---
The phone barely rang twice before the call connected, but Dominic didn't wait for pleasantries.
"Fatoum, what's the update?" His tone was sharp, demanding.
"Oh—good evening, Mr. Dominic Lancaster—"
"I don't have time for that. How soon can you get the detective?"
Fatoum hesitated. "Sir, how soon do you need them?"
"As soon as possible. Get them here in thirty minutes."
"But, boss, that's too early—"
"I said thirty minutes," Dominic snapped, voice edged with impatience. "Or you can start looking for another job."
Click. He hung up without waiting for a response.
With an exasperated sigh, Dominic tossed his phone onto the dresser and headed for the bathroom. Stripping off his shirt, he stepped under the steaming shower, letting the hot water run down his tense, sculpted frame. His fingers flexed against the tiled wall, his thoughts swirling in dark, calculated determination.
His lips curled into a cold smirk.
"I'll make you pay," he murmured to himself, his voice a quiet promise. "No matter what it takes."
...
The evening air hung heavy over the estate, thick with unsaid words and simmering tension. The last streaks of daylight had faded, leaving Dominic's room bathed in shadows.
It looked like a battlefield.
The desk was overturned. Books lay strewn across the floor, some with torn pages fluttering weakly. A shattered glass glistened under the dim glow of the bedside lamp. The sheets were twisted, the pillows flung across the room. Bloodstains on the mirror and some part of the room. A storm had passed through—and Dominic had been the eye of it.
A soft knock. The door creaked open.
His mother stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the floorboards. She took one glance at the wreckage and stilled.
This wasn't the first time.
Her gaze drifted to her son, sitting at the edge of his bed, his head bowed slightly, his hands clasped together and bleeding.
"Dominic," she started, her voice carefully neutral. "Come eat something."
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
She exhaled. "You barely eat anymore."
Silence.
"At least sit with me, or let me tend to your wounds for once" she tried again, her voice softer this time.
Dominic lifted his head. His eyes—cold, sharp, merciless—locked onto hers.
"Mother," he said, voice dangerously calm, "not now."
She hesitated. She could push further, but what was the point? This was Dominic—a force of nature, untamable, unreachable.
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she turned away. "Just don't…" she hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly. Then, with a sigh, she murmured, "Never mind."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Dominic leaned back against the wall, fingers tapping against his knee. His lips pressed into a thin line.
Very soon.
---
The room was dark, but the nightmare was darker.
Eyes.
Black, endless, consuming.
They stared into her, through her, swallowing her whole.
And then—the voice.
"I will make you pay."
Cold. Unforgiving. A whisper that felt like it could shatter her soul.
Laughter followed—low, taunting, curling around her like chains.
The shadows closed in. She couldn't breathe.
Elara screamed.
Her eyes flew open, her chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged gasps.
"Elara!" Sylvia called, her arms wrapping tightly around her twin. "You're okay. You're okay."
Elara clung to her, her entire body trembling. "It felt so real," she choked out.
The door burst open. Elias.
His face was tense, his eyes scanning the room. "What happened?"
Elara tried to steady her breathing, but the terror still gripped her chest.
"She had a nightmare," Sylvia said, rubbing her back in soothing circles.
Elara swallowed hard. "It was him. The man from the market."
Elias tensed. "The arrogant stranger?"
She nodded, eyes wide. "He threatened me. I can't stop hearing his voice. I can't stop seeing his eyes." She hugged herself, curling into Sylvia's warmth. "I'm scared."
Elias sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on her shoulder. "Listen to me, Elara. You're safe. We're together. Nothing will happen to you."
Sylvia huffed. "Yeah, the guy's a conceited jerk, but that's all he is. What's he going to do? Stalk us? He's not some villain from a horror movie."
Elara shivered. "You don't understand. He's… different."
Silva scoffed. "Please. The most he can do is glare at us from a distance."
Elias exhaled. "We'll handle it, Elara. Whatever happens—we face it together."
Elara shut her eyes, trying to believe them.
But deep inside, she knew—that arrogant stranger was more than just a man.
---
The night had barely settled when troops of car zoomed in the Lancaster's estate.
The guards at Dominic's estate turned their heads, already knowing what was going on and we're preinformed by their cold boss Dominic Lancaster.
And then came the men.
Six of them.
Dressed in crisp black and white suits.
They moved like a shadowed force, their footsteps eerily synchronized as they entered the mansion, walking straight to Dominic's room.
A sharp knock.
The door opened, revealing Dominic, still sitting on his bed, his fingers lazily drumming against his knee.
The leader of the group, a tall man with an air of quiet authority, bowed slightly.
"Sir Flamont sends his regards," he said smoothly. "The detective you requested has arrived."
The air shifted.
Dominic lifted his head, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly—deliberately—he smirked.
"Good."