On their way out, plying towards the Military capital of the city, something tugged at Derrick—a quiet instinct, a whisper of responsibility for the boy now in his care. Milo’s wide, curious eyes had a way of unraveling Derrick’s resolve, and before he could second-guess himself, he ordered the convoy to turn around. The office could wait. Today, he felt like spending it with Milo. He couldn't remember being this happy until he met milo, thus he wanted to savour it. Back at home, Derrick made it his mission to ensure Milo felt at ease. The modest living room, with its worn leather couch and scattered game controllers, became their playground. Derrick powered up the gaming console, the one he hadn’t touched in months, and handed Milo a controller. The boy’s face lit up as the screen flickered to life, pixelated characters darting across a vibrant digital landscape. Laughter filled the air as they battled virtual enemies, Milo’s infectious giggles pulling Derrick into a lightness he ha

The SUV roared through Ironspire City’s streets, Derrick’s hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Milo sat in the back, curled against him, his small arms wrapped tightly around Derrick’s waist, seeking solace in his hero’s embrace. The boy’s tear-streaked face, still shaken from the kidnapping attempt, found peace in Derrick’s steady presence.In the passenger seat, Anamika seethed, her venomous words slicing through the tense silence. “Can’t believe that bitch actually had her own son kidnapped,” she spat, her voice dripping with disdain. “Just two days into the court’s ruling—my brother gets a week with his son, and Serena’s so desperate she hires thugs to snatch him?”Derrick’s jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the road. Her words didn’t add up. Serena, orchestrating a kidnapping? The woman he’d met didn’t strike him as capable of such a reckless act. Yet the thugs had named her, their confession ringing in his ears. Doubt gnawed at him but well, he can't really kn

The sun sliced through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the opulent bedroom where Anamika lounged on silk sheets, her body still humming from the night’s fervor. The news of Derrick, the God of War, taking a second wife had scorched through Ironspire’s elite circles like a rogue ember, despite his whispered assurances to Anamika that it was a mere formality, a paper marriage. She’d nodded then, her lips curling into a practiced smile, but her heart churned with betrayal—not because of Derrick’s new bride, but because of her own secrets. She’d been stepping out, seeking satisfaction where Derrick’s touch fell short, her body craving what he couldn’t provide.In the bathroom, water hissed against marble as Derrick showered, oblivious to the storm brewing in the next room. Anamika’s fingers traced the edge of the bed, her mind replaying last night’s heated negotiations. Derrick had knelt before her, his voice low and earnest, swearing the marriage to Amelia was a facade. She’d

Few minutes later, Marcus’s sedan rolled to a stop outside the towering gates of Derrick Vos’s estate, the iron bars gleaming under the evening sun. The guards, recognizing the weathered investigator, waved him through without a word, their faces stoic as they manned their posts. Marcus adjusted his trench coat, the DNA report a heavy weight in his pocket, and strode toward the mansion’s oak door, his boots crunching on the gravel path. His pulse thrummed, the truth he carried burning like a fuse.He rapped sharply on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet dusk. The door swung open, revealing Anamika, her lips curling into a warm smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She’d seen him on the security footage, her hand already smoothing her silk dress as she stepped aside. “Hello,” she said, her voice honeyed, “good evening, come in.” She gestured gracefully, her nails catching the light.“Hi, good evening,” Marcus replied, his tone clipped, eyes scanning past her into the dimly lit foyer.

Last night, unbeknownst to him, Anamika had slipped into the study while he dozed, her bare feet silent on Persian rugs. Her fingers, steady as a surgeon's, had navigated his phone, unblocking Marcus's number with a soft tap, her breath held until the screen confirmed it— a quiet unraveling of threads he hadn't yet seen.A sharp rap at the doorframe yanked him from his reverie. A soldier stood there, uniform crisp, face carved from granite, saluting with a snap. "Sir," he began, his voice gravel-low, eyes fixed on Derrick's polished shoes. "Report from the harbor patrol. Body recovered from the bay at dawn—Marcus Hale. Floated in with the tide, bloated and blue, snagged on a buoy like driftwood."Derrick's hand froze mid-air, the phone slipping from his grip to clatter on the mahogany dresser. His eyes narrowed, pupils dilating as the words sank in, a cold wave crashing over him. Marcus—retired but relentless, the man who'd shared smokes and secrets in rain-slicked alleys. Dead. He