✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*
[ 𝐒𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋 1 ]
Because this is where love fades and hate resides and intensifies, broken hearts produce the most tragic stories.
Their treachery is told through their bleeding hearts: their unrequited love was never reciprocated. The...
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The heavy, soundproof glass of the window reflected the sparse lighting of the hallway where I stood guard. It was 3:17 AM. I hadn't moved in forty minutes, my shoulder blades pressed against the cool marble wall of the corridor just outside the guest suite. The suite Ada occupied.
I was here, in my own damn house, playing sentry. Not because I feared an external threat—my security detail was airtight, and Vijay Sharma was in a secure, non-transferable location—but because I feared the fragile shell of the woman inside might crack entirely.
I'd rationalized the entire setup to her as a tactical move, a calculated risk, a business merger disguised as an engagement. Public image. Private safety. Securing an asset. All lies. Well, half-truths. The truth was simpler, uglier, and infinitely more unsettling: the moment I saw her blood on the glass and the pure, undiluted terror in her eyes, my corporate mind short-circuited. I didn't see an asset; I saw a victim I was instinctively compelled to protect.
The faint light spilling from the ajar door allowed me to track her movements. She lay still now, curled into a tight, defensive ball beneath the duvet. Earlier, I'd watched her settle after the shock of her unexpected menstrual cycle and my rushed, clumsy efforts to handle the situation—an embarrassment I'd never live down, yet one I'd repeat without hesitation.
I ran a hand across my jaw, the rough stubble a reminder of the hours I'd spent on my feet. I was just about to convince myself she was stable enough for me to retreat when the silence inside the room fractured.
A low, guttural gasp.
I straightened instantly, my muscles tightening.
She was thrashing, small, frantic movements against the duvet. Her breathing hitched, transforming into shallow, rapid bursts.
"No... Please let me go...?" she whimpered, her voice barely audible, pulling the words from the depths of her nightmare. "...I am your daughter... please... let me go..."
My teeth ground together—the voices from her trauma.
I slipped inside the room, moving with practiced silence. I didn't turn on the light; the dim glow from the hallway was enough. I reached the side of the bed as her body arched, her hands flailing out.
