The world didn't just stop; it shattered. Cyrus reacted with the instinct of a hunted predator, his hand blurring as he drew his handgun from the small of his back in one fluid, lethal motion. The car screeched to a violent, bone-jarring halt, the tires screaming in a high-pitched protest against the cold asphalt. For a long, suffocating moment, no one dared to breathe. Then, a second explosion—deafening and far more powerful than the first—ripped through the night air. It wasn't just a sound; it was a shockwave that rattled the teeth in Cyrus's head and sent his mother into another fit of jagged, terrified screams.
"Stay down! Don't you dare move!" Cyrus barked, his voice cutting through his mother's hysterics.
They remained pinned to the floorboards, the scent of burnt rubber and gunpowder seeping into the cabin. Arad, the driver whose nerves seemed to be made of tempered steel, gingerly raised his head. He performed a tense, clinical sweep of the desolate road ahead, his eyes darting through the darkness. When he turned back toward Cyrus, his voice was disturbingly calm, the tone of a man who had seen too many battlefields.
"It's all clear, sir. Status: White," Arad reported.
Cyrus moved to stand, but his mother's trembling hands clamped onto his blazer like iron talons, anchoring him to the safety of the floor. He could feel her heart racing through her fingertips. Gently, but with a firmness that brooked no argument, he pried her fingers loose.
"I'll be right back," he whispered, though the promise felt hollow even to him.
He stepped out into the biting, midnight cold. The road was swallowed in a pitch-black abyss; the city lights were a distant, mocking memory. He ran his hand over the car's frame, his fingers catching on the jagged, silver edges of the bullet holes that had riddled the expensive metal. It was a miracle they were alive.
A faint, rhythmic groaning sound drifted through the air, pulling his attention back to the front. He looked at Arad, whose gaze was now fixed, frozen, on Novan in the passenger seat. Novan was still upright, but his face had turned a ghastly, deep crimson in the dim light of the dashboard.
"What happened? Talk to me!" Cyrus demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register as he moved toward the door.
Arad didn't answer with words. He simply motioned toward Novan's shoulder. The man was clutching the wound with his one good hand, but dark, viscous blood was already pulsing through his fingers, staining his shirt into a wet, black mess. Without a second thought, Arad stripped off his own jacket. With a violent tug that echoed in the quiet night, he tore the white silk lining from the inside.
"Hold still," Arad muttered, pulling Novan's hand away. He wrapped the fabric tightly, twisting it into a makeshift tourniquet. A strangled, animalistic groan escaped Novan's grit teeth as the pressure intensified, but Arad didn't flinch.
Cyrus averted his gaze, the metallic scent of blood making his stomach churn. He kicked the rear tire in a sudden burst of white-hot frustration. The rubber was shredded, a useless flap of black skin. Boran hopped out of the car then, his face pale as a ghost, pacing a few frantic steps into the darkness of the road behind them.
"Check the trunk for the spare!" Cyrus commanded, his voice tight.
Just as he threw open the heavy lid of the trunk, Boran's voice shattered the night. It wasn't a call; it was a shriek, trembling with a primal terror that made the hair on Cyrus's neck stand up.
"They hit him... Cyrus, they hit him! Oh God, they hit him!"
Cyrus's gaze whipped toward the edge of the road. Boran was frozen there, his eyes wide and vibrating with horror as he stared into the black maw of the ravine below. Cyrus sprinted to his side, his lungs burning in the cold air. As he reached the edge and looked down, his heart didn't just drop—it died in his chest.
Orange flames were licking the darkness at the bottom of the canyon, growing into a roaring pyre. Kian's car was no longer a vehicle; it was a mangled wreck of twisted, glowing metal, engulfed in a furnace of fire.
"No..." Cyrus whispered, the word lost to the wind.
They had taken him out. Kian, the family's golden boy, the man who had been handed his sister's hand in marriage as a bond of power, was gone. He was the man who was supposed to be the family's pride, the legal bridge to their future. Now, he was just ash and silence.
A hollow, numbing feeling settled in Cyrus's chest. He thought of his little sister, Sophia. How was he supposed to tell her? Even if her heart had never truly belonged to Kian—even if their marriage was a cold, calculated arrangement—he was still her husband. He was the man the family had forced into her life.
Hours later, the world had shifted. Cyrus stood by the tall library window back at the estate, his gaze fixed on a solitary streetlamp that flickered like a dying star outside the gate. The atmosphere inside the house was funereal, heavy with the scent of lilies and the relentless, haunting sound of his mother's sobbing. It was a sound that hadn't ceased since their return, a rhythmic wailing that scraped against his nerves.
Nearby, Farhan had drifted into a heavy, drug-induced stupor on the velvet sofa, his breathing shallow and uneven. He was escaping the only way he knew how.
Moein had long ago retreated to his private study. The weight of the world—and the blood of a son-in-law—rested on his slumped shoulders. No one knew how the patriarch would find the words to break the news to Kian's father, a man who held half their secrets. Only Boran remained by Cyrus's side, his eyes equally locked on that single, lonely light outside.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. Arad emerged from the guest wing alongside the family doctor, escorting him toward the grand exit. Boran was the first to step forward, intercepting them with an urgent look.
"How is Novan? Will he keep the arm?" Boran asked, his voice hushed and cracked.
"He's sleeping, sir. They managed to remove the bullet cleanly," Arad replied, his face a mask of exhaustion. He shifted his gaze away from Boran, looking directly into Cyrus's cold eyes. "Would you grant me leave for the night? I need to head home... to my family."
Cyrus gave a curt, silent nod toward the door, dismissing him. He turned back to the window. They had been waiting in this suffocating silence for an hour, anticipating the arrival of the sisters. Finally, the headlights of a second car swept through the driveway. Daria and Sienna rushed in together, their faces pale and streaked with rain.
Sienna couldn't sit. She paced the length of the rug, biting her lip until it bled, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped bird. Daria, however, knelt beside their mother, gently stroking her back in a futile attempt to offer comfort. The mother's loud wailing had subsided into a low, rhythmic moan, her body rocking back and forth in a trance-like state of grief.
Suddenly, Farhan groaned, snapping out of his stupor. He rubbed his eyes, looking up at his mother's flushed, tear-stained face with a mix of irritation and chemical exhaustion.
"What is it now, Mom? Stop the theatrics," Farhan muttered, his voice raspy. "Stop it... we made it out fine. We're alive. It's over."
His mother snapped. She wiped her nose aggressively with a crumpled tissue and let out a piercing scream that shattered the library's quiet.
"Made it out fine?! What on earth are you saying, you selfish boy?" she shrieked, her voice reaching a fever pitch. "They murdered your brother-in-law! They threw him into the abyss like trash, and you say it's over?! How am I supposed to look Sophia in the eye? What should I tell her? That we watched her husband burn while we drove away? That she's a widow at twenty-five?!"
Farhan's temper ignited instantly, fueled by the drugs still singing in his veins. He stood up, towering over the coffee table.
"What brother-in-law? What husband, Mom?!" he bellowed back, his face turning a dark shade of purple. "How many times had Sophia even seen Kian? Three times? Four? Don't act like this was a grand romance. Don't act like you don't know the truth of why he was in that car... Stop pretending!"
Cyrus stepped away from the window then. His gaze turned cold and lethal as he locked eyes with Farhan, a silent, predatory warning to shut his mouth. But Farhan was past the point of caution. He roared, looking directly at Cyrus with pure defiance.
"Poor, miserable Sophia! Always the sacrifice for this family!"
Cyrus ground his teeth together, biting his tongue so hard he tasted copper. He forced his hands to remain at his sides, his knuckles white. At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors of the study creaked open. Moein emerged, his face ghastly pale, looking as if he had aged a decade in a single night. He practically collapsed onto the nearest sofa, his body heavy with defeat. He closed his eyes for a long, agonizing moment.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a ghost of its former power. He fixed his weary eyes on Cyrus.
"We can't afford to take any more risks," Moein muttered, his hand trembling slightly as it rested on his cane. "Bestak is playing for keeps this time... he's shooting to kill. He wants us extinct."
The room went silent.
"We must stay together," Moein continued, his gaze sharpening. "Cyrus, you need to go. Bring Sophia back. Now. She belongs here within these walls. She needs to be present for her husband's funeral. The world needs to see us united, even in blood."
The word "husband" triggered another mocking, jagged smirk from Farhan. He opened his mouth to snap a retort at his father, but Boran stepped in, gripping his shoulder with a force that made Farhan wince—a silent, desperate command to stay quiet before the house truly burned down from the inside.