My heart was still racing from the terror in Kendella's voice over the phone. I gripped my device, my knuckles white, as I sprinted toward the doors of Kieran's private study. I didn't even knock; I threw the doors open, the words "Kieran, Kendella is in trouble" already dying on my tongue.
But the sight inside made me stop dead.
Kieran wasn't alone. Standing by the window was a woman. She was probably in her fifties, her face etched with soft lines of age, but her eyes held a spark that I found hauntingly familiar.
And Kieran—the cold, untouchable Kieran —was holding her hand.
I froze. A flicker of confusion, maybe even a tiny spark of a jealous thought, crossed my mind—Who is this woman? Since when did Kieran start doing old women?—but it vanished the moment I saw his expression. He wasn't just holding her hand; he was holding on as if she were a lifeline.
A small, genuine smile—a rarity for him—touched Kieran's lips.
