*Knock, knock*
A middle-aged woman tapped on the bedroom door. Her posture was straight and disciplined, her expression calm. She wore a crisp white shirt tucked into a black skirt, covered with a tailored black suit jacket — the classic uniform of a senior maid. At her side rested a silver tray arranged with tea and delicate desserts.
After knocking, she waited quietly for the hum of acknowledgment from inside. She didn't wait long.
"Come in." The voice was serene, warm, almost musical — unmistakably belonging to a young girl.
With that gentle command, the woman entered the bedroom and walked into the main hall, an elegant waiting room.
At the center of the hall stood a king-sized sofa, upon which sat a young girl– eighteen—resting in an elegant yet languid posture, a book open in her lap. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, kissing her exposed skin with a golden glow.
She was breathtaking. Her skin was porcelain-white and flawless. She wore a laced white gown that perfectly complemented her satin-black hair—silky, long, draped delicately over her left shoulder. Her eyes, deep black orbs, shimmered like a night sky speckled with stars. Long lashes cast soft shadows, giving her serene, expressive elegance. Her cheeks were plump with a hint of baby fat, and her small straight nose only added to her youthful charm.
The maid placed the tray before her, bent slightly, and spoke in a soft, respectful tone.
"Miss, your morning tea."
"Hmm… place it there." The girl replied casually without lifting her eyes from her book.
After setting the tray aside, the maid walked to the adjoining room where a king-sized bed stood decorated with royal touches.
To the right side of the bed, directly aligned with the window, was a spacious wardrobe filled with dresses, jewels, and luxurious accessories, complete with a grand dressing table. To the left was a large, pristine bathroom.
Overall, it was the replica of a princess's chamber.
The maid began replacing all the sheets on the bed and preparing them to be sent for dry cleaning.
Meanwhile, the lord of the room—the princess herself—enjoyed her morning tea: Rosemary tea infused with cinnamon and lemon.
After finishing her chores, the maid returned to the hall and stood beside the young girl, waiting patiently for her to finish drinking.
Once the tea was done, she took the cup, placed it back on the tray, and handed it to another maid.
"Miss, Madam informed me that a banquet will be held today at Sky Soul, and she wishes for you to attend with her," the maid said respectfully.
The young girl paused for a moment, before returning to her usual calm expression.
Sky Soul — a massive estate built on lineage and legacy, run by the WHITMORÉ family for centuries. Stretching across miles, it sat proudly at one of Europe's elite regions. It was among the most renowned and high-class establishments in the continent.
Sky Soul attracted countless affluent families from all across Europe. Even kings and queens hosted their banquets there. It was also a favorite hangout for the wealthiest youths—boasting gaming arenas, saunas, elite restaurants, 24/7 bars, private theatres, luxurious hotel suites, and ownership of two islands near the sea.
But what made Sky Soul even more infamous was its nights.
When the sun dipped, Sky Soul became the underworld's playground.
Yes—the mafia. Luxuries demand a price.
Thrice a month, a black-market auction would be held—run by a mafia syndicate. And when they said luxury, it wasn't the ordinary kind. Only the richest from across the world could afford to attend.
Compared to the money Sky Soul earned at night, its daytime earnings were like coins tossed to a beggar.
If Sky Soul was heaven by day, by night it was a beautifully crafted hell.
No ordinary soul belonged there.
The ruler of this heaven-and-hell empire was the young girl's mother—
Julian Ilez Whitmoré, CEO of the W Group of Industries, holding power equal to its president, Martin Whitmoré—her grandfather.
And the heiress to this vast empire- Blythe Whitmoré, the girl sitting with serene composure.
The banquet was meant to celebrate the long-standing bond between the Whitmoré family and the Falcon family—a private event held once every decade.
"I understand. Get my schedule from Mr. Tim and remind me later," Blythe said calmly to Linda, the maid, dismissing her.
Later, she entered her bedroom to prepare for university. It was her first day, but no excitement touched her expression.
Same faces. Same routines.
Since kindergarten, Blythe had studied in the same prestigious institution—covering kindergarten, primary, high school, and university. All her classmates were the children of wealthy families tied to hers through business networks or social alliances.
Everyone called her Miss Whitmoré, not Blythe.
She was the school's beauty queen—though she never realized it.
At exactly 8:00 AM, she arrived at the university. The moment she stepped out of her purple Rolls-Royce, which drew attention like a magnet, she received her usual "queen's entry," which she inwardly dismissed as a monkey show.
Students automatically stepped aside, admiring her grace as she passed.
She reached the library, still with time before her class, and resumed her studies.
"Morning, Your Majesty." A bright, playful voice chimed. Blythe turned instinctively to find her friend grinning mischievously.
"Morning, Brenda. How was your night out?" Blythe replied, emphasizing the last words night out specifically.
Brenda's smile dropped. Her face darkened.
"Very good," she hissed through gritted teeth.
Blythe smirked Satisfiedly .
"Still sharp-tongued as ever, Princess, huh?" Brenda huffed.
Blythe returned to her composed expression.
"Hey! If not for me, who else in this shithole can talk to your cold ass and still be friends with you?" Brenda snapped.
"Language, Brenda" Blythe frowned immediately
"And I know… there's no one here because no one is as shameless as you—blindly currying favor."
Blythe casually shook off Brenda's hand from her shoulder. Despite her rude words, her tone carried no malice. She walked toward her class, and Brenda trailed.
This was their daily rhythm.
At 9:00 AM, her finance class began and continued for an hour and a half.
Like that, her classes continued until 2:30 PM. Her last class—Psychology—ran for an hour as an extra curriculum.
By 4:00 PM, she was back home—her palace-like residence.
By 4:40 PM, she sat sipping a smoothie made of papaya and coconut while beauticians and stylists buzzed around her like ants on a hot pan, choosing dresses and makeup for the banquet.
After two hours of hard work, they stepped back, admiring Blythe.
The makeup artist and stylist hugged each other dramatically, teary-eyed, marveling at the masterpiece they had created.
Yet a hint of regret lingered—they felt they still hadn't done enough to enhance her beauty. They nodded Imperceptiblely: they had become complete nymphos for Blythe's charm.
Blythe gazed at herself in the mirror, calm and quiet.
She wore a red-wine silk gown, full-length, with an off-shoulder design accentuating her graceful neckline, shoulder blades, and collarbones.
The sheer long sleeves hid her slender arms, while the silk hugged her petite frame delicately.
Layered designs around her waist highlighted her narrow curves. Her back was breathtaking—her butterfly bones tempting to touch,
her skin radiant against the red wine fabric.
A set of green emeralds and white diamonds adorned her neck and ears. Her hair was gathered into an elegant bun.
The combination of her seductive silhouette and her innocent doe eyes—clear and bright—formed a dangerous beauty: sweet yet alluring, elegant yet untouched by greed.
"Thank you for your hard work, ladies," Blythe said softly. Her eyes, filled with a subtle smile, revealed she approved of her look.
*Knock, knock*
A middle-aged man in a butler's uniform opened the door. He wore spectacles and a calm, respectful expression.
"Everything ready, Mr. Tim?" Blythe asked.
"Yes, Miss. The chopper is prepared. Madam is already on the way. By the time you arrive, she will be waiting," Tim explained as he escorted Blythe to the garden where the helicopter had landed.
Blythe boarded the chopper. Mr. Tim remained at the mansion.
The car ride to Sky Soul took an hour—but the chopper took only ten minutes.
After some time, she landed on the rooftop of SkySoul.
Her mother, Julian, waited for her—dressed in a shimmering white gown, deep V-neck, sleeveless, glittering with diamonds.
Mature yet strikingly youthful, she looked no older than her late twenties despite being in her forties.
"You look breathtaking, puddie," Julian whispered, hugging Blythe tightly.
Blythe returned the embrace with equal warmth.
"You too, Mom," she said shyly.
"Come, everyone's waiting," Julian said, leading her.
They reached the 30th-floor venue—an expansive open space capable of hosting many guests.
All eyes turned to the stunning mother-daughter pair. The moment they stepped in.
The Falcon family patriarch, Dante Falcon, a fifty-year-old mafia boss, approached them. He was the reigning king of Europe's underworld, with connections spread beyond the continent—though much of it was classified.
The Falcons and Whitmorés had once been sworn enemies, but their great-grandfathers ended the feud and forged a powerful alliance. Hence, this decennial celebration continued for generations.
"You both look beautiful. Princess, this is our first meeting. I'm Dante Falcon—your old man's buddy," he said, kissing the back of Blythe's hand.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Falcon," Blythe replied politely.
He then began conversing with Julian.
"Ah… perhaps talking business on our first meeting is a bit rude of me, Princess," Dante chuckled, noticing Blythe's plastic expression.
"Then let me introduce my son—the heir to the Falcon family. There he is. Ron Falcon," he said, signaling a handsome man forward.
Ron—Dante's eldest son, born to his first wife—was tall, muscular, and striking in a dark blue suit.
"Good evening, ladies. Good evening, Princess. I'm Ron," he said, kissing Blythe's hand with his signature smile.
Julian raised a brow and nodded at Blythe before turning to greet other guests.
"You look stunning, my princess."
"Oh… just call me Miss Whitmoré. And you look good too, Mr. Ron," Blythe replied politely, though discomfort flickered beneath her calm smile.
Ron laughed aloud.
Blythe frowned. "What's funny, Mr. Ron?"
"You're too polite and naïve for a princess. Princess, you know? When my dad said you'd be attending, all my brothers nearly emptied their bank accounts buying gifts for you. Look—those over there are my brothers from other mothers." Ron raised his brows giving a side eye to Blythe.
Blythe noticed several young men in fancy suits staring her way, eager to approach if not for Ron blocking them.
"Mr. Ron, I believe it's not very gentlemanly to leave your partner alone at a party," Blythe said with a serene smile.
Ron laughed loudly.
"Sharp tongue, huh? I like it, my lady. Tonight, no fly shall reach you."
He lifted her hand again, about to kiss it—
*Du-du-du*
Everyone turned toward the sound—unnaturally loud for a Sophisticated banquet .
A chopper, Massive, hovering thirty feet above the venue.
No invited guest would barge like this.
"Who are they?" Blythe asked nervously, noticing her mother and Dante surrounded by guards.
"Some rude guests who need to be escorted out personally. Blythe, stay by my side. No matter what happens, don't move," Ron dropped his playfulness and instructed, pulling out a silver gun and shielding her with his body.
The side door of the chopper opened.
Men in black clad descended, pointing guns at everyone.
Their guns looked more polished than their shoes, and a chain of bullets hanging across them, says that they didn't come for one person, they came for everyone.
It's an ambush, a pre-planned one.
And last—A man jumped down.
His posture was relaxed yet formidable, the aura of someone experienced in violence.
Taller and broader than the rest of men's, but he wore a mask.
A joker mask.
His suit was half red, half green, over a white shirt. His hands were covered in white gloves.
His aura was lethal—so intense the air itself seemed to freeze. His men's postures remained strict, but his presence alone controlled the atmosphere.
His appearance is creepy and dangerous yet he seems to be twistedly handsome in this space.
Then suddenly—
He lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.
Like a sign to release the chained beasts.
Gunfire erupted.
Screams filled the air.
People ran in all directions, hiding behind whatever they could. Chaos swallowed the once-lively celebration.
Blood spilled everywhere.
Julian and Dante were shielded by guards. Ron crouched over Blythe, protecting her while firing back.
"Blythe, don't move. I'll come back for you. As I promised—no fly will touch you," Ron said before intensifying his fight.
Blood splattered. Bodies fell.
Blythe clasped her trembling hands together, praying desperately—fear clouding her thoughts as she worried for her mother and everyone else.
Thud—
A dead body toppled beside her. She screamed and bolted from there.
She saw Ron fighting three to four men simultaneously, too overwhelmed to notice her.
"Blythe!!!" Julian screamed. Blythe turned toward her mother—
A bullet whizzed past her and struck the man who was about to kill her.
Ron had shot him.
"Blythe, run to Aunt Julian!" Ron shouted, firing behind her to cover her path.
Blythe sprinted, but reaching her mother wasn't easy—she had to cross from the left end of the hall to the far right, weaving through dozens of armed men.
She tried her best, Ron supporting her from afar—
When suddenly someone slammed into her from the left.
Someone she wished to meet the least.
The impact was so brutal she felt her shoulder bone crack. Her vision spun.
What was this man made of—stone? Steel? Was he even human?
Before she kissed the harsh ground, a strong force seized her left arm and yanked her upward.
The pull was so powerful she nearly felt her arm tear from its socket.
She crashed into a broad chest, her nose filled with an ironic rust smell, it's the blood.
trapped between two powerful arms. Even though she was saved, she felt anything but safe.
Her mind spiraled. Her vision blurred. Tears welled from the pain. A painful groan escaped from her throat.
Her shoulder… her arm… she could barely feel her left side.
She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision, taking deep breaths.
She slowly lifted her head—
Her world froze.
Her crystal eyes met deep abyss-black eyes.
That gaze—those eyes
Terrifyingly familiar.
Some dark memories that were buried in depth resurfaced in her mind.
Her eyes widened not in surprise but in pure fear. But his eyes…
His eyes smiled—
Not the smile of a man admiring beauty,
But the smile of someone who had finally found something precious he lost long ago.
It's her/him
His grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer.
Fear eclipsed her pain. She couldn't even resist.
"Let her go right now, Joker!" Ron shouted, aiming his gun straight at him.
His voice attracted many busy people there.
Dozens of guns pointed at the masked man. They could kill him in a second.
But he didn't care. He didn't blink.
His gaze never left her trembling crystal eyes—the same eyes that ruled his mind for eight years,
They stared at each other, lost in their own world. One in madness and the other in fear.
Julian, Dante, their guards,—everyone surrounded them.
The black-suited men who are reduced to half, pointed guns to guards and others. Protecting the masked man.
Each other's posture was defensive, the guards and Ron were ready to shoot anytime, if the mask man tried to pull any trick.
Yet the masked man held Blythe like she belonged to him.
Their matching colors—her red-wine gown and his red-and-green suit—made them look like a twisted, dangerous couple.
Even with his creepy appearance, his aura softened drastically from earlier.
She trembled uncontrollably in his hold—just as she had trembled eight years ago in that park…
Those same deep, wild eyes…
This same posture.
She wanted to fight, to run—
But her body and mind froze completely.
This moment felt unbearably close to that day—like the past had clawed its way back to her.
Just like eight years ago—
She was once again
caught in his caged arms
in the midst of chaos.