Chapter 21

☠️Adrian☠️

The first thing I notice is her hand, curled protectively over her stomach, and the second is the fear that shines so brightly in her hazel eyes.

Then everything else disappears—the leather interior of the Rolls Royce, the voice crackling through the intercom, the bodyguard outside, and the smell of vomit on my suit. It all fades away.

Because somewhere inside my head, a door I buried eighteen years ago creaks open.

Eighteen years earlier……

“Dad?” My voice is barely above a whisper, young and trembling.

Silence greets me—a deep, suffocating silence—and I push the study door open softly. My gaze roams around the familiar room until it lands on my father.

My feet dart further forward. “Dad, Mom said breakfast is……” The words die before they can fully form.

My father sits behind his desk, his chair turned toward the window. For one ridiculous second, I think he’s asleep.

“Dad?” I keep walking, not stopping until I'm standing so close to him. That’s when I see it—something dripping onto the polished wooden floor.

Blood.

It runs from beneath the desk, flowing across the floor in a slow crimson river.

My breath catches in my throat, and I stumble back a step. The gun hangs loosely from his hand.

His eyes stare at nothing. My knees weaken. “No…” I shake my head frantically. “No, please.” I crawl toward him, my trembling finger touching his sleeve. “Dad.”

His body is cold. So cold. I shake him harder. “Dad!” The sound rips from me, tearing through the silent study. “No. No.” My chest burns.

This can't be happening. He promised. He promised he’d be better. He promised we would get through this.

He promised…

“Adrian?”

My mother’s voice calls from the hallway. Panic explodes inside me. I leap to my feet. “Mom!”

She is already walking toward the study—seven months pregnant, one hand resting on her stomach—she smiles weakly. “I heard you shouting. What happened?”

I throw myself in front of the doorway. “Don’t come in.”

Her smile fades. “Adrian?”

“Please.” My voice breaks. “Don’t.”

She looks over her shoulder—just once. That’s all it takes. The color drains from her face, her lips part, and a scream tears through the house.

“Anthony!” She stumbles past me, falling to her knees beside my father, her trembling hands cradling his face.

“No.” Then she gasps—both hands flying to her stomach. Her body folds forward—another cry, different this time.

Pain—real, agonizing pain.

Tears stream down my cheeks. “Mom?”

She grips my arm so tightly her nails cut through my sleeve. “It hurts….”

Blood.

I see it spreading under her dress. Too much—far too much. The white gown she wears slowly turns red.

Fear unlike anything I've ever known crashes over me. “Stay here.”

I bolt. The house echoes as I run—“Martha!”

No answer. The maid’s room is empty. Of course it is—she left last week.

“James!” the driver. Gone.

The garage stands empty; the cars had been repossessed three days ago. The gardener, the cook, the security guards—all have left.

There is no one. The mansion that once housed dozens of people now feels like a tomb.

My heart pounds loudly in my ears as I fling open the front door and run barefoot down the driveway into the street.

“Help!”

Nobody stops.

“Please!”

Cars drive past; a man stares at me and keeps walking.

“My mother!” my throat tears apart. “Please.”

I don't know how long I run—five minutes, ten, an eternity. Then… a delivery van screeches to a halt. An older man jumps out.

“What happened?”

“My mother...” I can't breathe. “Please…”

He doesn't ask questions. He runs with me so fast that when we reach the house, my mom is still beside Dad—still crying, still bleeding, in pain.

I watch as the stranger lifts her into his arms and rushes out of the house. I chase after him.

“We’re going to the hospital,” he announces, gently placing her inside the van.

I climb in beside her. She reaches for my hand; her grip is weak and shaky. “Adrian…”

Tears blur my vision. “I'm here.”

She smiles—a tiny, broken smile that rips me apart. “You have to…” Her voice fades. “Look after…” The sentence never finishes.

“Mom?”

No answer. I shake her gently. “Mom?”

The driver presses hard on the accelerator. “We’re almost there.”

“No…” I squeeze her hand. She doesn't squeeze back. “Mom?”

The hospital comes into view; doctors rush toward the van. Someone opens the door; someone pulls her away from me.

Just before they rush her into the ward, she whispers one word—one single word I could never forget.

“I'm sorry.”

Eighteen years later……

“Sir!” The bodyguard’s voice crackles through the intercom. “The road is secure.”

I blink. The Rolls Royce comes back into focus. Sophie is still here—alive, breathing. One hand rests over her stomach. No blood.

I look down; my own hands are shaking. Not because of today, but because eighteen years ago, I couldn't save my mother. And I refuse to lose another pregnant woman ever again.