"How?" Mike asked, his expression turning darker with worry.
"Nothing. Not even her shadow," Leon replied with the same expression. "I'll go ask another guard. Maybe nearby CCTV caught something."
"I'm coming with you," Mike said sharply. Without wasting time, he followed Leon toward the security room.
It took a moment for them to explain the situation before the guard finally granted access to the CCTV footage. The screen was rewound to about thirty minutes earlier — right after Mia walked out of the emergency room.
"There — pause it," Mike said suddenly.
A man appeared on screen, approaching Mia, kneeling and speaking to her quietly.
"Who is that guy?" Mike's voice dropped, eyes narrowing.
"I don't know. I can't tell just from the back," Leon said, squinting at the pixelated figure. "But… I feel like I've seen him somewhere before. I just can't place it."
"Whatever it is, the priority is finding Mia," Mike said firmly. He turned to the guard. "Sir, can you check the other cameras around that time?"
"Alright," the guard nodded, switching to another feed. They watched silently as the footage rewound again.
Mia appeared — this time being carried out of the hospital by the same man.
Mike took a sharp breath. "He took her outside. How do we track them now? Should we make a police report?"
"Not yet," Leon said immediately, though his voice was tense. "We don't know if he's an enemy or ally. Keep checking every camera around the perimeter. If they didn't use a car, they couldn't have gone far."
Mike nodded, jaw clenched. The room fell silent as they continued scanning footage, the worry in the air growing heavier with each passing second.
***
"Bro?" Matteo answered his phone hesitantly. His head started throbbing, sensing the upcoming trouble.
"What happened to Mia? Explain!" a furious voice roared through the speaker. It was Martin Immanuel, his eldest brother and the head of the notorious Ceneric family.
"Calm down," Matteo said quickly. "I still don't know the full situation. Leon and Mike are checking the CCTV now. They'll find her soon."
"You better find her before I get back," Martin warned, his tone sharp enough to cut through bone. The call ended abruptly.
On the other end of the line, Martin let out a shaky breath, trying to steady himself — but before he could, his phone rang again. The caller ID showed a familiar string of numbers.
"Sir, I've identified who took her," his secretary reported the moment the call connected.
"Who?" Martin's voice hardened. "Enemy or ally, I don't care. If he dares harm Mia, I'll handle him myself."
"It was… Sir Nelson from the Alistair family."
Martin froze. "What? Are you certain?"
"Yes, sir. He was here accompanying his fiancée for a check-up but ended up meeting the young miss."
"Find out where he brought Mia," Martin said coldly. "If Nelson thinks he can play with fire… I'll make sure he regrets it if anything happens to her."
"Yes, sir."
The line ended, leaving Martin gripping his phone tightly, dread and anger swirling in his chest.
***
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of someone cooking. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, I have never seen before. High, dark, and modern. Not a chandelier or gold trimming in sight. It looked more like an apartment or a condo. Definitely not Ceneric mansion.
The air smelled like clean soap, warm wood, and something faintly masculine, like musk and coffee. The couch beneath me is leather—cool, smooth, and expensive, the kind usually found in a man's living room.
It's obvious from the colors: charcoal walls, black shelves, and a single piece of abstract art above the TV. Everything is too neat, too minimalistic. No flowers. No soft colors. Nothing gentle.
Where am I?
Who brought me here?
I pushed myself up slowly, but the moment I tried to remember anything from last night, a sharp pain throbbed behind my forehead. My fever still hadn't fully gone down, and the effort made my vision blur slightly.
I pressed a hand to my temple, breathing carefully.
Think.
Just think…
But all I found was fog.
I took a slow breath and slid my legs off the bed, trying to stand. My body still felt weak, but I managed to steady myself by holding the wall. The sound of cooking continued from the kitchen — soft sizzling, the clatter of utensils, and the smell of something warm and comforting.
I stepped out of the room carefully.
A tall man stood in the kitchen, wearing a simple black T-shirt that hugged the lines of his shoulders. Even in casual clothes, he looked like someone from a magazine rather than a man cooking for a half-conscious stranger.
It was him—the man from last night. He was stirring something in a pot while occasionally checking his phone on the counter. The morning light caught his violet eyes, making them look softer, almost gentle. He turned the moment he sensed movement.
"You're awake," he said gently, immediately putting down the spoon. "You shouldn't be walking around yet."
I held onto the wall, feeling embarrassed. "Where… where is this? Why am I here?"
"This is my apartment," he explained, walking toward me with calm steps. "You had a high fever yesterday. I didn't want to leave you alone at the clinic, so I brought you here to rest."
"Oh…" I mumbled, unsure how to react. "I—I didn't trouble you, right?"
His lips curved slightly. "If I thought you were trouble, I wouldn't have stayed up all night checking your temperature."
My cheeks grew hotter. Probably the fever. Definitely the fever.
"You should sit," he said, guiding me to a seat near the kitchen island. "Your body isn't fully recovered yet. Don't push yourself."
I sat quietly, watching him return to the pot. The apartment was tidy and peaceful, but the calm atmosphere made something inside me tighten.
Because in the back of my mind, one thought kept bothering me:
Who is this guy? Did he really know me, I mean Mia Isabella? And why… do those violet eyes feel so familiar?
"Do I know you sir?" I finally asked. Maybe he startled with my question as he stopped his hand that stirred the pot. He turned to look at me.
"I told you last night, I am your brother Nelson" he answered gently.
"And the proof?" I asked quietly, testing him.
"Proof?" He blinked, then exhaled slowly, as if choosing his words. "Alright… come with me. I'll show you." He reached out his hand. His eyes stayed on me—soft, steady, too gentle—making heat rise to my face again. I hesitated, but refusing would make things more awkward. So, I took his hand.
He led me out of the kitchen, one hand steadying my back as we walked. "Careful," he murmured. "You're still weak."
The living room looks even more masculine now that I'm fully awake—dark grey walls, sharp lines, a leather sofa, and warm lights that make the whole place look like a private sanctuary.
"Come," he says softly. "There's something you need to see."
His hand gently held me as he led me toward the hallway. "You should see this," he murmurs before stopping.
A framed picture hangs alone on the main wall. Just one look and my heart tightens. He watches my reaction, silent, unreadable.
I stare at the picture, but my mind refuses to believe what my eyes are seeing.
A photograph.
A mulberry garden in full bloom.
Endless rows of mulberry trees with soft, purple fruits. A quiet, dreamlike place that feels strangely familiar. But what makes my heart stop isn't the garden—
It's the girl standing in the middle of it.
Her back is turned to the camera, hair flowing in the wind, but of course I can recognize her in one glance because..
It's… me. No, it's Mia. The real Mia Isabella.
"That's… that looks like—"
"You," he finishes quietly.
My stomach twists. "But I've never… I've never been to this place."
"You have," he says, voice low. "You just don't remember."
A chill slips down my spine.
He studies my face, eyebrows slightly drawn. There's no obsession in his gaze—only a deep, complicated emotion. Longing, maybe. Or regret.
"That mulberry garden…" he begins. "It's mine."
I blink. "Yours?" He nods once.
He holds my gaze steadily, the truth heavy in his eyes.
He points to the picture.
To the figure standing alone among the trees.
To the girl with her back turned.
"You beg me a long time to bring you there. So I did" he says quietly.
"But.. I regret it" He pauses, jaw tightening at the memory.
"Forget it" He sighs softly, eyes returning to the photograph.
"I kept this picture," he says, voice rough. "Because I couldn't forget the way you looked standing there. Like someone who didn't belong to this world."
My heart races.
"Now, you're here. That's what really matter" he whispers and lowered his gaze to mine. "I don't know why you keep coming back into my life," he says softly, "but I'm done pretending it means nothing."
I stare at the picture again.
At the mulberry garden.
At the girl whose back I almost recognize.
And for the first time, I wonder—
What exactly did I forget?