❝ They say, who loves first, falls hardest, but what if this story is she fell first, he fell harder. ❞
Truths hurt, lies are a blasphemy in a relationship. But have you ever felt it? When everything feels like they're infinitely stretching your sou...
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2 Years Ago
What have I done! What have I done! What have I done!
I've made a mistake. He... He won't let me go. He saw me. His eyes definitely locked into mine. A shiver runs down my spine. But... But I have to report this. This is big. If he's caught, I'll be gone too. What should I do?
I come to an abrupt halt, my heart racing. What I've done will ruin her life. I've aided that bastard Darren in such a heinous thing. I have to contact the police.
With trembling hands, I extract my phone, balancing my laptop against my torso. I punch in the emergency number, but before I can press call, a hand clamps onto my shoulder.
"Who?" I ask, holding my breath. Are they sent by him?
"Sir, Mr Knightley has sent us to bring you back home. Something has happened," the bodyguard informs me with a stoic face. A sigh of relief escapes me. They're sent by my father.
"Please hurry, Sir. Time is of the essence," his associate adds with urgency. I give a curt nod and follow them towards the black SUV.
But wait—when did we get a black SUV?
Hesitation grips me as they swing open the door. "I seem to have misplaced my Stylus."
"We'll retrieve it for you, sir," one offers kindly.
The other's eyes are on me. "What's that on your shoulder?" I ask, keeping a nonchalant face. His eyes waver for a second, and seizing the opportunity, I thrust the door into his face and sprint away. The driver and the one on the passenger's seat are too slow to notice before I'm gone.
They thought I'm a dumbass. Every Knightley guard has a custom-made suit with our signature K cufflinks. They aren't professional kidnappers or hitmen; I'm sure of that. They must be working for Darren.
My legs pump furiously as I dart into an alleyway beside a hotel, heart pounding in my ears. If they lay hands on me, I'm dead.
I'm about to dial for help when suddenly my phone is knocked from my hand. A firm grip catches my collar, and I'm spun into a headlock.
"Plea-please," I choke out the plea as the grip tightens around my neck.
"Shh... Stay quiet," the voice, soft but firm and assertive, commands me. A girl.
Footsteps and shouts fill the air, but when they are far enough, she lets go. Where did she come from in this dead-end alley?
"Thank—" I start, but she gestures for silence.
Dressed in all black, her outfit is sleek, high-collared, and meticulously designed—clearly expensive. Her face is fully covered with a black mask. Though we are in such a state, her scent is still calming and soothing. And her voice- it's sugar. Who is she?
