KISS'S POV
The weekend arrived quietly.
No alarms.
No schedules.
No Adrian Goodwill watching me from behind glass walls and sharp commands.
For the first time in days, I breathed.
I tied my hair into a loose ponytail, slipped into jeans and a simple hoodie, and headed out with my shopping list clutched in my hand. Groceries had become my small escape—mundane, ordinary, grounding.
I needed that.
The supermarket wasn't crowded yet, the soft hum of refrigerators and muted chatter calming my nerves. I moved slowly through the aisles, comparing prices, mentally calculating my budget, reminding myself that despite the luxury surrounding my job, my life was still very much my own.
Or at least—I wanted it to be.
I was reaching for a bag of rice when I noticed her.
An elderly woman stood a few feet away, staring up at the top shelf with visible frustration. She was well-dressed, elegant even in simplicity, but age had clearly stiffened her joints. She stretched slightly, winced, then sighed.
Without thinking, I walked over.
"Ma'am," I said gently, "do you need help?"
She turned, clearly startled, then smiled—a warm, knowing smile that reached her eyes.
"Yes, dear. I need that brand up there, but my arms no longer listen to me."
I smiled back and reached up easily, grabbing the item and handing it to her.
"Here you go."
Her eyes lingered on my face, studying me in a way that felt… intentional.
"Thank you," she said. "Most people pretend not to notice."
I shrugged lightly. "Sometimes people are just in a hurry."
She hummed thoughtfully. "And sometimes, kindness is rare."
Something about her tone made my chest tighten.
We ended up walking together through the aisles, chatting easily. She introduced herself simply as Mrs. Goodwill, nothing more. No airs. No arrogance. Just warmth.
"You shop like someone who's learned to fend for herself," she observed as I compared prices.
I laughed softly. "Life didn't give me much of a choice."
She nodded slowly. "Those are the strongest women."
At the checkout, she insisted on paying for a few extra items she had added to my basket—fruit, bread, tea.
"Oh no, you don't have to—" I protested.
She waved me off. "Consider it a thank-you for reminding me the world isn't completely cold."
Outside, as we parted ways, she surprised me again.
"You should have coffee with me sometime," she said. "I like you."
I blinked. "Me?"
"Yes. You have kind eyes. And a guarded heart."
I smiled, a little embarrassed. "I'd like that."
She handed me her card. "Call me."
I promised I would, completely unaware that the woman I had just helped carried a legacy that would soon shake my world.
---
ADRIAN'S GRANDMOTHER POV
As I watched the young woman walk away, groceries in hand, my heart felt… lighter.
There was something about her.
Not polished.
Not performative.
Just sincere.
I had seen women flock around my grandson my entire life—drawn by power, money, name. This one didn't even know who I was.
And that alone made her special.
"Kissabel Hilson," I murmured, reading the name she had scribbled on my receipt while helping me organize my bags.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
---
KISS'S POV
By the time I got home, my arms ached and my mind felt strangely peaceful. I put everything away, brewed tea, and allowed myself to sit.
Just sit.
No tension.
No expectations.
My phone rang.
I didn't need to check the screen to know who it was.
Father.
I let it ring twice before answering.
"What do you want?" I asked flatly.
There was a pause on the other end. Then his familiar authoritative tone.
"You didn't come home this weekend."
I exhaled slowly. "That's not a crime."
"You don't speak to me like that," he snapped. "I'm still your father."
Something inside me hardened.
"No," I said quietly. "You were my father."
Silence.
Then, anger. "I gave you everything—"
"You took everything," I interrupted. "You chose power over your daughter. You chose a woman who despised me. You chose silence when I needed protection."
"Kiss—"
"You don't get to order me anymore," I said, my voice shaking but firm. "The moment you lost the title of dad, you lost that right."
His breathing grew heavy. "Watch your tone."
I laughed bitterly. "Or what? You'll disown me again?"
Another pause.
"I'm warning you," he said. "You're getting involved with people beyond your understanding."
I felt a chill. "If this is about my job, you should know—my life is no longer yours to manage."
"You think independence makes you untouchable?"
"No," I replied. "But it makes me free."
I hung up before he could respond.
My hands trembled, but I didn't regret it.
For the first time, I had drawn a line—and refused to bleed for anyone crossing it.
---
ADRIAN'S POV
"Grandmother, you went to the supermarket alone?" I asked, irritation threading my voice as I helped her settle into her chair.
She sipped her tea calmly. "And I survived."
"That's not the point."
She smiled knowingly. "I met someone."
I stiffened. "Who?"
"A girl," she said casually. "Very kind. Very honest."
Something in her tone made my instincts sharpen.
"What's her name?"
"Kissabel."
The room went silent.
"…What?"
"She helped me without knowing who I was," Grandmother continued. "No flattery. No agenda. Just kindness."
My chest tightened.
"Kissabel Hilson?"
"Yes," she confirmed. "Do you know her?"
Know her?
I swallowed hard. "She works for me."
Her gaze snapped to mine. Sharp. Perceptive.
"And you didn't tell me."
"There was no reason to," I replied, though something twisted uncomfortably inside me.
Grandmother leaned forward. "Adrian. Be careful with that girl."
"I am."
"No," she corrected softly. "You should be."
Because for the first time in a long while, I wasn't sure who was protecting whom.
---
KISS'S POV
That night, as I lay in bed, exhaustion wrapped around me, but sleep refused to come.
The old woman's smile replayed in my mind.
My father's voice echoed in my ears.
And somewhere in between stood Adrian Goodwill—silent, intense, unreadable.
I had no idea that kindness had already tied my fate deeper into his world.
And no idea that the weekend calm was about to shatter.
Because Monday would come.
And with it—
Truths I wasn't ready for.