CHAPTER ONE
Kiera Frost learned early that silence could bruise just as deeply as fists.
The house on Maple Street always smelled of old alcohol and burned food, a suffocating mix that clung to the walls like it clung to her skin. It was a house that echoed—echoed with slammed doors, shouted insults, and the hollow sound of things breaking. Some nights, it was plates. Other nights, it was bones.
She moved quietly through the narrow hallway, barefoot, careful not to let the wooden floor creak beneath her weight. At twenty years old, she had mastered the art of invisibility. She had to. Invisibility was the only thing that kept her safe.
"Kiera!"
Her name cracked through the air like a whip.
She froze.
Her father's voice was slurred, heavy with liquor and rage. Even before she turned, she could picture him perfectly—sunken eyes, unshaven face, bottle clenched in his hand like a weapon. Once, long ago, he had been kind. Once, he had lifted her onto his shoulders and called her his little star. That man died long before his liver did.
"What did you do with my money?" he snarled.
"I didn't touch it," Kiera said softly, keeping her eyes down. She'd learned that looking at him directly only made things worse. "I told you, Dad. I don't—"
The slap came fast.
Her head snapped to the side, pain exploding across her cheek. She tasted blood. The room spun, but she didn't cry. Crying only pleased him.
"Liar," he growled.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her sister step into the doorway.
Elara Frost—beautiful, confident, loved.
"Kiera didn't take it," Elara said, her voice firm but cautious. "You probably spent it at the bar again."
Kiera's heart twisted painfully. Elara defended her… sometimes. When it didn't cost her too much.
Her father scoffed. "Shut up."
Kiera straightened slowly, her cheek burning, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. She was tired. Tired of being the unwanted one. The mistake. The child her mother never let her forget she hadn't planned.
Her mother stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes cold. She didn't say a word. She never did.
That silence hurt more than the slap.
Later that night, Kiera lay on her thin mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling. The moonlight spilled through the window, pale and distant. She pressed her fingers to her cheek, wincing.
Most hated, her mother once said during an argument.
If I had known how you'd turn out, I would've stopped at one child.
Elara had been planned. Loved. Wanted.
Kiera had been an accident.
Her phone buzzed beside her. A message notification.
Unknown Number.
She frowned and opened it.
You deserve to know the truth.
Her breath hitched.
Another message followed.
Ask your mother who your real father is.
The world tilted.
Her chest tightened as if invisible hands were crushing her lungs. Her real father?
Her mind raced, memories clicking together in a way that made her stomach churn—the way her mother never looked at her with warmth, the way her father's hatred felt… personal. Different.
Heart pounding, Kiera slipped out of bed and crept toward the kitchen. The light was still on. Her parents' voices drifted through the thin walls.
"She knows," her father was saying, his voice rough. "I told you this day would come."
"Lower your voice," her mother hissed. "She's not supposed to find out like this."
Kiera's blood ran cold.
"So it's true," he snapped. "She's not even mine. And you expect me to love her?"
Kiera staggered back as if struck.
Not his.
Not wanted.
Not loved.
The truth shattered something deep inside her—a fragile hope she hadn't even realized she still carried. Tears burned her eyes, but she swallowed them down.
That night, she packed a small bag.
No goodbye. No note.
Just the sound of the front door closing behind her as dawn broke over a life she was leaving behind.
---
New York City didn't care about broken girls.
It swallowed them whole.
Kiera stood outside a towering glass building, clutching her résumé with trembling hands. The sign above read:
NIGHTWELL ENTERPRISES
Her heart hammered in her chest. She hadn't planned on this job. It had come through an agency—last-minute, urgent. Personal assistant and nanny needed immediately. The pay was more money than she had ever seen.
She almost laughed at the irony.
From unwanted daughter to trusted caregiver.
Inside, the building was sleek and cold, all steel and power. Everything smelled like wealth. Control.
"Kiera Frost?" the receptionist called.
"Yes," she answered, lifting her chin.
"Mr. Nightwell will see you now."
The elevator ride felt endless.
Kade Nightwell stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office, the city stretched out beneath him like a kingdom he ruled. At twenty-six, he had the sharp gaze of someone far older. His black suit was perfectly tailored, his posture rigid with discipline.
The world knew him as the billionaire who rose from ashes—the boy who lost everything at sixteen and built an empire with his bare hands.
What the world didn't know was how empty success could feel.
"Sir," his assistant said softly. "She's here."
"Send her in."
The door opened.
Kade turned.
And froze.
She wasn't what he expected.
Kiera Frost stood there with guarded eyes and quiet strength, her pain carefully tucked behind a calm expression. There was something fragile about her, something wounded—but also something resilient. Like glass that had survived too many storms to shatter easily.
Their eyes met.
Something shifted.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… inevitable.
Kade felt it deep in his chest, a pull he didn't understand and hadn't asked for.
"Sit," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden tension in the room.
Kiera obeyed, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
As she began to speak—about her experience, her need for the job, her willingness to work hard—Kade watched her closely. He saw the way her shoulders stiffened when she spoke of family. The way her voice softened when she mentioned children.
This was not just another applicant.
This was a storm wrapped in silence.
And without knowing why, Kade Nightwell realized one thing with unsettling clarity—
Meeting Kiera Frost was going to change everything.