Night pressed against the tall glass walls of the DeSilva penthouse, turning the windows into black mirrors that reflected the faint interior lights. The city stretched far below, with ribbons of traffic, glowing neon signs, and steam rising from manholes like ghosts fleeing the concrete.

  Maxx stood alone in the silence.

  The penthouse was spacious yet understated, reflecting his disciplined and refined lifestyle in a subtle yet impressive manner. It featured dark quartz countertops, charred steel beams, and walls paneled in smoked oak and dark charcoal stone. A large slate-and-iron fireplace emitted soft flickers of embers. Artisans handcrafted every piece of furniture to avoid mass production and clutter, and they carefully selected each to resemble a relic.

  And yet, the sheer size of the apartment seemed to shrink around him tonight.

  He looked toward the open bedroom door. Aya lay still on the king-sized bed, her breathing even and steady. Anyone watching her might think she was asleep.

  Maxx leaned against the doorframe, noticing every detail human eyes would miss. The slight tremor in her fingers. The tension in her jaw from the pain she kept hidden even while unconscious and the faint bruise along her cheek where Valya had hit her.

  Valya.

  He clenched his teeth at the memory as he looked at his daughter lying on the bed. Her features were unmistakable: Sachi’s cheekbones, his eyes, and her mother’s calm resolve shaping her mouth even at rest; the prominent silver strands brushing her cheeks revealing her royal heritage.

  Aya's voice still echoed in his mind.

  You left us, she had whispered before collapsing.

  He entered the bedroom and pulled the blanket higher on her shoulders. For a moment, his fingers rested on her forehead, a tender gesture he was unaccustomed to. It didn’t seem to suit a man not known for his tenderness.

  Sachi lingered in his mind. ‘Forgive me,’ he thought to two women—one dead, one sleeping.

  The phone on the kitchen counter vibrated. He forced himself to turn away from Aya and moved into the open living room to answer it.

  “Sofia?”

  “Maxx?” her voice smooth yet tense, “You weren’t responding earlier. Are you home? Are you okay?”

  “I’m at the penthouse.”

  “And?”

  He paused to observe the skyline. “I found the subway killer.”

  Silence. Then Sofia’s breath caught. “What do you mean you found them?”

  “It’s complicated. But the threat is under control for the moment.”

  He selected his words carefully. It would be best to leave out any reference to Valya, the fight, or the assassin’s tongue grazing his cheek. The mere mention of his former lover’s name would be enough to make Sofia lose her composure. This was not the time for such revelations. Not now. And if he could avoid it, not ever.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Maxximillian, your voice is wrong.”

  He rested his forearm on the glass, gazing at his reflection in the dark cityscape beyond. “Everything is okay. There’s no need to worry,” he said, struggling to speak in a calm tone.

  “Maxx…”

  “I’m fine, my love.”

  Sofia paused, holding her breath for a cautious moment. “I want to come to the city,” she said.

  “No,” he stated firmly, before softening his voice. “Not tonight.”

  “I don’t like this distance between us. I should be there.”

  “I know. I agree.”

  “Then—”

  “Tomorrow, Sofia,” he said, closing his eyes. “Take the helicopter. Don’t drive.”

  That stopped her. “Something is wrong,” she whispered.

  Maxx swallowed hard. “For tonight, I need you safe at the estate,” he murmured. “Seraphine needs you. And I need you to do as I say.”

  Another long silence.

  “Very well,” she said. “But when I arrive tomorrow, you will tell me everything.”

  “Yes, everything. I promise.”

  “Maxximillian?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love you.”

  He exhaled, a raw, aching sensation stirring deep within his chest. “And I you.”

  The line clicked. The call ended.

  Maxx lowered the phone as the silence of the penthouse wrapped around him like a shroud. He glanced back at the bedroom, where Aya remained asleep, oblivious to the escalating trouble threatening them.

  He turned out the light and stood alone in the dark, caught between past and present. There was nothing left to do but wait for tomorrow to bring a reckoning he could no longer avoid.

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The sun rose over Manhattan, sending gentle golden rays through the skyscraper’s tall windows to illuminate the room inside. Maxx sat in a high-backed leather chair pulled close to the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he watched the unconscious young woman breathe beneath the blankets. Aya’s dark hair spread across the pillows, with one strand brushing the bruise at her temple. Her breathing had steadied, but faint tremors still fluttered through her limbs, remnants of the violent night.

  He had remained by her side since they arrived. He hadn’t slept or eaten. He couldn’t.

  A faint rumble resonated within the walls, the vibrations signaling an approaching aircraft as rotor blades cut through the morning silence. Maxx remained still. Sofia had arrived.

  A moment later, the lock on the penthouse door clicked open, and the soft sound of two different pairs of footsteps echoed across the living room. He recognized both by the cadence, the rhythm, and the heartbeats.

  Maxx’s gaze lifted as two figures materialized in the master bedroom’s doorway. Sofia entered first, her quiet, icy demeanor settling over the room like a chill; the air scented with perfume and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. Her impeccably styled hair and tailored charcoal coat projected composure, yet a subtle tremor of anxiety flickered in her eyes.

  Seraphine followed, radiating warmth, nervous curiosity, and a hybrid pulse that resonated like both moon and vein. She stood behind her mother, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

  “Maxximillian…” Sofia whispered.

  Maxx’s gaze drifted to Seraphine. “You brought her?”

  “I wasn’t leaving her alone at the estate,” Sofia replied. “Not with the Circle rattling swords and Stefan prowling like a snake in the tall grass.”

  Seraphine moved closer. “Father... who is she?”

  Maxx opened his mouth—then closed it. He couldn’t lie, but he also couldn’t tell the truth. Not yet.

  “I’ll explain later. Right now, I really need to clean up,” he said, glancing down at the scratches, torn fabric, and the dark half-moons of dried blood beneath his nails.

  Sofia’s eyes traveled over him, slow and clinical. “You were in a fight.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She stepped closer. “Maxx, what happened?”

  He met her gaze, holding it longer than necessary. “Stay with her,” he whispered. “Both of you. Don’t leave her alone.”

  There was something in his tone that made Sofia still.

  She nodded once.

  Maxx pushed himself upright, steadying a sudden wave of fatigue by gripping the bed frame. Aya didn’t stir. His expression softened for the briefest moment—something old and wounded surfacing in his eyes—before the mask slid back into place.

  Without another word, he crossed into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door.

  Water began to run as steam crept under the threshold.