Zaria stared at the glowing screen like it had grown fangs.
The message blinked once, then vanished.
No number. No trace. Nothing.
She scrambled to open the phone's call history—blank. Message log—empty. Like it never happened. Like someone wanted her to think she was losing her mind.
But she wasn't.
Her fingers shook as she set the phone down on the nightstand, backing away from it like it might explode. Her thoughts spun in every direction—who sent that? How did they access a dead SIM? And how the hell did they know about her father?
She looked toward the closed door. Should she tell Ares?
No.
Something in her gut said don't.
He had secrets—so many. But whoever sent that message… they had knowledge. Information. And they were watching.
She didn't sleep. Again.
---
Morning came like a slow ache.
She dressed in silence and found Ares in his office, already dressed, already dangerous.
He didn't ask how she slept. Didn't offer a greeting. Just nodded toward the chair across from him.
"I'm taking you somewhere."
She folded her arms. "Where?"
"You'll see."
She hated how vague he was. How calm. But she followed anyway, stepping into the same armored car from yesterday, heart pounding just a little harder than it had before.
---
They drove to a cemetery.
Zaria blinked as the black gates creaked open. "Seriously? This early?"
Ares said nothing. The car stopped, and he stepped out, motioning for her to follow.
They walked in silence past rows of weathered graves. Wind whispered through the trees, tugging at her hair like ghost fingers.
Then they stopped.
At her father's grave.
Zaria's breath caught in her throat.
The headstone was simple—too simple. James Etan. Devoted Father. Loyal Servant.
Servant?
She glanced at Ares.
"Your father wasn't what you thought he was," Ares said, voice low. "He worked for my family for nearly fifteen years. Quietly. Behind the curtain."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "You're lying."
"I'm not."
She knelt beside the grave, tracing the name with trembling fingers. "He worked for you?"
"Not me. My father. He was… trusted. But he made enemies when he left."
"Left?" she echoed. "He didn't retire?"
Ares stared down at the stone. "No one retires from this life. Not really."
Zaria swallowed the lump in her throat. "So you think someone killed him for leaving?"
"I don't think," he said coldly. "I know."
The wind shifted. Leaves rustled above them.
"Whatever he left behind," Ares added, "they think you have it."
Zaria stood up. "Do I?"
"Do you?" he repeated, turning toward her. "Because someone out there thinks you do. And they won't stop coming."
She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or punch something. But all she managed was a bitter whisper: "I didn't even know him…"
"Then get ready to find out who he really was."
---
Back at the mansion, Zaria walked into her room and shut the door softly behind her. Her knees gave out the moment she was alone, back hitting the wall as her mind raced.
What did her father leave behind?
Why did Ares take her in—was it protection, or leverage?
And who sent that message?
---
Night fell again like a heavy cloak.
The phone didn't buzz this time.
But something else happened.
At exactly 2:17 a.m., a soft click came from her window.
Zaria sat up in bed.
Click.
Again.
Not wind. Not imagination.
She crept toward the curtains, slowly drawing them apart.
Outside—on the balcony railing—a flash of movement.
A small black envelope.
She opened the window cautiously, reached out, and grabbed it with trembling fingers.
Inside was a photo.
Her father, years younger, standing beside two men she didn't recognize.
And on the back, scrawled in messy handwriting:
> "Trust no one. Not even the man who saved you."
She dropped the envelope like it burned.
Then—footsteps in the hallway.
Fast. Heavy. Coming toward her door.
Zaria backed up, heart thudding.
A soft knock.
"Zaria?" Ares' voice. Calm. Controlled.
Too calm.
She didn't answer.
"Open the door."
Her fingers brushed the photo again.
> Trust no one.
She stayed frozen.
The knock came again—this time louder.
"Zaria. I know you're awake."
Her hand hovered over the doorknob.
She was no longer sure who the real enemy was.
And when she opened that door…
There might be no going back.