Chapter 19: The Return
The tires whispered to a stop at the edge of the Fenix estate. Grey stone walls rose like cold sentinels around the property, untouched by time or warmth. The driver said nothing. He hadn't spoken once—not when he'd picked Kian up at the base of that private road, not when he'd navigated the web of turns that led away from a house that didn't exist.
He didn't ask questions.
Smart man.
Kian stepped out of the car in silence. The black shirt she'd made for him clung to his body like a second skin, soft as breath and sharper than anything he'd ever worn. The bruises she left were invisible now, hidden beneath the collar she had pulled high herself.
The cold spring air didn't bite.
He didn't feel it.
He walked through the marble foyer, unannounced. His footsteps didn't echo. This place, this life, this estate—none of it felt like it belonged to him.
Inside the sitting room, Victor stood with a tumbler in hand, amber liquid sloshing lazily against crystal. He turned as Kian entered, his jaw tight with restrained irritation.
"You vanished," Victor said, voice sharp but low. "At your own birthday celebration."
Kian's eyes met his, impassive. "I had a last-minute meeting with some friends who wanted to celebrate. I thought it'd be easier to get it out of the way before anything else happened."
Victor didn't reply right away. He studied his son—eyes trailing over the expensive tailoring, the calm in his face, the quiet that clung to Kian like shadow. There were no signs of guilt. No disarray. But something was different.
"You could've waited," Victor muttered. "Left after the Vasilievs did. You know how important they are."
Kian didn't respond.
Victor walked to the bar, refilled his glass slowly. "They didn't stay long. Left without much ceremony."
He sipped. His next words came with deliberate precision.
"She wasn't there, of course. Seraphine."
Kian's gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the garden bloomed silently under the grey sky.
Victor chuckled, a tight, uneasy sound. "Their only child. Cold as ice, that one. No appearances. No photographs. Nothing but stories. Even I don't know what she looks like."
Kian remained quiet.
"I've heard she kills without a blink. Has entire firms destroyed in hours. One man said she once smiled while bankrupting five nations in a single deal." He paused. "Myths, probably. But with that family? Who knows."
Another sip. "They say she's beautiful, but not like the women you see in magazines. Something else. Something… unnatural."
Kian didn't flinch, didn't blink. He wasn't thinking about Seraphine.
He was thinking about Eva.
That was the only name he had. The only name that mattered.
The feel of her breath against his ear. Her body pressed to his. Her hands—so sure, so unapologetic—gripping his face like she'd known him for years. The way she looked at him like he was hers, not someone to seduce or impress.
He thought of her mouth. The color of her lips wasn't red. Not exactly. It was darker. Like bruised roses and forbidden things. It didn't match anything he'd ever seen before.
And her body...
He swallowed once, slow. Not out of arousal, but something else—something colder. Possession. Memory. A violence of longing that didn't match his usual stillness.
Kian had never noticed another woman.
He couldn't remember the faces of models or actresses, couldn't recall the scent of a single perfume. Girls had touched his arms, whispered in his ear, tried to slide their hands into his.
He remembered none of them.
But Eva?
He remembered the heat of her thigh beneath his palm. The crescent indent of her teeth at his jaw. The low hum of her voice when she said his name like it tasted good in her mouth.
She hadn't asked him to stay.
And he hadn't asked her for anything—not her surname, not her world.
Victor's voice brought him back.
"You should've been more careful," he said. "The press was watching. Dmitri did what he could to cover your absence, but…"
Kian's eyes met his father's again. Cold. Distant.
Victor looked away first.
"You're lucky the Vasilievs left early. I thought their daughter might show up for once. But of course, she didn't. She never does."
He tried to smile. "They say even their staff aren't allowed to speak her name. That she was trained to rule from birth. No feelings. No mercy. Only power."
Kian said nothing.
He didn't care.
Not about the stories. Not about the heir title. Not about Dmitri's pathetic cover-up. Let them all believe whatever they wanted.
His mind was elsewhere.
Still caught in the way Eva had handed him a key like it meant nothing—like she hadn't just shattered his silence with one night and stitched it back together in her shape.
The key still sat cold in his pocket.
He said nothing more.
Victor waved him off with an idle hand. "Next time, let someone know. It's a bad look, disappearing like that."
Kian turned and left without responding. His steps were soundless down the hallway. As if he hadn't come back at all.
As if part of him had never left her.