The morning didn't arrive with its usual softness. Instead, it crept in sharp and muted, heavy with an unfamiliar tension that seemed to seep into the air itself. Bella stirred awake to the faint rustle of papers and the low vibration of a phone somewhere close by. Her lashes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the curtains. For a fleeting moment, she expected to see Lucas still asleep beside her—or at least lingering in that half-awake state he sometimes indulged in when Rachel wasn't up yet.
But he wasn't there.
He was seated at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, phone pressed to his ear. His back was straight, posture rigid, the kind of stiffness that didn't belong to morning grogginess but to something far heavier.
His tone was sharp. Not loud, not raised—but sharp. Each clipped word was like glass splintering in silence, so controlled that it carried more weight than if he had shouted.
Bella propped herself up on one elbow, sleep still clinging to her voice. "Lucas?"
He glanced back at her, and the hard edge in his face softened for just a heartbeat when his gaze met hers. "I'm sorry for waking you. Go back to sleep, Bella. It's just—work."
But Bella could tell immediately that this wasn't just work. His jaw was set, muscles straining as if he were holding something back. His knuckles had turned pale where he gripped the phone, and there was a restlessness in his eyes that didn't belong to the man who teased her about bedtime cravings or argued over anything that threatened her well-being. She hadn't seen this version of him before—the one who looked like the whole weight of the world had landed squarely on his shoulders. Lucas had been tense before, yes, but never this anxious.
The call ended abruptly, as if cut by finality rather than completion. Lucas lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen for a long moment, his thumb pressing against it as though debating whether to call back. Then, without a word, he stood. No pause, no sigh, not even that familiar absentminded gesture of raking his hand through his hair. Instead, he walked straight to the wardrobe and pulled out a fresh shirt and jacket, movements brisk and precise.
"You're leaving?" Bella asked, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the cool floor.
"Yes." His reply came too quickly, almost mechanical. He was already buttoning his shirt, fingers working through the motions with a practiced speed.
Bella's brows knitted. "Did something happen?" Her voice was hesitant, almost small. She shared nearly everything with him these days—her worries, her cravings, her random thoughts about Rachel—but Lucas… Lucas always kept parts of himself locked away, especially when it came to his work.
There was a pause—long enough for her heart to stumble. Finally, he looked at her again. But the warmth she was used to, the teasing smirk, the flicker of mischief in his eyes—none of it was there. Instead, his gaze was distant, colder, like he was here but already somewhere else entirely.
"Something came up at work," he said evenly. "I need to take care of it."
Bella pressed her lips together. She wanted to ask more, to demand why he looked as if the ground had shifted beneath him. But the way he adjusted his cufflinks without meeting her eyes made her stop. He was stressed, that much was obvious. And though she wanted to pry, part of her feared the answers she might get.
Still, she couldn't stop herself from stepping closer. "Lucas…"
That single word made him finally stop moving. His eyes locked on hers, and for a brief moment she saw it—the storm in him, barely leashed, threatening to spill over. Yet when he reached for her hand, his grip was warm, grounding, protective.
"I'll be back as soon as possible," he murmured, voice softer now. "Just… take care of yourself. And Rachel."
Bella swallowed hard, her throat tightening around the ache that had formed there. She nodded, though questions buzzed in her mind like restless bees.
Before she could say more, the soft sound of Rachel's footsteps padded down the hallway. A moment later, the little girl appeared in the doorway, hair messy from sleep, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists.
"Dada? Where are you going?"
Lucas crouched instantly, and just like that, the sharp-edged man from moments ago melted away. His whole demeanor shifted in a heartbeat, softening around the small figure before him. "I have some work, sweetheart. I'll be home later. Be good for Mama, hmm?"
Rachel nodded sleepily, leaning against the doorframe, too tired to protest. Lucas pressed a kiss to her forehead, his hand lingering in her hair, before straightening and grabbing his phone and keys.
"Bella," he said quietly, his voice carrying both a warning and a promise, "don't worry. I'll be back soon."
And then he was gone—slipping out the door with a finality that left the room colder in his absence.
Bella stood frozen for a long while, listening to the fading sound of the car pulling away. The apartment suddenly felt too big, too still. She glanced at Rachel, who had already shuffled back to her room to crawl under the covers, her tiny figure disappearing beneath the blankets.
With a soft sigh, Bella pressed a hand to her stomach, her other hand brushing against the sheet where Lucas had sat just minutes ago. She told herself not to overthink. It's just business, she repeated in her mind. But deep down, unease gnawed at her. His voice on that call hadn't been business—it had been steel. What could possibly be so urgent, so heavy, that he had to leave without a moment's pause?
The man she had kissed last night, the one who teased her about ice cream and promised to switch off his phone the next time they were together—this morning he had looked like a stranger.
---
Meanwhile, the drive into the city blurred past him. Lucas barely registered the honking horns, the streaks of lights cutting through the early morning, or the steady buzz of his phone with messages pouring in. His mind was already three steps ahead, replaying the words he had heard at dawn.
Moscow. The base is gone. Blown clean off the map.
He'd built that base brick by brick, year after year—discreet, reliable, one of the few safehouses in Russia that only his inner circle knew about. Whoever had struck it wasn't just aiming at property. It was a message.
By the time Lucas reached the underground safehouse beneath one of his "legitimate" corporate offices, half his men were already waiting. This room was larger than their usual meeting spot, the walls lined with surveillance screens and maps pinned with markers. Suits filled the long table, but their expressions weren't corporate. Their eyes were sharp, calculating, their voices clipped with urgency. Blueprints, maps, and financial sheets were scattered across the polished surface, an organized chaos of war.
Mark had already left for Moscow the moment the news reached them. If there was anyone Lucas trusted to survive the Russian front and return with answers, it was him.
"Casualties?" Lucas asked as he shrugged off his jacket, his tone calm enough to mask the steel underneath.
"Six men dead. Three injured," his consigliere for Russian affairs replied grimly.
Lucas's jaw tightened. Six lives gone, and in Moscow of all places—it could only mean one thing. Mikhail was moving faster than expected.
Another man slid a folder across the table. "Our intel suggests they planted explosives days ago. That kind of access means… someone talked."
The word betrayal lingered in the air like smoke. Lucas flipped the folder open, scanning the reports with cold precision. Inside, his anger simmered, but his expression remained unreadable. Not here. Not now.
"Check every link. Every trade. Every delivery truck that entered Moscow in the last month. I want names." His voice cut through the room like a blade. "Until I have them, double the guards on all European fronts. No one moves without my word."
The men nodded, scribbling notes. Tension crackled in the air, heavy and sharp, broken only by the sudden buzz of a phone on the table. Lucas glanced at the screen. Bella.
For a moment, the storm inside him shifted. He inhaled deeply and stepped away, phone pressed to his ear.
"Lucas?" Her voice was soft, careful, like she was afraid of intruding.
At the sound of her, for just a second, the maps and casualty reports behind him faded.
"I didn't want to disturb you," she continued. "I just… wanted to check if you've eaten."
The corner of his mouth almost tugged upward. Almost. "I'll eat soon. Don't worry about me." He hadn't even realized it was already past his usual breakfast time.
"I can't help it," she admitted, her words laced with concern. "You left so suddenly. I've already dropped Rachel to school."
"Good. That's good," he murmured. Then, more firmly, "Listen to me, Bella. Don't tire yourself. Take your medicine on time. I'll try to be home soon."
There was a pause on her end. He could almost picture her biting her lip, torn between pressing for more and holding back. In the end, she chose the latter. "Alright. Just… take care."
Hours bled together after that, the weight of the morning pressing harder with each passing moment. No update from Mark, no confirmation of who had leaked, and no sign of Mikhail's next move. Lucas remained ruthless, decisive, the kind of leader who didn't waver even when blood had been spilled. But the casualties gnawed at him more than they should have. Six men lost under his watch.
The Russian king had struck once. Lucas knew it wouldn't be the last. And this time, he would be ready.