The night was too calm to be trusted.
The sky above the Morelle Villa stretched wide and star-filled, a blanket of glittering silence over one of the most powerful estates in the country. The wind moved softly through the tall palms, carrying the scent of roses and wet grass. Everything shimmered — the pool, the marble tiles, even the glass walls of the villa that caught the starlight like mirrors of gold.
It was a house built for royalty — and in a way, it was.
Clarissa Morelle, twenty-five and flawless, lay stretched on a white lounger by the pool. Her silk robe glowed faintly under the moonlight, her long hair spread like a halo on the cushion. A half-empty glass of red wine rested beside her. She was thinking — or perhaps pretending to think — as she watched the stars blink across the sky.
She had come here alone.
Sometimes, when the city noise became too loud or when her husband's quiet life felt too dull, she came to the family villa to escape. It was her sanctuary — a palace of her own.
Her husband, Ethan Cole, was back at their mansion across town. He wasn't like her. Ethan was ordinary — steady, decent, ambitious but still finding his place in the world. He wasn't born into money; he had earned every little piece of what he had. The Morelles, however, were born into power.
Lord Damien Morelle, her father, was the owner of Morelle Empire Holdings — a global dynasty known for its grip on diamond exports, oil logistics, and luxury trading. To the world, the Morelles were untouchable, the kind of family people whispered about but never crossed.
That night, their heiress sat alone beneath the stars — rich, beautiful, untouchable. Or so she thought.
The villa was quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds were the soft ripple of the pool and the hum of the security lights. Five guards were stationed around the property — not weak, but not alert either. They had worked there for years, and nothing bad had ever happened here.
At 10:43 p.m., the first sign came.
The faint crunch of tires on gravel.
One of the guards frowned, raising his flashlight toward the gate. The darkness beyond seemed normal — too normal. Then, all at once, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. And went out.
Clarissa sat up sharply. "What—?"
The silence that followed felt heavier than air.
Then came the sound of boots. Quiet, fast, deliberate.
Before she could move, a shadow leaped over the low garden wall. Then another. Then a third. Three men, dressed in black, faces covered, moving with precision — like they had done this before.
Clarissa's pulse slammed against her ribs. She stood quickly, eyes darting toward the house. "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice trembling but proud.
They didn't answer.
One rushed forward, grabbing her by the arm. She gasped, the wine glass slipping from her hand and shattering across the marble. The red wine spread like blood beneath her bare feet.
"Let me go!" she cried, twisting, fighting.
A gloved hand clamped over her mouth. Another pulled something from his jacket — a thick black cloth, rough and smelling faintly of oil and dust. Before she could scream again, the cloth came down over her head, cutting out the world.
She tried to kick, to fight, but her movements were swallowed by the dark. The air inside the cloth was hot. She couldn't see. Could barely breathe. The sound of the men's footsteps, the low hum of their voices, the slam of the van's door — it all blurred together into chaos.
They dragged her out of the courtyard, through the gate, and into the waiting black van. The guards shouted somewhere behind her, but a gunshot — sharp and cold — silenced everything.
The van's engine roared to life, gravel spraying behind its tires as it disappeared into the night.
And then… silence.
Only the broken glass remained by the pool, glinting under the faint moonlight. The wind stirred the curtains of the open terrace, and the stars above continued to shine — beautiful, distant, and cruelly indifferent.
By dawn, the story would make headlines:
"Clarissa Morelle — Heiress to the Morelle Empire Holdings — Abducted from Her Family Villa."
But inside the marble mansion of the Morelles, anger was already rising.
The kind of anger that could destroy cities.
For the Morelles didn't take loss lightly.
And whoever dared to touch their daughter…
had just declared war.