Lila Vandelyn POV
I heard an argument echoing from the halls of our humble home. A voice I didn't recognize sliced through the silence, sharp and cold, as it said, "I already gave you a chance. If you don't pay me back, I will kill you."
The steel in that voice made my blood run cold. I froze, trying to figure out who it belonged to and what the man meant. Before I could think further, my father's trembling voice followed. "But I really don't have the money to pay back," he said, his tone desperate. "I didn't expect to lose the shipment. I'm sorry. I promise I'll pay you back as soon as possible."
My heart started pounding. What was going on? My father sounded like he was pleading—begging, even—with someone I didn't know. My curiosity took over, and I crept quietly toward the staircase. I crouched down, keeping myself hidden while leaning just enough to see into the sitting room.
From my position, I saw the broad back of a man standing before my father. Even though I couldn't see his face, everything about his posture demanded respect and authority. He carried himself like a king who was used to power and obedience. My father, on the other hand, was kneeling in front of him, tears glistening in his eyes.
The sight struck me deeply. My father was a quiet and gentle man, one who rarely argued with anyone, especially my mother. But even though he often let others lead, he had his pride. Seeing him kneeling and begging shattered my understanding of who he was. What kind of man could bring my father to his knees like this?
I stayed hidden, watching carefully as I tried to make sense of what was happening. Then I heard the stranger speak again. His voice was calm but filled with warning. "You've been telling me you don't have the money for six months now," he said. "I've given you more than enough time. I'm not running a charity."
My father raised his head slightly and pleaded, "Please, give me more time. I swear I'll pay you back. Just a little longer, that's all I ask."
A short, cruel laugh escaped the man. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
My father's face went pale, as if his soul had been thrown into boiling water. I could see the terror in his eyes, and confusion filled my chest. What did my father owe this man? And how could anyone be so heartless when he was clearly begging for mercy?
"Please, please," my father said again, his voice breaking. "I'll give you whatever you want, just give me time."
The man laughed once more. The sound was pleasant, almost melodic, yet it sent chills racing down my spine. There was something dangerous about him—something that made the air feel heavy and suffocating.
"Well," the man said, amusement curling around his words, "there is something I want from you. Give me that, and I'll forget the debt entirely."
My father's head snapped up, hope flooding his face as if he had been handed a lifeline. "What is it? Please, tell me. I'll give it to you."
The man's voice dropped lower, calm but filled with purpose. "There's a blueprint of a never-before-seen gun technology that came into your possession nineteen years ago. I want that technology."
I saw my father's expression twist into confusion and guilt. He looked almost childlike as he stammered, "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never received any blueprint. I'm just a simple man trying to feed his family. Why would something like that ever come into my hands?"
The man laughed again, but this time, the laughter carried anger beneath its charm.My breath caught as he said coldly, "Then there's nothing I can do for you anymore. Just die."
My eyes widened in horror when I saw him pull out a gun and aim it directly at my father's trembling body.
Panic surged through me, and before I could stop myself, I jumped up from my hiding place and shouted from the top of the stairs, "Stop! Don't kill my father!"
The man turned sharply toward me, and for the first time, I saw his face. My breath hitched. He was... breathtakingly handsome. His features looked as though God had taken extra time crafting them, every line and angle perfectly sculpted. His grey eyes met mine, cool and beautiful, and for a brief second, I felt lost in them. But reality snapped back fast. This man—the one with a perfect face—was the same cruel person threatening my father's life.
"Please," I said again, my voice shaking. "Please don't kill my father."
My father's head whipped toward me, his face twisting in fear the moment he saw me. His expression said everything—it wasn't just fear for himself, but fear for me. As if my being there could make things worse. He scrambled to his feet, panic giving him strength.
"Lila, go back to your room. Right now!" he shouted.
Normally, I would have obeyed immediately. My father's word had always been law to me. But not now. Not when his life was in danger. I stood my ground, refusing to move. If I could just reason with the man, maybe—just maybe—he would listen.
"I don't—" I started, but my father's furious glare cut me off.
"Your opinions are not needed here," he snapped. "Leave. Right this instant."
His tone was so stern, so commanding, that it shook me. My chest tightened, but I still couldn't bring myself to walk away. He was angry—angrier than I'd ever seen him—but behind that anger, I could sense desperation.
"I said leave!" he thundered, his voice echoing through the hall.
That was when my body finally obeyed. I turned around, fighting the tears threatening to spill. Just as I was about to go up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of the man lowering his gun, sliding it back into his coat. Relief washed over me, but I didn't wait to see more. I ran back to my room.
Once inside, I began pacing frantically. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. Even though I saw him put the gun away, fear still gripped me. What if he pulled it out again after I left? What if my father was lying lifeless on the floor right now?
I didn't want to lose him. He was the only one in this house who treated me with kindness—the only light in my otherwise dark world. If he died, I would be truly alone.
Every part of me screamed to go back and check, but I also didn't want to disobey him. I had been raised to follow his every instruction, no matter what. Still, the silence in the house gnawed at me. I kept pacing back and forth for what felt like forever—probably twenty minutes—before a commotion outside caught my attention.
I rushed to my window and peered through the curtains. Two sleek cars were parked outside our gate, their engines still running. About five men stood around casually, dressed in suits that screamed danger. They were talking to someone, and my heart clenched when I recognized him immediately—the same man who had pointed a gun at my father.
He stood tall and composed, as if nothing had happened, and one of his men opened the door of an expensive black car for him. Just as he was about to enter, he suddenly stopped. My breath caught as he turned his head sharply and looked directly at my window—straight at me.
Our eyes met again, and this time fear locked me in place. I didn't move, didn't breathe. His gaze was unreadable, cold yet oddly piercing, as if he could see right through me. After a long, tense moment, he turned away and slid into his car without a word.
The other men followed, climbing into their vehicles. Within seconds, the engines roared to life, and the cars pulled away from our house.