on the outskirts of the city, hidden behind iron gates and armed guards. Lena's breath caught.
Ethan stepped out, retrieved a gun from the trunk, and loaded it with practiced ease.
"Stay in the car," he said.
She should have listened.
But curiosity, fear, and a strange pull toward him forced her legs to move. She followed him inside.
The house smelled of expensive cologne and desperation. In the center of the living room, Marcus Doyle, the investor who had humiliated Isabella Vale, was being held down by Ethan's men. His confidence was gone—replaced by terror.
"Ethan Vale," Marcus pleaded. "We can negotiate. Money, shares—anything."
Ethan said nothing.
Lena stood frozen near the doorway, her stomach twisting violently.
"Please," Marcus cried. "Your mother—"
The gunshot cut him off.
Blood splattered across the marble floor.
Lena gasped, her vision blurring as reality crashed into her. She had never seen death before. Never seen a man fall so lifelessly. Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself to stay upright.
Ethan turned slowly.
Their eyes met.
For the first time since meeting him, Lena truly saw him—not the arrogant stranger, not the teasing man—but the darkness beneath. And Ethan saw what he had done.
Fear. Shock. Silence.
She didn't scream. Didn't accuse. Didn't run.
She just stood there, trembling.
That silence cut deeper than any scream ever could.
⸻
The drive back was suffocating.
Streetlights flashed across Lena's pale face. Her lips were parted as if she wanted to speak, but no words came out.
"Where do you live?" Ethan finally asked.
"Just… drop me somewhere," she said shakily. "I'll go home from there."
He glanced at her briefly, then smiled faintly—an attempt at the man he had been before.
"Tell me your address."
She hesitated, then gave it to him.
When the car stopped outside her modest house, she opened the door quickly.
"You did ask me for coffee," Ethan said quietly, trying to sound light.
She froze for a moment.
Then she stepped inside without turning back.
Ethan watched the door close, something unfamiliar tightening in his chest.
⸻
The slap came without warning.
Isabella Vale stood before him, her eyes blazing.
"Why did you do this?" she demanded.
Ethan didn't answer.
"You think power gives you immunity?" she continued, her voice breaking. "Do you know what you've started?"
"I couldn't control myself," he said. "Not when I heard what he did to you."
Her expression softened—but only for a moment.
"There is a price for everything," she said quietly. "Today you killed him. Tomorrow someone will come for you."
She turned to leave, pausing only to give him a small, strained smile—one that carried both love and fear.
That night, Ethan lay awake, knowing he had crossed a line he could never return from.
⸻
Near midnight, movement echoed through the mansion.
Ethan grabbed his gun and moved silently through the halls. Guards rushed toward him.
"Someone tried to break in," one reported. "We fired. He escaped."
Ethan nodded. "Stay alert."
Morning came with flashing lights.
The police stood at the gate.
"You are under investigation for the murder of Marcus Doyle."
"Can I see my mother first?" Ethan asked calmly.
Inside her room, Isabella lay pale and feverish.
"I'll be back tomorrow," Ethan said, kissing her hand.
"Be safe," she whispered.
Those words haunted him.
⸻
The interrogation room smelled of metal and stale air.
When Ethan looked up, his chest tightened.
The witness was Lena Hart.
"So," he said quietly. "You're the witness."
She didn't look at him.
Her statement was calm. Precise. Damning.
Ethan denied everything, but her testimony—combined with planted evidence—was enough.
Ethan Vale was sent to prison.
⸻
While he sat behind bars, hell descended upon his home.
Masked men stormed the Vale mansion.
Isabella Vale was murdered.
The man behind it was revealed too late—Sebastian Vale, her own uncle. A man who had supported Marcus Doyle and secretly aligned with their enemies to claim the empire.
But Isabella had foreseen betrayal.
Her will transferred everything to Ethan.
As Ethan received the news in a cold prison cell, his scream echoed against concrete walls.
He had lost his mother.
He had lost his freedom.
And the woman he was falling for had shattered his world.
Or so he believed.
Because the truth was darker.
Lena Hart had not testified out of revenge.
She had testified under threat.
And the real war was only beginning.