Inside the private dining room, Ethan and Damian sat across from each other at a polished mahogany table, eating peacefully and chatting away in low, comfortable tones.
From the head of the table, Ophelia watched the quiet father-son dynamic unfold. A bittersweet ache filled her chest as her thoughts drifted far away to Canada—to her daughter, Madison.
I wish I could be there to see my sweet Madison... Ophelia thought, a soft, melancholy smile touching her lips.
At least Allen and his mother are there, and Yuri is keeping watch over them as well.
Suddenly, Damian's phone vibrated sharply.
He glanced down at the illuminated screen, saw an unrecognized sequence of numbers, and smoothly swiped to decline the call before sliding the phone back into his coat pocket.
Ethan looked up from his plate, chewing. "Who was that, Father?"
Damian offered a calm, reassuring smile. "Just an unknown number. Nothing to worry about."
Ethan nodded, accepting the answer, and returned to his food.
A moment later, Ophelia's own phone buzzed silently against her palm. The caller ID flashed: MURPHY.
Ophelia set her napkin down and rose gracefully from her chair. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. If you need anything at all, please let Isabel know."
"Thank you, Miss Ophelia," Ethan replied politely.
Ophelia stepped into the adjoining private hallway and accepted the call, pressing the receiver to her ear. Murphy's voice crackled through the encrypted line, deep and hurried, delivering a brief, low-toned briefing.
After a short exchange, the line went dead. Ophelia put her phone away and returned to the dining room.
Noticing Ethan's chair was empty, Ophelia looked over at Damian.
"He stepped out to use the washroom," Damian offered smoothly before she could ask.
Ophelia nodded and took her seat once more.
Damian leaned forward slightly, his tone laced with sincere gratitude. "Ms. Ophelia... thank you again for taking such good care of Ethan. I am deeply in your debt."
Ophelia gave a polite, dignified nod.
"If it's not too much trouble," Damian continued, carefully framing his words, "could you recommend a secure location where Ethan and I could stay for the next few days?"
I just need a safe place to keep Ethan out of the crosshairs while I head out to handle my upcoming meeting, Damian thought, his eyes fixed on her.
At that moment, the door clicked open, and Ethan walked back into the room, sliding back into his seat.
Before Ophelia could answer Damian's request, Isabel stepped into the dining room, leaning down to whisper a brief message directly into Ophelia's ear.
Ophelia listened, gave a subtle nod, and turned back to Damian with a gracious smile. "Isabel, please escort our guests to the residence. Ensure they have everything they need."
Isabel bowed respectfully. "Understood, My Lady."
Ophelia stood up, gathering her coat. "I must take my leave now."
She turned and glided down the corridor.
Isabel stepped forward, gesturing toward the entrance. "Excuse me, gentlemen. Shall we depart?"
Ethan looked up at Isabel, blinking in confusion. "Where are we going?"
Damian gently patted Ethan's head, chuckling softly. "I asked Miss Ophelia for a quiet place where we could stretch our legs and rest for a bit."
Isabel offered a faint, approving nod. "Follow me, please."
Within minutes, Ethan and Damian were gliding through the city streets in the back of a pristine, custom-crafted Mercedes-Maybach S 680 Haute Voiture.
Ethan ran his fingers over the plush, stitched leather seats, wide-eyed as he took in the opulent interior.
Damian leaned back against the headrest, staring out the tinted windows as his mind worked through the puzzle.
Who are these people, really? I'm genuinely grateful for their help—they took extraordinary care of Ethan, and their resources are off the charts. They must be tied to Murphy in some way.
Ethan leaned forward, peeking over the front passenger seat where Isabel sat in pristine silence.
"Hey, Miss Isabel?" Ethan called out.
Isabel turned her head slightly to look back at him. Damian snapped out of his reverie, listening closely.
"Where did your boss go?" Ethan asked curiously.
"My Lady is attending to an urgent matter of business," Isabel replied smoothly.
Ethan nodded thoughtfully.
"If there is anything specific you require, you may inform me directly," Isabel added.
"Oh, it's nothing big," Ethan said, tapping his chin. "I had a few questions for her, but I'll just ask her next time. By the way... you and Miss Ophelia seem really close."
A rare, faint softening touched Isabel's sharp features. "We have been together since childhood."
Ethan's eyes widened in genuine surprise. "Wow! And you're still side-by-side?"
Isabel gave a firm nod. "Yes. We are very much like a Lady and her maid from the old era."
"That's awesome," Ethan smiled.
Damian shifted in his seat, leaning forward to address Isabel. "Excuse me... do you happen to know anything about us?"
Isabel kept her gaze fixed on the road ahead. "Sir, I am don't know about My Lady's affairs, except from what I am told."
Damian narrowed his eyes slightly. "Tell me... do you know a man named Murphy?"
For a fraction of a second—a micro-expression so quick a normal civilian would have missed it—Isabel's shoulders stiffened, and her eyes flared with subtle shock before her stoic mask slammed back into place.
"No, sir." Isabel stated flatly.
She lied, Ethan instantly noted, catching the microscopic slip.
Dad's friend Murphy...?
Damian gave a quiet nod, leaning back into his seat without pushing further.
After another ten minutes of smooth driving, the Maybach pulled into a private, gated driveway beneath a soaring, high-rise luxury apartment tower.
Isabel shifted the vehicle into park. "Sir, we have arrived."
The group stepped out of the vehicle and were ushered straight into a private elevator that took them to an apartment, a massive, state-of-the-art suite.
"This will be your residence for the duration of your stay," Isabel explained, stepping toward the exit and handing Damian a flip phone.
"If you require anything—food, transport, or medical supplies—use this. It connects directly to me."
The room was ultra-modern, boasting panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows, high-end entertainment systems, and luxurious furnishings.
Ethan's face lit up as he spotted a giant OLED display set up with dual racing rigs. "Father! Look at this setup! Let's play a racing game!"
Damian laughed, the heavy tension sliding off his shoulders as he grabbed a wireless controller. "You're on, kid."
Father and son sat side-by-side on the plush sofa, laughing and tearing up the virtual track.
Meanwhile,
Ophelia sat in the quiet luxury of a sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom Limousine as it glided smoothly down the snow-dusted boulevard.
It's been far too long since I checked on the orphanage... Ophelia reflected quietly, looking out at the passing trees.
High above the vehicle, concealed against the overcast winter sky, a tiny, high-tech micro-drone drifted silently through the air currents, its optical lens zoomed in on the Phantom's license plate.
Eventually, the limousine pulled up alongside a quiet, wooden-fenced estate nestled near the tree line—a secluded residential orphanage.
Ophelia stepped out of the vehicle into the crisp air. But before heading toward the main entrance, her gaze subtly flicked toward a dense cluster of evergreen bushes near the perimeter wall.
Without breaking her stride, Ophelia reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a heavy decorative stone, and flicked her wrist with scary precision.
CRACK!
The stone tore through the branches and smashed straight into the hidden micro-drone, shattering it and dropping it into the snow below.
I am glad Murphy and my son constantly remind me to remain vigilant, Ophelia thought calmly, slipping her hands back into her coat pockets.
She pulled out her phone, as she walked through the orphanage doors.
Hours passed, and night took over.
A heavy boot stepped out of the shadows, stomping directly onto the shatters of the micro-drone, crushing the microchip into dust.
Behind the boot, a dozen silent shadows emerged from the dark tree line.
Their faces were obscured by dark cloth masks, and their hands gripped high-frequency tactical knives, polished short swords, and combat recurve bows fitted with specialized armor-piercing shafts.
The lead operative raised a hand, signaling the squad to halt at the edge of the perimeter fence.
"The target is inside," the leader whispered through a voice-scrambler, his cold eyes fixed on the lit windows of the orphanage. "Primary objective: capture the woman alive. Kill anyone who gets in the way."