The cold metal of the handcuffs bit deeper into my skin, a constant reminder of the weight I carried. The dim light above flickered, casting long shadows across the sterile walls of the interrogation room. It felt suffocating.
I could still feel itâthe phantom weight of the gun in my hands, the echo of the gunshot that shattered the air and took Lia Tanaka's life.
But it wasn't over.
Not yet.
Letty Harrington was still out there.
My eyes drifted to the cracked mirror on the wall. The reflection staring back at me was fractured, broken into pieces that didn't quite fit together. Was this who I was now?
A killer.
A Stanton by name, but not by blood.
The truth gnawed at me, its sharp teeth digging deeper.
A sharp knock on the door tore through the silence, jolting me back.
The metal door groaned as it opened. A tall man in a dark suit stepped inside, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete floor. He closed the door slowly, deliberately. His cold, calculating eyes examined me like a specimen under glass.
"You've made quite the mess, Ms. Stanton," he said, his tone as smooth as ice. He placed a thick file on the table with a soft thud.
I didn't flinch.
"If this isn't about Lia Tanaka," I said flatly, "then why are you here?"
A slow, thin smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Because Letty Harrington isn't finished with you."
My breath hitched.
He slid the file across the table toward me, the papers rustling ominously.
"I believe Frederick Whitmore orchestrated Letty Harrington's escape."
I stiffened.
"The night Letty was supposed to be transferred to the Mississippi Department of Corrections, the transport vehicle was ambushed by armed men."
His smirk deepened.
"She's not finished with you yet. They're not finished with you. And they won't stop until the last Stanton is dead."
I felt a cold knot tighten in my chest.
"I'm not a Stanton by blood," I snapped.
His expression didn't falter. If anything, his eyes darkened.
"But you were raised by one," he hissed. "So I hate to break this to you, but that makes you a Stanton, Khalia."
The way he said my name sent a chill down my spine.
I leaned forward, my voice low.
"Why are you telling me this now?"
Without a word, he reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a set of keys. The cold click of metal meeting metal echoed in the room as he unlocked the cuffs around my wrists.
"Because surrendering yourself..." he drawled, "I'd say that was a bold move. But the person you're after is no longer here."
The cuffs clattered onto the table.
"And you," he said, eyes narrowing, "you're the only one who can lead us to them."
He leaned back, folding his arms.
"You're free now."
I rubbed my sore wrists, glaring at him.
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded.
He let out a slow breath, his eyes distant for a moment.
"You're lucky, Stanton," he said quietly. "Lucan was a great friend of mine. I owe him a debt that can't be repaid in this life."
He turned toward the door, pausing.
"Oh, and before I forget..." he glanced over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Someone took the fall for you this time."
Confusion twisted in my chest.
"Who?"
His smirk deepened.
"Money can make anything disappear," he said smoothly. "It's one of your grandfather's men."
The air seemed to thin around me.
Poppa.
Always moving pieces behind the scenes.
And now, I was free. But freedom came with a price.
°°°
The door clicked softly behind me as I stepped into the penthouse, the familiar scent of the place immediately wrapping around me. It was quiet, too quiet. My heart was still racing from the escape, the adrenaline starting to fade, leaving behind a wave of exhaustion.
The living room was dim, only the faint glow of the city lights seeping through the large windows. And there she wasâRain, lying on the couch, her face peaceful, as if she had simply drifted into sleep not long ago. The sight of her, so serene, made my chest tighten. I couldn't help but smile despite everything. She was my anchor in this storm.
I approached her slowly, every step feeling like a fragile moment I didn't want to break. Her beauty was so striking, even in her sleepâher dark hair fanning out across the pillow, her soft features illuminated by the faint light.
I reached out, brushing a lock of hair from her face, my fingers gently caressing her soft skin. I couldn't resist leaning down to plant a kiss on her lips, soft and lingering, as if to reassure myself she was real.
But before I could pull away, I felt her stir beneath me. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking in the dim light.
"Baby!" she exclaimed, her voice laced with concern, "Where have you been?"
I froze for a moment, heart pounding. I hadn't expected her to wake up. The reality of my situation seemed to settle even heavier on my shoulders. But I couldn't hide from her. Not now.
"IâI had to take care of something," I said, my voice shaky, as I sat down beside her, taking her hand in mine.
Her eyes scanned my face, a mix of confusion and concern shadowing her expression. I could tell she didn't believe me, but she chose not to push any further.
I didn't know where to start. But I knew I couldn't lie to her. Not anymore.
The Next Morning
~ Khai's POV ~
Sleep had been impossible. Osborn's revelation echoed in my mind, refusing to let me rest. The weight of his words pressed on my chest, heavier with every passing hour.
Before the sun even rose, I found myself gripping my phone, staring at a number I hadn't dialed in a long time. My thumb hovered for a second longer before pressing call.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then his voice answered, smooth and laced with something I couldn't place.
"Poppa," I said quietly.
A low, mocking laugh rumbled through the speaker.
"Khaiâyou're finally calling. I've been waiting for this moment." His tone dripped with amusement. "Come to the Estate. There's something you need to hear."
The line clicked dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Whatever this was, it wasn't going to be simple.
And I wasn't sure I was ready.
Rain was still asleep when I slipped out of the penthouse. It was 5:30 AM, and the city was still cloaked in the quiet stillness of early morning.
The drive to the estate was smooth, the roads nearly empty as the sky slowly shifted from black to pale gray. But as I approached the towering gates of the Stanton Estate, a strange stillness settled over me.
It was eerily quiet.
The usual hum of lifeâthe distant chatter of staff, the rustle of movement behind the grand wallsâwas gone. In its place was a suffocating silence that clung to the air.
The Stanton Estate had always carried an air of calm, but this... this was different.
It felt like the calm before a storm.
As I stepped through the grand doors of the Stanton Estate, a figure emerged from the shadows to greet me.
Poppa.
"Ohâright on time!" he hissed, a twisted smile curling on his lips.
I kept my expression blank. "I have something to ask you, Poppa."
He raised a brow, his demeanor unsettlingly calm. "Ask away."
"Who is Frederick Whitmore?" I asked flatly. "I know he was once a myth within Stanton Corporation, a name whispered in passing... but I didn't know he wasâ"
He lifted a hand, cutting me off.
"Your voice, darling," he said softly, though his tone carried an eerie edge. "Your gran-gran is still sleeping. You wouldn't want to wake her, would you?"
The corners of his mouth twitched. "Let's take a walk."
I followed him through the long, cold halls until we stepped into the estate's sprawling garden. The morning air was damp, heavy with the scent of soil and wilting blooms.
Poppa paused beside a bed of once-beautiful roses. Without hesitation, he reached down and yanked a flower from the earth, roots and all. Dirt clung to the twisted, rotting tendrils.
He held it up between us, studying it with quiet fascination.
"You see, Khai," he began, turning the dying flower in his fingers, "some roots grow deep, winding beneath the surface, hidden from view. But no matter how beautiful the bloom..." He let the petals crumble between his fingers. "...it rots when the roots are poisoned."
His eyes flicked to mine, dark and knowing.
"Frederick was once part of this garden. But not all things planted are meant to grow."
The cold wind bit at my skin, but it wasn't the air that chilled me.
It was his words.
"I took him under my wing for several years," Poppa continued, his gaze fixed on the decaying roots in his hand. "This was long before his father died in that ambush in Colombia."
He paused, as if weighing his next words.
"His father, John Whitmore, was my ride or die when I built Stanton Corporation from the ground up. We were brothers in everything but bloodâloyalty, business, survival."
His fingers tightened around the dying flower, snapping the brittle stem in half.
"But an unfortunate event," he murmured, voice dropping lower, "took his life in Colombia during one of our business deals. He was assassinated."
Poppa's eyes met mine, dark and unreadable.
"Frederick was just a boy when it happened. Lost. Angry. I brought him into the family, and gave him a place at my table. But..." He let the broken flower fall to the dirt.
"Some seeds carry poison long before they ever touch the soil."
I stared at him, my mind racing.
"Are you saying Frederick blames you for John's death?"
Poppa's smile was thin, humorless.
"Blame? No. Not directly." He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "But grief twists a man. It makes him see shadows where there are none. And when a man like Frederick lets that grief fester..."
He gestured to the rotting petals scattered at his feet.
"...it consumes everything."
The garden felt colder, heavier.
"And now he's come back," I whispered.
Poppa's smile faded.
"Oh, he never really left, darling. He's just finished planting the seeds."
Poppa let out a slow, almost reflective sigh as he crouched down, running his fingers through the damp soil where the broken flower lay.
"You see, Khai," he began, his tone calm but laced with something darker, "business... family... it's all like tending a field. You plow the land, sow your seeds, and hope for a good harvest."
He scooped up a handful of dirt, letting it crumble through his fingers.
"But not every seed grows into something good. Some sprout into weeds, choking out everything you've worked for. And if you're not careful, those weeds spread, sinking their roots deeper than anything you've planted."
His eyes lifted to meet mine, sharp and unblinking.
"I tried to sow good seeds with Frederick. Gave him power, trust, and family. But the soil was already spoiled with resentment. His grief... his anger... those were the weeds I couldn't pull out."
Poppa stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his hands.
"And now, he's plowed his own field, planting seeds of his own. But what he's sowing now, Khai..." His lips curled into a thin smirk. "...is nothing but poison. And when it's time to harvest, we'll all choke on it."
The air around us seemed heavier, the garden more lifeless than before.
Poppa leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"The question is, Khai, will you let those weeds take over... or will you burn the whole field down to save what's left?"
Poppa's expression darkened as he continued, his voice steady but cold, like the edge of a blade.
"I understand you're angry about what happened to Lucan... and to your friends. I get it." He paused, his gaze turning distant as if lost in a memory.
"But you know, Khai," he said slowly, "there's always a time for grief and vengeance. The trick is knowing when to let them take their tollâand when to strike."
He turned to face me fully, the harsh lines of his face sharpening in the dim light.
"I was angry too, with what they did to your father. Angry is an understatement, actually." His voice dropped to a low murmur, the fury in it palpable. "But that anger doesn't cloud my judgment. It fuels it."
He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing with a dangerous intensity.
"I'll make them pay for what they did. I'll make them rip what they sowed."
He let that hang in the air before continuing, voice softer now, but no less calculating.
"For now, though, take care of the company. Keep the business moving. Find your sister." He paused, his gaze turning sharp once more. "And Khai..."
I felt a cold shiver crawl up my spine.
"As early as now, if you really want to get blood on your hands, you better start letting go of the people who can make you weak. And I'm talking about that girl."
His words sank like a stone.
"You need to let her go, Khaiâyou don't want to watch someone you love the most die in your arms again."
I stood frozen, the weight of his words pressing down on me like an invisible hand around my throat.
But Poppa was right, wasn't he?