KAIRA.
The wind shrieked against the window, throwing sheets of water.
The rain had been falling since evening, relentlessly, turning the city into a blur of headlights and water.
It was the worst storm of the year, the kind of weather that made you want to curl up under a blanket with a hot cup of tea but I didn’t have that luxury.
The screen of my phone glowed with the missed call from my father.
“Kaira, get home.
Now.” He had hissed over the line.
No context.
No “I love you.” Just a voice trembling but I had never heard him sound that way before.
Probably a family drama, I thought.
Maybe one of his business problems, or maybe my mother had found out he was secretly feeding the neighbor’s dog again after swearing he hated it.
By the time I stepped out of the cab, I was already soaked.
The driver barely waited for me to shut the door before speeding off, his tires cutting through the flooded street as thunder cracked somewhere above.
I stood there for a second, staring at the house I called home for twenty-one years.
Something felt wrong.
Maybe it was the way the front gate stood half open, swaying slightly in the wind.
Maybe it was the porch light flickering like it was struggling to stay alive or maybe it was the silence.
Our house was never silent, my mother always had old jazz playing somewhere, she claimed made cooking better.
My father was always on the phone, barking at someone, pretending he wasn’t secretly soft-hearted.
I tightened my fingers around my handbag and walked faster.
I stepped onto the porch and found the front door was slightly open too.
My steps slowed.
Rainwater dripped from my hair down my neck, cold against my skin.
“Dad?” I called.
Nothing
“Mum?”
Still nothing.
My chest tightened, I pushed the door open and stepped into the foyer.
My breath hitched even more.
The house was in ruins.
The table I’d eaten breakfast on was splintered into toothpicks.
Glass from the chandelier carpeted the floor.
I looked up at the walls.
My mother’s favorite floral wallpaper was ruined.
The lamp near the stairs broken in pieces.
The framed family picture from last Christmas facedown near the couch.
My father’s phone lay smashed near the center table.
My mother’s golden pendant was lying near the staircase.
I picked it up with shaking fingers.
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
I followed the trail, one step after another.
I turned the corner into the sitting room and stopped breathing.
They were there, lying together.
Blood beneath them, like a second shadow.
My mother’s hand was inches from my father’s, as if she had been trying to reach him one last time.
My father’s eyes half-open, like he had been trying to say something before death stole the chance.
For a moment, I couldn’t move, breathe nor think.
The world became like a sound ringing in my ears.
Then my knees gave out.
I dropped beside them.
“No,” I whispered, the word breaking into a sob.
“No, no, no…”
Tears blurred everything, I touched their hand, hoping they would wake up and tell me it was a prank… but it wasn’t.
I reached into my handbag, my fingers slick with rain as I fumbled for my phone.
I needed to call for help.
I needed to do something.
A hand, cold as the storm outside, clamped over my mouth.
I froze.
A body pressed against my back—hard, solid, and smelling of expensive cologne.
A voice, low and cold, brushed against my ear.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
My entire body went rigid.
I reacted before fear could settle.
I bit down hard against his palm and spun, grabbing the broken piece of a shattered vase from the floor.
I swung it with everything I had, feeling the sharp edge catch the skin of his arm.
I had gotten him.
Good.
I looked up and looked properly and saw him.
Tall.
Dark silk hair.
Mesmerising eyes.
Beautiful in the kind of way storms were beautiful yet dangerous enough to destroy lives.
Blood ran from the cut where I had struck him.
He didn’t yell, he barely even flinched.
He touched it with his thumb, looked at the blood, then looked at me and smiled.
But it was not the kind that was loving or warm, it was the kind that shows he was amused.
Before I could move again, he grabbed my wrist, twisted, and the glass fell from my hand.
A gun pressed against the side of my neck.
“You’ve got fire,” he muttered, his voice like velvet over gravel.
I stared at him, breathing hard.
“Who are you?”
He tilted his head, then said casually “Halston Redd.
Not to worry, with time you will get to know me.”
I sneered.
“What makes you think I want to know you.”
“Violent,” he murmured.
“I like that.” He leaned closer.
“A shame.
Your parents sold you in exchange for money.”
For a second, I forgot how to breathe.
“What?” The words fell off.
His expression didn’t change, his gaze held mine firmly.
“Didn’t they tell you?”
“You’re a liar!” I screamed.
I tried to pull away, but the gun pressed harder.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out folded papers.
He opened them and held them in front of me.
I saw my father and mother’s signature.
I saw the words ‘Full Ownership’ and the price tag next to my name.
“This isn’t real.”
But even as I said it, I knew.
I knew my father’s signature and my mother’s handwriting beside it.
My heart shattered into more pieces than the glass on the floor.
I fell limp against the wall, tears finally spilling down my cheeks.
He stepped closer, one hand still on his gun and his other hand reaching out to lift my chin, forcing me to meet those haunting eyes.
He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“You belong to me now.”
I hated that my body shook, I hated that I was crying.
I hated him.
Then I saw it, the blood on his hand, fresh and wet.
My blood ran cold.
I looked at my parents then back at him.
My voice came out barely above a whisper.
“You killed them.”
“They were bound to meet their end,” he replied, his tone as nonchalant as if he were discussing the weather.
Something inside of me snapped.
“I hate you,” I spat, the words burning my throat.
“I hate you and I swear to God, I will kill you and I’ll do it in a way that even the ground will reject your corpse.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
“A lot of people hate me, Kaira.
None of it has ever affected my sleep.” He shrugged.
I wanted to claw his eyes out, burn his world down, destroy everything he owned.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my freezing skin.
“You’re still mine to torture, anyway.”
His voice was soft, worse because of it.
“You’ll survive hating me.” He said and stepped back.
He looked over his shoulder at the two men who appeared from the doorway like shadows.
“Knock her out.
Put her in the car.” He commanded.
I fought, kicked, scratched, screamed and cursed at him, but grief makes you weak, and if there was anything I hated, it was feeling weak.
I barely had time to realize before darkness began to pull.
The last thing I saw was the flash of a lighter.
As the guards grabbed me, Halston tossed a flame onto the blood-soaked rug.
I was dragged away as my home, my parents, my past and everything I had known went up in smoke.