The waves lapped at the shore lazily, as if they were trying to erase the tension that hung between us. He stood close, the damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his sculpted chest, every muscle defined, every movement precise. I could almost hear the quiet hum of control he carried with him—the kind that made people hesitate before crossing him. And yet, here he was, inches away, as much a puzzle as he was a storm.
"Then let me rephrase the question," I said, letting my voice slide over the words like silk, careful, deliberate. I allowed a small, knowing smile to curve my lips, teasing, yet carefully restrained. "You like making deals, don't you?"
His expression betrayed nothing. But I caught it—just for a heartbeat—the flicker in those icy blue eyes, the tiniest crack in the armor he so meticulously maintained. I pressed my advantage, letting the air thrum with unspoken challenge.
"Make one with me too," I offered, soft but firm. And then I added the word I knew would catch him off guard, the word he never resisted: deal.
He didn't move, didn't speak. I let the silence stretch, letting the rhythm of the waves fill the space between us, letting the tension build until it felt almost like another presence beside us. Then I leaned in slightly, not in submission, but in calculated defiance.
"Let me buy your story."
The words fell into the air, deliberate, precise, carrying both sincerity and provocation. I held his gaze, steady, daring him to challenge me. "If the price I'm offering seems fair, sell it to me. If not… never mind."
He blinked. Just once. A faint flash of disbelief crossed his face before he echoed my word, his voice rough, questioning:
"Price…?"
"How does that sound?" I countered, letting a calm authority edge my tone. The tension between us coiled tighter. He was considering it. And I could feel it.
---
Finally, he moved. A single step, deliberate, closer. The air thickened, heavy with expectation, with unsaid truths. His voice came next, low and resonant, carrying the weight of someone who didn't waste words:
"Let me start by telling you something you've been wanting to know."
My chest tightened. I already knew what he meant—the question that had been gnawing at me, the secret that had shadowed every interaction we'd ever had.
"Last time, in the office… you asked me if I had a personal reason for hating your family." The memory hit me like a cold slap, but I didn't flinch. I let it sit, letting the image of that tense, unresolved conversation linger.
He cut through the memory with his own question, sharp, probing, unrelenting. "But you said you hated my family before we even laid eyes on each other. Is there… a particular reason for that?"
I could feel the old anger, the weight of the truth I'd kept buried, pressing against my chest. I squared my shoulders and held his gaze, refusing to retreat.
"There is."
It was heavier than I expected, the words lodging in the space between us. A confession, not offered lightly, but born of necessity.
"A very personal reason… one neither my grandmother nor my mother ever knew."
---
🗡️ The Name
I watched him closely, measuring every flicker, every micro-expression. And then—finally—I saw it. A subtle shift, a spark of genuine shock. His full attention was mine.
"I know your brother."
The words hovered in the cold air, slicing through it like a blade. Silence followed, absolute and tense.
"Victor Grayan."
I could feel the moment crack, fragile and electric. His posture stiffened, the color draining from his face only to be replaced by a dark, simmering red creeping up his neck.
"GRIT."
The sound of his teeth grinding was almost audible. He looked like he was on the edge of eruption, held back only by discipline and sheer will.
"What on earth…?" His voice emerged as a strangled rasp, barely recognizable as himself.
I said nothing more. I let him sit with it, with the weight of the revelation. I held my expression neutral, careful to betray no hint of triumph or fear.
"I've met him before… when I was fourteen."
The words lingered, suspended in the evening air. Between us, past and present collided. The past wasn't gone. It was here, standing between us, waiting, ready to redefine everything.
---
He stood in the water, waves lapping at his legs, the muscles in his jaw tightening as his shock slowly morphed into an intense, almost tangible demand.
"What happened… between you and Victor?"
I turned my gaze outward, letting the murky water reflect my thoughts. Silence stretched, heavy and unyielding, as if the world itself was waiting for me to speak the truth. Victor Grayan—just his name was enough to dredge up the pain I had buried for years. The memory was raw, searing, the source of everything.
"He's why I quit ballet… which I'd loved so dearly…" My voice thickened, weighted with grief I had long tried to suppress. "...as well as the reason I lost two very close friends of mine."
I met his gaze then, forcing him to see the gravity, the irreparable damage that shadowed my past. The faces of my friends—Esther and Lise—flashed in my mind: bright, eager, full of hope in their pristine ballet attire, twirling with dreams too fragile to withstand the storm that followed.
"If it weren't for the Grayan family's involvement, Esther wouldn't have died…" I faltered slightly at her name, the sorrow palpable, almost breaking me. "...and Lise would've been accepted to the National Ballet Company, just as she'd longed for, and become a ballerina representing Meuracevia."
The tragedy had shattered more than dreams—it had shattered my world. And yet, in the wreckage, I had forged a purpose. I had taken my grief and turned it outward, into action. "He's also the biggest reason why I began financially supporting La Taissant and other art institutes." My words carried the weight of determination hardened by pain. But resentment still lingered, a bitter aftertaste I couldn't swallow.
"Because of that incident," I admitted, letting the words land between us like stones in still water, "I began to harbor resentment toward your family."
📞 The Overheard Conversation
The confession of old wounds was only the first layer. There was another, more immediate scar—a revelation that had solidified my distrust and extinguished any lingering hope I might have held.
"Also… not long after you and I married, I overheard a conversation you were having over the phone."
The memory came unbidden, vivid and icy: the opulent room, gilded and silent, shadows cast by the distorted reflection of his silhouette, the chill of dread that had crawled over me as I listened to words meant to stay hidden.
"You told the other person on the line to be patient," I whispered, shivering at the memory. "Since you were waiting for an opportunity…"
I could still see the expression on his face in that moment—cold, calculating, the kind that promised danger. The words he spoke next had stayed with me like a stain, a warning etched into my mind. "That you'd make use of them as much as you could… and kill them if they got in the way."
I pressed my hands against the damp fabric of my dress, the water surrounding us suddenly seeming to chill to my bones, as if it shared the memory of that moment.
"After that… I couldn't trust you."
It was a simple truth, absolute and unshakable. The seed of fear had been planted the moment I heard those words.
"At that moment, I became certain… that you'd kill me one day…"
My voice dropped, a low whisper heavy with dread and realization. "...and even if I wasn't the one you were talking about, it seemed like you were the…"
This expansion emphasizes the emotional depth of Serena's trauma, her lingering fear, and the heavy weight of betrayal and loss, while keeping the pacing tense and intimate.
"...And even if I wasn't who you were talking about," I finished, my voice steady, my gaze unwavering, "it seemed like you were the kind of person who would have no qualms about killing another person..."
The weight of my judgment pressed down on him, heavy and unyielding, like the coldest stone settling between us. I had spent years living in fear and suspicion, every step, every decision carefully calculated under the shadow of that dark assumption.
"And so, to me, you seemed no different from your brother."
My words struck him harder than any physical blow could. His head dipped slightly, a shadow flickering across his otherwise composed face. I heard it—almost imperceptible, yet unmistakable—a sharp, quiet CLENCH as his fists tightened at his sides, the subtle declaration of someone bracing against a storm of their own making.
He finally understood, and in that moment, the ripples of my elaborate, long-held defenses seemed to settle around him. He stepped back a pace, water lapping around his ankles, as though the distance was necessary to process everything. His voice emerged quieter now, tinged with disbelief, tinged with resignation.
"So the reason she's so unusually afraid of guns… and she couldn't readily trust me and my family is…"
His eyes searched mine, finally meeting the storm of accusation and fear I had carried all these years.
"I had no idea you'd overheard that phone call…"
He paused, gathering himself, his tone steadying, though his expression remained serious.
"But I was talking about someone else, not you."
"Someone else?" I echoed, the disbelief slipping into my voice, the ground beneath my certainty suddenly uncertain, unsteady.
"Anyone who'd overheard a conversation like that would have misunderstood," he continued, almost gently, as if explaining to a frightened child. Reflection softened his features, and a long, measured sigh escaped him.
"I can now understand why you were so guarded and on edge around me."
No argument, no correction—just acknowledgment. The weight of my fear met a quiet, honest concession.
Then, he revealed a layer of truth I had never anticipated, one that sent my mind spinning:
"I have a younger brother. My father and Victor believe he's alive and are looking for him, and I pretended to go along with it as circumstances called for—but in truth, he died a long time ago."
He died a long time ago? The words hit me like icy water. My mind struggled to reconcile the new information, to fit it into the puzzle of everything I had assumed.
Seeing my shock, he added, almost teasingly, but with a serious undertone:
"Or perhaps he didn't even exist to begin with. Only my mother knows the truth."
He shook his head, brushing aside the intricacies of family drama to return to the core of the matter.
"Anyway, I was talking to a relative that day, and it's got nothing to do with you whatsoever. You have no cause to worry." His gaze held mine, firm, deliberate, sincere.
"What I said about killing or sparing someone… those were just words, meant to trick the person I was speaking to."
My heart thudded in my chest. The fortress of paranoia I had built over years—the endless fear, the sleepless nights, the constant calculation—was suddenly exposed as a fundamental misinterpretation.
"This… is completely unexpected." I whispered, my voice trembling with a mixture of dizzying relief and a flush of embarrassment I could not hide.
Asking for His Price
I shook my head, forcing myself to clear the haze of shock. The story was his; now it was time to settle the debt, to pay the price of the knowledge I had claimed.
"Now then…" I said, letting my voice take back the edge of authority, turning the focus back to the deal we had begun. "Can I ask why you left your family?"
He paused, the question digging at something deeper, a darkness flickering across his otherwise controlled expression.
"I wasn't on good terms with my father and brother. That's it. Is that good enough for you?"
"Huh?" I breathed, realization dawning slowly, catching me off guard. His answer was true—but shallow, deliberately so. He had bought my secret, yes—but he was offering only a fraction in return. The cost of the full story, I now understood, would be far higher.
"Now then…" I pressed, trying to shake off the lingering disorientation of the previous revelation. "Can I ask why you left your family?"
"I wasn't on good terms with my father and brother. That's it. Is that good enough for you?" His voice was sharp, dismissive, cutting through the waves around us like a knife.
"Huh?" I asked, my frustration mounting as the irritation coiled tighter in my chest.
"No, but there must've been a reason… a trigger… something, right?" I insisted, unwilling to settle for such a vague answer after baring my own painful story in full.
He threw his hands up, exasperation barely hidden beneath his cool exterior. "What else do you want me to say? You said you wanted to know the reason, and I just told you."
Technically, he was right. But—after all I had revealed? My irritation flared hotter. What a jerk!
He started walking, turning his back to me with casual indifference. TURN.
"I've answered your most pressing question," he stated, his voice carrying clearly over the rippling water. "If you'd like to know more about my family history, simply have someone look into it."
He paused, glancing over his shoulder with that infuriatingly patronizing smirk. "Have you forgotten what I taught you? That running background checks on people isn't bad, but practically a requirement for an entrepreneur?"
The water around his feet splashed with each step. SPLASH… SPLASH.
"If you're curious, or have need of that knowledge, all you need to do is make the necessary inquiries."
I watched him walk away, my fury bubbling like a storm about to erupt. Fine! If he thought I'd just let this go—he had another thing coming. I wasn't about to sit idle while he toyed with me like that.
"FINE!" I shouted, my voice slicing across the shore. "Tell Raul to prepare himself! I'm starting with him… and I plan to interrogate him to within an inch of his life!"
I puffed out my cheeks, the determination solidifying in my chest. It wasn't like I hadn't done this before. When I set my mind to something, I gave it my all, no matter the obstacles. GRUMBLE… GRUMBLE…
Meanwhile, Eiser's own mind was at work, calculating, evaluating—though I was blissfully unaware of it.
If she's been laboring under such a serious misapprehension, it must have been eating away at her all this time. Yet she refrained from digging into it so she could hear it directly from me…
He paused mid-step, his stern facade softening just slightly with reluctant admiration. Given that fact, I suppose it wouldn't be a bad thing to let her in the know. Moreover, while I'm loath to talk about it myself, it was never my intention to hide it from her. If she were truly curious, she'd be more than capable of finding out the truth eventually.
He turned back, tossing a single, carefully chosen piece of information my way.
"You'll get a more complete picture… from Lovis, rather than Raul."
My eyes widened in surprise. !"
My mind instantly went into overdrive. WAIT… by that, HE'S TELLING ME TO GET THE STORY FROM LOVIS, RIGHT?
GOT IT. I drew a deep breath, letting the rush of anger cool into focused resolve. That was fine. In any case, now I had clarity: Eiser wasn't secretly working with the Grayan family. I hadn't really lost anything from that exchange—on the contrary, I'd gained confirmation, straight from him.
I had been subtly tricked into doing the investigation myself, but the payoff was priceless: an invaluable sense of security. Eiser was an ally, not a hidden enemy.
Now… my focus was crystal clear. Lovis.
I watched Eiser stride away, the wet fabric of his shirt clinging tightly to his back, tracing the lines of muscles I had long suspected existed but had never dared admire openly. I was still furious—furious that he had forced me into the investigative work—but the payoff was undeniable.
He had explained the phone call I'd overheard, clarified the chilling misunderstanding, and even dropped that utterly unexpected tidbit about his younger brother. The realization that my long-held terror was built entirely on a misinterpretation felt like a boulder being lifted off my chest. I could finally breathe, even if only a little.
I clenched my fist, sealing the deal in my mind. "I'm satisfied with that… for today."
My gaze drifted toward the name he had casually given me. TURN. A plan began forming, deliberate and careful. I knew it wouldn't be simple, but this was the first step—the first step toward really understanding Eiser, the man, rather than the monster I had so carefully constructed in my imagination. I still had questions, yes, particularly why he had abandoned his family, but now I had a starting point, a source to extract the truth from.
Then—THUD! A sudden, sharp noise made me jump, followed immediately by a bright, cheerfully oblivious voice.
👋 Lovis Arrives
"HELLO! I'M HERE! ♡"
I blinked, taken aback. Marching toward Eiser was a brightly dressed man, exuberance practically radiating off him. A large, red floral accessory was pinned to his lapel, matching perfectly with the manic energy of his stride. Lovis, apparently, had arrived.
Eiser, who had just stepped out of the water, looked utterly exasperated.
"Lovis… what in the blazes are you doing here?" His tone was a blend of shock and sheer annoyance, as though he were dealing with a crisis he hadn't signed up for.
Lovis, of course, didn't seem to notice. He was far too upbeat.
"Serena summoned me urgently! HAHAHA! She called and left a message early this morning, saying she was at some kind of villa of yours and asked me to come see her, so I rushed over immediately! She said it was an old house by the lake, and I knew exactly where she meant!"
Eiser's head fell back, and a long, audible sigh followed. He was clearly balancing more than one headache at a time.
"What about the matter I told you to take care of as soon as possible?" Eiser pressed, attempting to steer the chaos back toward business.
"HAHAHA…" Lovis waved dismissively, utterly unconcerned. "Do you really have the time to make a trip all the way here? I-I'm working on that."
He bounced lightly on his heels, practically glowing with pride. "Anyway! I was so surprised! To think Ms. Serena would ask for me! What an honor! There was no way I could refuse her!"
I watched from the shadows of the house, peeking from behind the dimly lit doorway, waiting for my moment. Oh… you're early.
Moments later, Eiser stepped inside, his expression thoughtful as he leaned against the rough wooden frame of the door. Unaware of my presence near the mirror, he seemed lost in contemplation.
I couldn't hold back any longer. My voice, raw and trembling with the weight of the past hours, cut through the quiet.
"I'd never have made that decision on my own and begged for my life… while knowing that I could've worked with you to find an alternate solution."
The anger that had driven me to demand the truth surged forth, untamed and sharp.
"Because I wanted to hear the truth about you from your own lips and not from anyone else, you jerk!"
He listened in silence, shadowed and unreadable, before letting out a low, almost satisfied CHUCKLE.
He understood. He knew that I was now fully invested—not merely as an unwilling wife, but as someone seeking the full truth: his truth. I had the means, I had the motivation, and now… I had the target.
And with Lovis here, ready and eager, I had the first piece of the puzzle in motion.
I watched Eiser rub at his temples, the faintest twitch in his brows revealing the pounding headache I apparently contributed to. His expression was a perfect blend of annoyance, exhaustion, and why is this happening to me. Meanwhile, Lovis—bright, obliviously cheerful Lovis—kept chattering on about the honor of my summons as if we were discussing tea invitations and not the unraveling of Eiser's dark family history.
Eiser cast him a long, almost pleading look, as though realizing he had severely underestimated this entire situation.
"I did tell her to talk to Lovis… but I didn't expect her to contact him so quickly…" he muttered, covering part of his face with one hand.
His voice was thick with regret.
I stepped out from behind the door, posture straight, expression calm—determined.
"Serena…" His gaze snapped to me, voice dropping into a low warning. "It's only been a few hours since that whole subject was brought up…"
I lifted my chin, cutting him off.
"Why should I hesitate? There isn't anything more important to me right now than you."
A beat.
Lovis inhaled sharply, a scandalized "OH MY!" bursting out of him like confetti.
Eiser practically choked. "COUGH—!"
I didn't spare him even a glance. My gaze stayed locked on Lovis, my resolve a solid wall.
"Serena is a straight shooter when it comes to affairs of the heart, it seems," Lovis said, leaning closer as though he had stumbled upon a fascinating discovery. He eyed Eiser gleefully. "And Eiser doesn't seem to hate her advances, either. I've never seen him look so flustered… HAHA."
Eiser shot him a cold, deadly stare—the kind that promised consequences.
"You… be careful about how you phrase things."
I lifted a shoulder, both dismissive and bold. "I'll say whatever I want, however I want."
Lovis only clapped his hands with the excitement of a child witnessing a festival. "WOW… Things seemed tense and awkward between them not so long ago… HAHA! I don't know what's going on, but I'm glad to see it! HAPPY! Let us be good friends too, Ms. Serena! HAPPY!"
Eiser let out a deep, dramatic sigh, as though surrendering to forces beyond his comprehension—namely me and Lovis.
"Hmph… Fine. I'll leave you two to your gossip. I'm going back inside."
With theatrical flair, he spun around, opened the door, and disappeared inside, finishing the show with a heavy SLAM.
The reverberation of the slammed door faded into the quiet hallway. My friendly mask fell away instantly, replaced with sharp professionalism. The change made Lovis blink in surprise.
"Lovis." My voice was clear, steady. "Eiser said you were the one to talk to about why he left the Grayan family."
Lovis straightened, his earlier cheer dissipating like morning mist. "Ah, yes, Ms. Serena. Eiser did mention that you might ask."
I pulled out a small notebook and pen from my pocket—old habits, one I never bothered to break. I gestured toward the nearby chairs.
"Sit. And tell me everything. Eiser told me he had a difficult relationship with his father and Victor. I need to know the specific trigger—the exact event or problem that pushed him to cut ties entirely. I want the complete picture that Eiser refuses to talk about."
Lovis leaned in, lowering his voice. "It revolves around his father's actions, Ms. Serena. Something grave. Something that… could destroy the Grayan family."
I stilled, pen ready.
"His father has been hiding large portions of the family assets and funneling them into a shell company. The purpose is to avoid a massive tax audit. Completely illegal. Eiser discovered the extent of it."
My pen flew across the page.
"And Victor?" I asked, eyes narrowing.
Lovis' expression darkened. "Victor is one hundred percent loyal to their father. Whether he agrees with the crime or is simply too cowardly—no one knows. What's certain is that he supports the father's schemes. Eiser, being the principled man he is, refused to stand by. He didn't want to be dragged into a sinking ship."
I stared down at my notes.
This wasn't just a family feud.
This was criminal.
Dangerous.
A powder keg waiting for a spark.
No wonder Eiser left.
No wonder he avoided explaining it to me.
And no wonder my own plan—to dismantle the Grayans from the outside—suddenly felt as though it had collided with something larger, deeper… and far more personal.
I looked toward the closed door where Eiser had disappeared.
My chest tightened with a mix of frustration, relief, and dawning realization.
What a headache…
This wasn't part of the plan at all.
I had spent so long fearing Eiser's supposed "murderous intent"—only to discover he was fighting the same enemy I had sworn to destroy.
Our battles were aligned.
Our goals intersected.
And whether he liked it or not…
We were on the same side now.
I stared down at the notes Lovis had scribbled for me, the faint scratch of pen still fresh in my mind. The initial shock of my earlier confrontation with Eiser had dulled, replaced by a sharp, steely clarity. The realization that he wasn't a calculating murderer, but a man bound by principle—willing to risk everything to uphold integrity against his own corrupt family—shifted everything.
"This is good, Lovis," I said, closing my notebook with deliberate precision. "This gives me everything I need."
Lovis practically bounced in place, nervous energy bubbling to the surface. He bowed cheerfully, a little too dramatically. "I'm glad I could help, Ms. Serena. So… what happens now?"
I allowed myself a small, focused smile, a genuine flicker of satisfaction after the storm of the day. "Now, we put this information to work. I have my own reasons for dismantling the Grayan family—reasons far more personal than a tax audit."
Images flashed in my mind: the ballet, the friends I had lost, Esther and Lise, all the small but piercing tragedies caused by Victor Grayan's influence. The past hadn't been just inconvenient; it had been devastating, shaping the path I walked today.
"My original plan was to work alone," I confessed, turning my gaze back to Lovis. "Against everyone. But now… it seems Eiser and I share a common enemy. Different motives, yes, but motives that complement each other."
I straightened, posture sharp, focus drawn to the closed door behind which Eiser rested.
"Lovis," I said, voice crisp and commanding. "I need you to handle that urgent matter Eiser mentioned. Go take care of it."
Lovis nodded eagerly, almost saluting. "Understood, Ms. Serena. Give him hell!" With that, he bounced toward the door, leaving me alone with the next step of my plan.
Flashback when eiser was young
People always whispered about me behind my back. I could feel it, even if I didn't hear every word. The murmurs followed me like shadows: "Their eldest is charming, always smiling… but the younger one… he never shows anything." They'd glance at my older brother, warm and effortless in his demeanor, then at me, cold and unreadable, and the questions in their eyes were impossible to miss.
They saw a privileged family, a household dripping with wealth and influence. They saw me as a "little lord," admired by both parents, untouched by the world's hardships. And yet, they wondered, what could possibly be wrong with him?
They noticed my distance, my aloofness, my blank expression. Sometimes they'd mutter, "He scares me… he gives me the creeps."
Do they know? I wonder. Do they understand that abuse isn't always striking, isn't always scars and bruises? That love, when twisted and relentless, can be just as suffocating, just as cruel? Perhaps they don't. Perhaps they think I was simply born… broken.
My father, Dustin Grayan, devoted every breath, every action, to the Grayan family. To him, loyalty and legacy were sacred. To him, success was justification enough for cruelty. He was a monster disguised as a patriarch, and he would stop at nothing to secure prosperity and power for his family.
He claimed it was love.
But in my eyes, it was never love. It was obsession. Selfish. Maniacal. Crushing. It warped our reality, contorted our lives into something unrecognizable, and demanded compliance under the guise of devotion.
So I learned to watch, quietly, expressionless. To observe the darkness he cast around us without flinching. Because survival, in the Grayan family, wasn't about resisting—it was about becoming a part of the shadow.
He was a monster who would stop at nothing to bring prosperity and power to his family. People called it dedication, ambition, even wisdom. He always said it was because he loved his family…
But I knew the truth.
In my eyes, it wasn't love at all.
It was obsession—selfish, loathsome, and maniacal.
A hunger to possess, not to protect.
I remember hearing it once, whispered in terrified fragments by a distant relative—someone who had drunk too much at a winter banquet and forgotten to fear the walls, the servants, the listening silence of the Grayan estate.
They said my father's possessiveness had begun long before Victor or I even existed.
That every time my mother became pregnant…
either the child was never allowed to be born,
or the newborn met an abrupt, unnatural end soon after.
All because of one horrifying reason.
My father, Dustin Grayan, detested the idea of having children.
To him, the birth of a child meant losing something—meant dividing what he considered exclusively his. Houses. Estates. Companies. His empire. The name "Grayan" itself.
He saw heirs not as successors, but as predators waiting to snatch pieces of him.
I imagine the scene as it must have played out—high-ranking relatives and board members gathered in that suffocating parlor, the air thick with cigar smoke and fear.
"Sir Dustin, you won't live forever. It's time you considered children,"
they must have urged him, voices strained with feigned respect.
"Surely you don't intend to leave the Grayan fortune to an outsider?"
He must have smiled then—cold, polite, lethal.
But in his mind, the real words were something like this:
"Why should I hand over what's mine to my children?
My wealth, my company, my legacy—I built all of it.
It belongs to me.
Stranger or blood, no one else has the right to inherit the Grayan name.
Not even my own children."
And yet, here I stand—a living contradiction to his ideology, a birth forced upon him by pressure, politics, and the inevitability of succession.
I look at the shadow I was born into.
My existence is not a symbol of love, nor even necessity.
It is the outcome of a grudging compromise made by a man who saw me, from the moment I drew breath, not as a son…
but as the eventual thief of his throne.
This is the true foundation of the Grayan family.
This is the weight that turned my voice quiet and my face expressionless.
Not emotionlessness—
but a mask born from survival.
My father's possessiveness—the suffocating grip he held on every corner of his life—was rooted in a simple, terrifying belief:
"My immense wealth, my business empire… everything I've built over a lifetime is mine. Why should I hand it over to my children?"
He was a man incapable of true love. Money, power, legacy—those were the only things he valued. He never knew how to nurture, only how to covet, to demand, to take. To him, life was a ledger, and every person, even his own children, a line item to be accounted for.
He would sit at the head of the table, that twisted pride carved into his face, and in his silence, proclaim that no one—no one—was entitled to inherit the Grayan name.
I know the story of my conception.
It was only after he had grown older, after my mother and the family elders had petitioned relentlessly—"Sir Dustin, you won't live forever. It's high time you had children of your own"—that he finally permitted my mother to bear children. Out of necessity and compromise, Victor and I were born. We were not born from desire, nor from love, but from a transaction disguised as fate.
Yet, contrary to the whispered fears of those outside the family, once we existed, my father did show what could pass for love and attention—his own version of it. He trained us, instructed us, and invested himself into shaping us as worthy successors. My mother, too, lavished us with genuine affection, shielding us as best she could.
But his love was a leash. Every lesson, every expectation, every praise—conditioned and exacting. His mantra echoed constantly, a roar that rattled through the house:
"I am the only person on this earth deserving of the Grayan name!"
Every accolade Victor achieved, every milestone I passed, was never about joy or pride. It was evidence that the property—us—was being maintained. We were not children to him; we were extensions of his empire. He did not want heirs; he wanted replicas of himself, perfect vessels for the Grayan legacy.
That is why Victor and I, two stiff, obedient little boys, carried the weight of the Grayan name from our very first steps. We were heirs, yes—but heirs to a cage, not a kingdom.
We learned early that to exist in the Grayan household meant to bear its shadows, to move within its strict lines, and to accept that freedom was a luxury never meant for the next generation.
---
People always whispered about me behind my back: "Their eldest is quite amiable and smiles often, but the younger one… he's always expressionless."
They noticed my aloofness, my distance, and concluded: "That boy… he scares me a bit. He gives me the creeps sometimes."
Yes, some people said unkind things about me, but I was still a privileged little lord. I was born into an affluent family and loved by both parents. So what was the problem?
Do they know, I wondered, that abuse doesn't always leave bruises? That it can take the form of excessive, misguided love, of suffocating attention wrapped in concern?
My father, Dustin Grayan, dedicated every breath, every waking thought to the Grayan family. A monster cloaked in authority, he stopped at nothing to expand his wealth and power. He claimed it was because he loved his family… but to me, it was nothing but selfish, loathsome, maniacal obsession.
Yet, because Father spent most of his time with Victor—the eldest, the favored—I naturally spent most of my time with my mother.
And there, in those hours, I found my escape.
We would retreat to a small, picturesque village near a quiet lake, where many of her old friends lived. She taught me how to ride horses, her laughter echoing across the paddocks as I stumbled and fell more times than I could count. Sometimes, we would climb to the top of a hill in the park, the city lights twinkling below us like scattered jewels, and we would talk… about everything and nothing, and nothing at all mattered.
I played with my mother's friends, with the neighbors' children, with anyone who would run, climb, and laugh with me. Social class, wealth, and status didn't exist there. I could just be—Eiser, not the Grayan heir.
"Eiser! Come here!"
"We caught a fish!"
"Eiser, your friends are calling you! Go over to them!"
Those memories stretch back to when I was about twelve. In those years, I was allowed to live as my truest self, to taste a fleeting innocence that would later be overshadowed.
But the reprieve was always temporary.
I heard the door creak—the familiar, terrible sound that always meant freedom was ending. The sound that reminded me the sunlit world of horses, lakes, and laughter was nothing more than a temporary delusion. My father was home.
And the real education—the real pressure, the suffocating weight of expectation—was about to begin again.
I stood in the oppressive silence, the kind that makes every breath feel heavier, every heartbeat echo unnaturally loud. The hallway stretched before me like a shadowed corridor of my own mind, thick with expectation and dread. The weight of my life pressed down harder than usual—a life lived in careful calculation, in shadows, in quiet survival. And yet, even I could feel the fragile equilibrium trembling.
Then came the sound.
CREAK.
A heavy, ornate door shifted, opening just a sliver, letting in a thin wedge of darkness and a strange, unsettling emerald light. It pooled on the polished floor, spreading like a sickness across the hallway. From the gap emerged a figure, motionless except for a single glint—a white gleam that could have been an eye, or perhaps a reflection—but it burned into my skin, into my thoughts, into my very soul.
The light itself seemed to carry danger, a living, oppressive presence that pressed against my chest.
A voice broke the silence. Low. Commanding. Echoing faintly off the high ceilings.
"Eiser, come in here for a moment."
The name hit me like ice water. Eiser.
It felt foreign on my tongue. Alive. Dangerous. Necessary.
My heart lurched, a harsh, painful thud in my chest. This was the moment I had both dreaded and longed for—the moment where the focus of his terrifying intensity would turn to me.
I drew a slow, deliberate breath, forcing my pulse to steady as my legs carried me forward. The door remained ajar, a green-tinged threshold to whatever truth awaited.
"I have something to tell you," he said.
Simple words. Yet in their weight, I felt the promise of cataclysm. I knew, without needing to hear more, that stepping through that door would redefine everything—my boundaries, my safety, my place in his shadowed world. It was a crossing from which there was no return.
I stepped over the threshold.
The thick carpet muffled my footsteps, but did nothing to quiet the roaring in my mind. The emerald gloom enveloped me, curling around my body, my thoughts, my fears.
And in that strange, green-tinted light, I waited, bracing for the revelation that would alter the course of my life forever.