CHAPTER ONE
Ronan stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, a glass of whiskey resting lazily in his hand. The cold city lights reflected off the glass, outlining the sharp angles of his jaw and the dangerous dominance in his stance. He looked like a king surveying a kingdom he intended to burn to the ground.
A knock came.
"Enter," he said, voice deep and controlled.
A man stepped in , tall, nervous, holding a file. Ronan's private investigator.
"Sir… I found the information you asked for," the man said, offering the file with trembling hands.
Ronan didn't take it. His cold eyes alone were enough to order him to speak.
"It's the Whitmore family," the investigator continued. "Mr. Whitmore… he's dead. Passed away two months ago."
Ronan's hand tightened around his glass.
Crack.
For a moment, it looked like the glass would shatter in his grip. His jaw clenched, rage simmering under his skin.
Dead?
After all these years… the man who wiped out his family died peacefully?
That was too easy.
After several intense seconds, Ronan inhaled slowly a controlled, deadly breath.
"And the rest of them?" he asked.
"His wife and daughters are alive," the investigator replied quickly. "Living in the Whitmore villa."
Ronan turned fully now, danger radiating off him in waves. "Call the men. Prepare the cars. We're paying them a visit."
"Yes, sir."
The investigator left in a hurry, almost tripping over himself in fear.
Ronan's eyes darkened as a memory surged through him — a blood-soaked night, flames, screams, and his father's last, dying whisper:
"Never forget who our enemies are."
He never did.
And tonight, revenge would finally begin.
THE WHITMORE VILLA
Sarah Whitmore stood at the dining table, arranging plates even though they had maids for that. Ever since her father died, her stepmother treated her like a servant and her stepsister wasn't any better.
"Are you planning to finish today?" Mrs. Whitmore snapped as she descended the stairs. "Hurry up!"
"Yes, ma'am," Sarah whispered.
Breakfast was served.
Sarah remained standing behind them like a shadow, waiting to be ordered around. That was the life she had grown used to being invisible, unwanted, tolerated only because she carried her father's blood.
They were halfway through the meal when the front doors burst open.
Armed men flooded into the room, dressed in black tactical armor.
Gasps echoed. Sarah froze in terror. Servants dropped to their knees with their heads bowed. Mrs. Whitmore clutched her chest as panic shot through the room.
Then he walked in.
Ronan.
Tall, dangerous, commanding. The kind of presence that made the air tighten and your heart forget how to beat. Every step he took felt like a threat.
He walked straight to the head of the table and sat down like he owned the place.
His gaze swept the room…
Mrs. Whitmore.
Elsie, the stepsister.
And then—
Adaline.
The moment his eyes met hers, she lowered her head instantly. His stare lingered on her longer than anyone else, cold and unreadable.
Ronan stood and casually touched items around the room — a vase, a painting, a crystal ornament as if assessing what he would soon destroy.
He stopped in front of Mrs. Whitmore.
His hand lifted her chin.
"Remember me?"
"I..... I don't…" she stuttered. His face looked familiar, but she couldn't place it.
"Of course you don't. Too bad Mr. Whitmore isn't here. Karma caught him before I could.He died too easily" His voice dropped dangerously. "But I'm here now… to take back what's mine."
"What do you want?" Mrs. Whitmore asked shakily.
"This isn't a negotiation," Ronan said. "Your husband wiped out my entire family. I'm simply here to return the favor."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Ronan's hand shifted to Elsie's chin next.
"You have such a pretty daughter," he murmured coldly.
Mrs. Whitmore panicked.
"She's not the one you want!" she blurted. Then, pointing at Adaline, she said desperately, "She's his biological daughter. Adaline. Do whatever you want with her."
Adaline's heart dropped.
Ronan turned, eyes locking onto Adaline.
Her shabby clothes.
Her thin frame.
Her terrified eyes.
The daughter of the man who destroyed his life.
His rage ignited fully.
"Well then," Ronan said slowly, voice dripping with threat, "I'll give you twenty-four hours. She doesn't leave this house. I'll be back."
He walked toward the exit, his men following.
At the doorway, he paused and cast one final look at Sarah, a look filled with hatred, promise, and something d
arker.
"You should be thankful I didn't kill you all today."
Then he left.
And Adaline's nightmare truly began.