Vincent paced the quiet halls of the hotel where he was staying for the night. Business matters had called him away, but the unease that clawed at him refused to be silenced. It wasn't often that he left the mansionâespecially with Ashely inside. Something about tonight felt wrong, a whisper of danger in the air.
By the time his phone rang, it was already too late.
"The mansion has been attacked," the voice on the other end of the line said. Vincent's blood turned to ice.
Without a word, Vincent ended the call and rushed to his car, his pulse racing with every mile that brought him closer to his home. His fortress. His Ashely. He could already picture the sceneâhis men dead, the house ransacked, and worseâthe empty space where Ashely should be
The moment the car stopped at the gates of the mansion, Vincent sprinted inside, his heart pounding in his chest. The doors were hanging open, lights flickering in the distance. His guards, his entire security detail, lay scattered and unconscious or worse, but Vincent didn't stop. His mind screamed one thing: *Ashely.*
He reached the security room, nearly tearing the door off its hinges. Shoving aside the wreckage of fallen equipment, he tapped into the surveillance system, his hands shaking as he brought up the footage.
The screen flickered, and there it wasâthe final moments.
Ashely's room, dimly lit, showed him standing by the window. A figure appeared behind himâcloaked in shadows, unrecognizable, but Ashely didn't flinch. He turned, and to Vincent's horror, Ashely embraced the intruder. He clung to the stranger, tears streaming down his face, his body shaking with sobs. The masked figure held Ashely with a kind of gentle care that felt all too personal. Too familiar.
Then Ashely turned, and his eyes met the camera.
Vincent's breath hitched. He stared into the screen as if he were looking directly at Ashely, as if Ashely were looking at him.
"I wish you treated me differently," Ashely whispered.
Vincent's heart stopped. Those words, simple and full of quiet sorrow, cut deeper than any betrayal. The words echoed in his mind, over and over, until they drowned out everything else. Ashely's eyes brimmed with regret, not anger. His voice trembled with loss, not hatred. And those words were not meant for the stranger beside him.
They were for Vincent.
Before Vincent could process the weight of Ashely's parting words, the figure pulled out a syringe. With delicate precision, they injected it into Ashely's neck. Ashely's body went limp almost instantly, his eyelids fluttering as his consciousness slipped away.
But the stranger didn't let him fall. They lowered him to the floor with a kind of reverence that sent a jolt of rage through Vincent. The care with which they treated Ashelyâtheir gentle touch, as if afraid to hurt himâwas too much. The intruder's hands lingered for a moment on Ashely's cheek before they stood up, leaving him peacefully on the floor.
And then, as Vincent's fury built, the figure moved toward the camera.
Vincent's heart pounded, the image on the screen growing larger as the intruder approached. The shadowy figure stood over the camera, eyes unseen, but their message was clear. Slowly, deliberately, they reached for the device, and the screen went black.
Vincent collapsed into the chair, numb with disbelief. The footageâthe moment Ashely had spoken directly to him, the words he had longed forâwas now gone, erased by the intruder's hand. His fists clenched tightly as he fought to control the surge of emotions tearing through him.
Ashely was gone. Not just taken. Not just stolen from him. He had *left.*
Those words, Ashely's final words to him, haunted Vincent: "I wish you treated me differently."
He had failed. Failed to protect Ashely, failed to make him love him, failed to be what Ashely needed. And now someone else had taken his place.