Kiara （Present）
Kiara
Present
I sit on the sofa, legs curled under me, staring at the steam rising from my coffee like it’s supposed to give me answers.
Two days.
Two days of not seeing either of them, and my brain is peeling itself apart, replaying the same ten minutes of that night.
Adrien’s voice echoing somewhere deep inside the manor—cocky, annoyed, familiar.
And then he was there. Kasien. His back.
Broad. Motionless. Like he’d been carved out of shadow.
Black hair, still messy, brushing his neck.
That oversized T-shirt doing absolutely nothing to hide how much bigger he is than six years ago.
And his hands. Jesus. Those hands. Melted skin following the lines of his fingers.
My sanctuary once. Now just another reminder that I don’t know this version of him at all.
Those green eyes hit me for a single second—soft, startled—before they went dead black. Like shutters slamming down.
My lungs forgot how to work again.
Does he hate me? Probably.
Enough to hurt me? Probably not.
But the worst part, the part that sits in my chest like a brick, is that now that I know he’s alive?
I fucking hate him more.
Not for the fact that he’s a murderer or a psychopath. I already knew that was on the table and made my peace with that.
But… Six years?
Six years of nightmares, therapy sessions I never finished, guilt I never shook off. He left me thinking he was gone for six fucking years.
He just decided not to exist for me anymore.
My fingers tremble around the coffee. I have to put down the cup before I spill it.
So, what is clear now?
That man on the floor, the one Kasien executed like he was swatting a fly, said something that actually matters. Adrien and Kasien aren’t the ones planning to kill me.
Great. Gold star. Except someone is.
Lucien.
I heard it in the chaos, sharp and cold, like a hit I didn’t see coming.
So what does that make him? Head of The Vermilion Organization? Some kind of puppeteer? And where does Kasien fall in that hierarchy? Enemy? Asset? Traitor? Guard dog? Did he kidnap me to use me? To save me? To leverage me?
I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
All I know is that I’m locked in a gothic castle in the middle of nowhere, absolutely not in the city judging by the view from my goddamn princess windows, and the only thing more confusing than the murder politics here is him. Alive, breathing, bigger, colder.
And somehow still capable of making every muscle in my body forget what it’s supposed to do. I rub my face with both hands like it’s going to help me stay sane.
I get up, yank the suite door open—no hinges anymore, thanks to my little DIY jailbreak—and I step into the hallway with one foot, resting my body against the door.
My two mutes, my dear anonymous guardians, are still sitting there, staring at me annoyingly.
“Morning, boys,” I sigh, leaning against the doorframe. “I really like our one-sided conversations, but I’d like to speak to the undead, emotionally damaged skyscraper formerly known as my boyfriend.”
One of the bodyguards gives me a look like he wants to punt me back inside.
“My offer still stands,” I say sweetly. “Tell me your names, and I’ll shut up for a whole hour.”
Nothing.
All they said to me for the last two days was your lunch, Miss Soldan. Your dinner, Miss Soldan. Your coffee, Miss Soldan.
Ugh.
“Okay. Great talk.” I roll my eyes.
I point at the one with the skinhead: “I will call you Bruce. Because you look like Bruce Willis.”
I point at the other one. “And you’re Roberto.”
Roberto’s eyebrows shoot up like I just guessed his childhood trauma.
Perfect.
“Okay. Cool. Let’s play charades. I’m bored. Someone bring me wine.”
They do.
Of course they do.
They have to bring me anything I want, except anything useful, of course. I am imprisoned by my murderous ex, and I just witnessed another murder two days ago.
I need alcohol.
?
“So, Roberto,” I start, sitting on the floor with my back against the suite door, third glass of wine in hand. Okay, fourth.
“Blink twice if you guys secretly hate each other.”
Roberto doesn’t blink. Bruce, however, closes his eyes like he’s praying for patience.
I grin.
“Alright, new question.” I lift my glass like I’m hosting a talk show. “Which one of them is worse to babysit? Be honest. I can handle the truth.”
Roberto presses his tongue into his cheek, fighting a smile. Bruce exhales like a dying walrus.
“Oh my God, it’s Adrien,” I gasp dramatically, pointing at Roberto. “You hesitated. I saw it.”
More silence. More dying-walrus energy.
“You guys must have wild work gossip. Come on. You can tell me. I’m basically your inmate friend. A prison bestie.” I swirl my wine. “We’re trauma-bonded now.”
Nothing.
Roberto scratches his beard to hide his smirk. Bruce on the other hand looks like he regrets every life choice that led him here.
I lean closer, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
“I bet they’re in love with each other. Right? Like toxic brothers-to-lovers vibes?”
That finally gets a reaction. Both of them snap their heads at me with matching are you insane expressions. I cackle. “Thought so.”
I take another sip—mistake. The room tilts.
“I have a new deal for you two,” I announce, raising one finger like a professor.
My words are definitely sliding together.
“If one of you lets me go talk to one of them, I will,” I pause for dramatic effect. “Show you one boob.”
Roberto chokes on his beer. Bruce covers his face with both hands like this is the lowest point of his entire career. I nod proudly.
“That’s a premium offer. I don’t do discounts.” I lean back dramatically. “Fine, two boobs, but that’s literally all I have.”
Bruce actually lets out something between a groan and a laugh, appreciating my little anatomy joke.
They both turn away from me, pretending to focus on absolutely anything else—phone, gun, air molecules. Anything but me.
“You guys are no fun,” I mumble as I get up, wobbling only slightly. “And terrible wingmen. Zero stars.” I pick up the wine bottle like it’s a newborn puppy.
My princess chamber feels like a padded cell at this point, but at least the walls don’t judge me.
Unlike Bruce. Bruce definitely judges me.
I close the door with a heavy sigh and drag myself back inside.
I’m pretty sure I’ve located every single camera in this ridiculous princess-suite, and I made it my personal mission to point a middle finger at every one of them.
I even managed to break one, but the rest are so high on the ceiling that I have no chance of getting rid of them.
So here I am, comfortable on my sofa, fourth glass of wine in hand, trying to hit the camera above me with walnuts like some drunk sniper. Whoever’s watching this feed is either laughing their ass off or filing a complaint with HR.
Do secret criminal organizations have HR? Doubt it.
My peace is interrupted when I hear tires outside, actually sounding more like a motorbike. Two, maybe. Or just a huge car, I don’t know, I’m so dizzy from the alcohol.
It’s getting dark, soft rain is clapping on the French windows. The sound makes me comfortable. I love autumn. Everything is quiet and cold. Like the world finally shuts up for a second. I stare out the windows.
During my first and last exploration of this manor, before I got sidetracked by a bit of homicide, I figured out my suite takes up an entire wing of the first floor. The other wing remains a mystery. I was going to investigate but then, well. Life happened. Drama happened. Him.
I flop sideways onto the sofa, head dangling off the seat, legs thrown over the backrest like I’m posing for some tragic painting.
I’ve committed to the aesthetic tonight and took myself on a little date here.
Candlelit, strappy Jimmy Choos on, silk white cocktail dress hugging all the nice parts of my body, red lipstick like blood on porcelain.
I look beautiful. I know I do.
And for a second I pretend I’m not held hostage in a gothic fever dream.
For a second I imagine I’m somewhere in the city.
In a warm café, dim bar, people laughing, music humming, life happening around me instead of these echoing corridors full of secrets and men who refuse to speak words longer than Miss Soldan.
What day is it?
Friday was the kidnapping. Then unconsciousness. Twice. Adrien’s lap. Great. Could be Tuesday. Could be Wednesday. Which means I am, most likely, officially missing.
Reality seeps back in. The giant grey walls, the massive empty space, the candle flickering like it’s exhausted too. Portishead plays softly from the speakers and my chest tightens with that familiar loneliness that sits right behind the ribs and waits.
God, I’m drunk.
Drunk enough I might cry if someone breathes too loudly. My eyes drift up—to the camera right above the sofa. Black glass staring right back at me.
“Are you watching me?” I whisper, even though I know he can’t hear.
I tilt my head at it. Slow. Curious. A little reckless.
Are you there, Kasien? Are you watching me?
I stare into that little dead eye and, for a moment, let myself imagine him on the other side. Alive, breathing, seeing me like this.
He’s somewhere on the other side of this manor, watching me, peeling off his shirt from the warmth of my stare bleeding through the cameras.
I can see him in my mind, shifting on his sofa, getting comfortable, legs spread, lowering himself into the cushions so he can rest his head on the backrest, his phone in his left hand, eyes glued to the screen.
His right hand tugging at his belt buckle.
I set the bowl of walnuts on the table behind my head and stay where I am—upside down on the sofa, heels hooked into the backrest, my head dangling over the edge, hair spilling all the way to the floor.
I drag my fingers slowly along my thigh, imagining his touch, the rough edges of his scars instead of my soft skin.