Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz! Bzzz-*
"Hello?" A soft, drowsy voice slipped through the silence of the dimly lit bedroom as Hannah finally answered her ringing phone on the fourth buzz.
Still buried beneath a mountain of warm blankets, she lay curled like a cat, her delicate fingers rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The aftermath of last night clung to her like smoke—thick, hazy, and unwelcome. Her body felt heavy, her limbs tangled in exhaustion, and her head swam in a fog of disorientation.
On the other end of the line, Arthur's voice erupted like a thunderclap.
"Señorita, finally! Do you know how worried I've been? You didn't come home! Not a single call, not even a message! Do you have any idea what kind of panic you caused?!"
The sudden volume and emotion in his voice struck Hannah like a bucket of cold water. Her pulse jumped, and her body instinctively bolted upright—only to be met with a violent rush of nausea.
The room spun. Her temples throbbed with a merciless headache that felt like someone was drilling through her skull.
She groaned, cradling her head in her hands as if that alone might quiet the storm inside it.
Arthur's concern immediately replaced his scolding.
"Señorita? Are you alright? What's wrong?" His voice softened, urgency replacing frustration.
"I'm… fine," she mumbled through clenched teeth, though the pain was anything but. "I just… overdid it last night. I'm still with everyone. I'll be home later, Arthur. Don't worry."
She tried to sound calm and reassuring, but her voice was raw, like the aftermath of too much laughter, shouting, or crying. Possibly all three.
Then her gaze lifted—and froze.
There, hanging innocently on the wall across from her, was the clock.
Her eyes widened.
"Oh my God, Arthur—I'm late!" she shrieked, springing from the bed like someone had lit a fire beneath her.
She didn't wait for Arthur to respond. With a frantic goodbye, she ended the call and tossed the phone aside before sprinting toward the bathroom, her heart now racing faster than her thoughts.
Her abrupt movements—door slamming, footsteps pounding—shattered the peaceful quiet of the room and roused her cousin, who blinked awake in confusion.
"Hannah…? What's going on?" Alliana asked, her voice still thick with sleep as she slowly sat up. Her hair stuck out in wild angles, yet her natural beauty remained untouched, framed by the soft light that filtered through the curtains.
Before Hannah could answer, another voice joined in—deep, muffled, and groggy.
"What's all that noise?" Frost mumbled as he stirred from the second bed, gently disentangling himself from Olivia's arms. The couple had been peacefully curled up together until moments ago.
Now all three of them were staring, dazed and confused, as if waking into the middle of a storm.
But Hannah offered no explanation. She was already gone, the door to the bathroom swinging shut with a deafening slam, followed by the hiss of rushing water.
Whatever had happened the night before had clearly left more than just a hangover—and time was now slipping through her fingers.
★★★★★
Deep within the forested heights of a secluded mountain, hidden from satellites and city noise, stood a sprawling glass-and-stone mansion—imposing, silent, and almost predatory in design. A fortress hidden from society, one that contains danger that is too lethal to be disturbed.
Inside, the air was unnaturally still. Chilled. Oppressive.
In the center of the grand living room, bathed in the soft glow of a dim chandelier, Ivan lounged on a wine-colored leather couch, shirtless, barefoot, and coiled with stillness.
His body was a map of violence—tattoos inked in harsh blacks and grays wrapped around his muscles like scars that never bled. Serpents. Daggers. Cursed saints. His skin told stories no one dared ask about.
His tousled dark hair fell over eyes so unreadable they seemed almost hollow, yet the raw menace that radiated from his presence made the very air feel heavier, colder.
The aura of Ivan was not something seen—it was something felt. Primal. Inevitable. Like the calm before a massacre.
The silence was shattered as the front doors flew open.
"Woah, woah, woah! What's with the face, big boss?" a loud voice called out, stumbling into the room with a careless grin. The man's words were light, but his dazed eyes hesitated the moment they met Ivan's.
"You know Ivan's always—mmp!"
Whatever the second man had been about to say was muffled instantly as a third figure, more alert and sober than the other two, stepped between them and slapped a hand over both their mouths.
"Forgive them, Ivan," he said quickly, trying to keep his voice steady. "They've been drinking. Acting stupid. Just ignore them," he added.
Ivan didn't move. He didn't blink. The burning cigarette in his right hand sent a delicate stream of smoke curling toward the ceiling, while the scotch glass in his left reflected the low light like a pool of amber fire.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
It wasn't warm, but it sure as hell is captivating.
"It's fine," Ivan said, his voice calm, velvety—wrong. "It looks like the three of you had a fun evening."
Relieved, the third man couldn't help but secretly let out a sigh of relief, still gripping the others by the collar. "Yes. Very fun. I'll take them upstairs to sleep it off."
He didn't wait for a dismissal. He turned and began half-dragging his companions up the marble staircase, their mouths still covered as if speaking another word in Ivan's presence might cost them their tongues.
As their footsteps faded, silence returned.
Moments later, another figure entered—this one composed, dry, and familiar. He moved with a purposeful gait, bypassing the front hall entirely and heading straight for the living room.
He saw Ivan's smile and scoffed. He didn't need to ask how Ivan was feeling. The temperature drop said it all.
"That smile on your face is terrifying," Daniel muttered as he sat on the couch as well, eyeing the thin, humorless curl of Ivan's lips.
"You look like you're thinking about burning a church just to see the flames."
Ivan didn't deny it. Instead, he poured a second glass of scotch with a smile and slid it across the glass table without a word.
Ivan chuckled but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he wordlessly poured a second glass of scotch and slid it across the table with a practiced hand.
"Good evening to you as well, Daniel," he said coolly, as if nothing in the world was wrong, though the storm gathering in his gaze told a different story.
Daniel sat down across from him, his eyes sharp, his demeanor equally arrogant. From inside his coat, he pulled out a thick, sealed brown envelope and laid it on the glass table between them like a loaded gun.
He didn't touch the scotch.
"About the girl…" Daniel began immediately. His voice was deep, deliberate. "I've done the digging. I've seen what this could mean. And honestly, Ivan, I think you should stay away. She's not just some pretty face—"
He didn't even see it coming.
Ivan's voice didn't rise. His body didn't move. But the weight of his words hit like a pistol pressed to the forehead.
"I don't remember asking for your opinion, Daniel."
***🦋***
Author's Note
Yikes! Ivan definitely seems like a man with a sharp temper. But now that he's got his sights set on Hannah, will she be safe? Or will things take a turn for the worse? But hold on—how in the world did she manage to get on Ivan's bad side in the first place? What really happened at Frost's birthday party?
Are you just as curious as I am? Don't worry, all the answers are just a page away. Keep reading, and you'll uncover the mystery behind it all. I promise, it's going to be a wild ride, and you won't want to miss a single moment. Happy reading, cuties!