"Some people scream without sound"
I never believed in love. I still don't. Love, these days, is just another word for delusions and high expectations towards someone. It's sickening. The 'perfect guy' in the modern world is described as someone who would stalk you, be obsessive, and will only be with the ones who will throw away all emotions in exchange for intimacy, which is the popular first step before actually getting to know the partner. Physically, then mentally.
Never the other way around.
I never wanted any of that. And I still don't.
But then there is Grey West.
And I don't know what to make of him.
I sit on my bed, laptop open, but my thoughts scattered far beyond the thin glow of the screen.
Grey has been... caring. Too caring, maybe. Kind in his own quiet, awkward, distant way. The kind of caring that doesn't suffocate or demand something back. The kind that doesn't push past boundaries unless I let him. And the worst part?
I let him.
I told him everything yesterday—the threats, the roses, the break-in, the picture, the burnt flower left on my table. I've never opened up like that. I've never trusted anyone enough, not even myself.
But with him... it slipped out. Like my guard stepped aside for a moment. And now I'm sitting here, staring at my screen, wondering why.
I turn toward the security files again.
The CCTV footage that covered the timeframe when the rose was placed in my office?
Gone.
Not cut. Not corrupted. Deleted.
The building entry logs for the same hour?
Deleted.
Sensor triggers?
Overwritten.
Every trace, every possible thread to pull on, vanished as if someone stripped the system clean and polished it afterward.
Who could do that in a high-security building like Montez Empire?
My throat tightens.
Clint?
Someone under him?
Someone hired?
I dig through articles, interviews, business reports—anything that could hint that Clint is behind something. Nothing.
Clint Reeves has a spotless public image. Everyone worships him.
And Victor...
Just thinking his name makes bile burn the back of my throat.
Victor Montez. The man everyone adored. The man whose charm buried the truth like bodies.
I exhale and keep scrolling. Then I see it.
A headline that freezes me:
"THE WEST FAMILY FIRE — A TRAGIC ACCIDENT OR NEGLIGENCE?"
My chest tightens painfully. I hesitate.
I told myself I wouldn't search. Heck, I promised Grey I wouldn't. But something inside me whispers: You need to know.
You need to protect yourself.
So I click. And the words hit me like stones.
"Grey West, nineteen, was believed to be behind the incident after driving the vehicle that toppled and later exploded."
"Both parents died on impact."
"Grey West survived the blast."
"Charged with involuntary manslaughter."
"Ten-month sentence before evidence overturned the ruling."
"Autopsies confirmed the blast originated from the engine."
"The topple was caused by a displaced stone on a rural road."
My breath stops.
Grey... went to prison? Survived a blast? Blamed for killing his own parents?
I click a sub-link. "Chris West — A Leader."
The summary makes me sit up fully.
Chris West. Grey's father. Founder of HavenCore International, a humanitarian logistics organization providing aid to war-torn regions. A respected name. A philanthropic empire.
And suddenly...
Everything I said to Grey earlier echoes in my head:
Victor and Clint hated HavenCore. Hated its success.
My stomach turns cold. Could Grey hate Victor? Hate him enough to kill him? Hate me enough to get close, earn my trust, and then... My heart slams against my ribs. Erase me?
Remove the last Montez? Revenge?
No.
No.
No.
But what if... what if everything he does is calculated? What if his kindness isn't real? What if I'm giving trust to the wrong person again?
I get up. I need to walk. I can't breathe.
The hallway is quiet. My footsteps feel loud even though I'm barefoot.
Miranda appears near the corner. "Oh, Miss Sophie! Grey is in the—"
"I'm just walking," I cut in gently. She nods and steps aside.
I continue forward, heart racing, head clouded. Then I pass the home gym. And I stop.
Inside, Grey stands with his back to me, facing a heavy punching bag. The muscles in his arms flex sharply as he lands blow after blow—clean, precise, practiced. Not sloppy anger. Not reckless rage.
Controlled violence.
A level of training most people never achieve.
My throat dries. Who is he?
He throws another punch, and the bag shudders violently. His shoulder is bruised—dark, raw. When he pauses, he strips his glove off and starts punching without it. Knuckles split slightly. A faint line of red.
He freezes. He knows I'm here.
Slowly, he lowers his hand and sits on the bench facing away, grabbing a towel. He wipes his face, still refusing to turn around. I step back.
And then I walk away before the fear in my chest becomes visible.
I lean against the hallway wall, breathing quietly.
This is exactly how betrayal starts... one person pretending, one person hoping, one person falling into the trap. I've lived this cycle before. And yet...
Something inside me resists the conclusion.
A small, stubborn instinct. The same instinct that saw how he steadied me when I nearly fell today.
How he didn't ask invasive questions. How he didn't mock my panic. How he subtly cared.
Something whispers: "Don't judge too fast. Don't run yet."
Not from him.
Before going upstairs, I stop by the kitchen. My hand quietly reaches into the bottom drawer, towards the first aid kit.
I take out a small bottle of antiseptic. I place it on the counter. No note. No explanation.
Not a gesture of trust, or affection. Just practicality.
He needs it.
His shoulder is bleeding.
His knuckles torn.
Whether he uses it or not, I don't care. But he needs to have it.
I stand there for a second longer and then, I turn and walk upstairs, heart heavier than before.
Not knowing whether Grey West is the safest person in my life...
Or the most dangerous.