Kidnapped - A Beautiful Blessing

The doctor had done everything within his power. The bullet had been extracted with precision, the wound stitched meticulously, and every conceivable precaution taken to stabilize Darius's condition.

Yet, despite it all, Darius remained still. Silent. Unconscious.

Leon hadn't left his side.

Hours slipped by unnoticed, but Leon didn't shift once. He sat hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands interlocked tightly, his sharp gaze pinned on his friend as if sheer willpower alone could pull Darius back.

Darius had always seemed indestructible. Unshaken. A man carved from stone, unbending to anyone or anything. But now, seeing him like this—vulnerable, human—sparked something ugly and unfamiliar in Leon's chest. A dull ache, a knot twisting tighter the longer he watched.

His phone vibrated suddenly, cutting through the oppressive quiet like a blade.

He glanced down. Léa.

Her name lit up the screen, glowing insistently.

Leon inhaled sharply, jaw tightening, then without hesitation, declined the call. His thumb hovered a second longer before he quickly typed out a message:

**Busy. Will meet you tonight.**

He didn't have the words for her yet. Didn't have the strength to explain the fury simmering beneath his calm facade. The storm hadn't settled—it had only begun.

Minutes bled into an hour. Then another.

The sterile white walls felt suffocating, the steady beeping of machines punctuating the silence like an unwelcome metronome.

Until finally—

A subtle shift.

Leon's eyes snapped to Darius as his friend's eyelids twitched, fluttering weakly. His chest rose with a shallow, uneven breath. Fingers barely moved against the crisp sheets.

And then—

Darius's eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, gaze sluggishly roaming the room before settling, locking onto Leon.

A faint smirk pulled at his lips, slow, strained, but unmistakable.

Leon let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief flickered behind his usually impassive stare.

"Finally," he muttered, voice low. "You're back."

Darius's smirk lingered for only a heartbeat before a grimace of pain flickered across his face. Instinctively, he tried to sit up—but the searing agony in his chest forced him to stop, hissing softly as his hand moved to press against the thick bandages wrapped tightly over his torso.

His features hardened. Brows drawing together, his voice rasped hoarsely, raw. "What happened?"

Leon's jaw clenched. He leaned back slightly, hands resting loosely on his knees now, though every muscle in his body remained tense.

"Someone shot you," Leon replied bluntly, no use softening the truth.

Darius's fingers curled tightly into the sheets, his knuckles turning white. His gaze sharpened, cutting through the haze, voice rough but sharp.

"Who?" he demanded, voice low, dangerous. "Who had the courage to try and kill me?"

Leon waited for the fury, the immediate orders, the demand to hunt them down.

But instead—

Darius's lips tugged into something almost colder than rage. A knowing smile. Slow. Calculated.

The glint in his eyes made the hairs on the back of Leon's neck rise.

Leon straightened slightly, frowning. "Who was it, Darius?"

Silence stretched between them.

Darius's head leaned back against the pillows, eyelids slipping shut for a brief moment as if gathering himself, weighing something heavy.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet—measured—but final.

"I want to rest," he murmured, the weight behind the words unmistakable.

A pause.

"Leave me alone."

Leon didn't move at first, studying his face, the guarded expression. He could read Darius like no one else—and he knew, without a doubt, that his friend knew something he wasn't saying.

He knows.

But why the calm? Why no orders, no violent outburst, no immediate thirst for vengeance?

After a long moment, Leon exhaled sharply, pushing himself to his feet. His voice was clipped when he spoke.

"Fine. But this isn't over."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Darius alone once more.

For a while, he lay there motionless. His breathing shallow but steady. Outwardly calm.

But inside, his mind churned like a hurricane.

Every detail replayed—

The cold steel of the gun.

The hatred blazing in her eyes.

Her hand steady, unflinching, as she pulled the trigger.

Sasha.

The name echoed inside his skull like a cruel mantra.

Of all people—her.

And yet, despite the sharp sting of betrayal cutting deeper than the bullet ever could, something heavier, darker settled over him.

Because beneath the shock, beneath the ache—there was still something else.

**He loved her.**

The realization clawed at him, raw and brutal.

Love. A word he'd dismissed, a weakness he'd mocked. Something distant and foolish.

And now—it was the weapon that had brought him to his knees.

Not the bullet lodged in his chest.

But her.

Her hatred.

Her eyes.

Her leaving.

Every second gnawed at him like acid.

With a wince, he pushed himself upright, ignoring the flare of pain. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, breathing hard but focused. His body protested, but his mind was clear—sharp.

He needed answers.

Moving slowly but deliberately, he crossed the dimly lit hallway, each step careful, controlled, until he reached his office.

The heavy door clicked shut behind him.

His fingers trailed along the shelves, finally stopping at a worn, aging file. He pulled it down, the paper yellowed at the edges, ink slightly faded over time.

He flipped it open.

**Anam and Irfan Abeli.**

Their names stared back at him.

Loyal. Fiercely devoted. Trustworthy beyond doubt. People he had once counted among the most steadfast in his world.

And he hadn't killed them.

His jaw tensed, knuckles whitening as he gripped the file tighter.

If it wasn't him…

Then who?

Someone had poisoned Sasha's mind. Twisted her perception. Turned her against him with calculated precision.

And he would burn the world down to uncover the truth.

His eyes darkened as the weight of that thought settled over him.

This wasn't just about betrayal.

This was about war.

Sasha's hands clamped tightly around the steering wheel, her knuckles bone white, as the car sliced through the darkened streets.

The city, usually alive and pulsing, felt eerily still, the quiet hum of the tires the only sound filling the oppressive silence.

She had done it.

She had pulled the trigger.

She had killed Darius.

**So why did it feel like something inside her had shattered?**

Her chest felt constricted, each breath shallow and strained. Her heart pounded in uneven bursts, not from exhilaration, but from something far more unsettling—something hollow, sickly, and unfamiliar.

She had expected relief, a rush of vindication, the sweet taste of vengeance fulfilled.

Instead, an aching emptiness coiled low in her stomach, spreading like a sickness she couldn't shake.

The familiar outline of her uncle's house loomed ahead, its windows glowing warmly in the night, but it felt more like an illusion now—something distant and distorted.

She pulled into the driveway, her fingers stiff as she switched off the engine. For a moment, she simply sat there, staring at the front door, forcing air into her lungs.

One more breath. One more step.

Finally, she climbed out, the cool night air biting against her skin.

Inside, the house was as it always had been—soft light spilling from the kitchen, the faint aroma of spices and home-cooked food lingering in the air, muted voices drifting from the dining room.

It should have felt safe. Familiar.

But tonight, the walls seemed to press in around her like a cage.

Her footsteps echoed faintly as she approached the dining room, where her uncle and aunt sat close together, speaking in low tones.

Ryan lounged casually in his chair, his posture relaxed, yet his sharp gaze tracked her every move like a predator waiting for the right moment.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, all conversation ceased. Their eyes snapped toward her, heavy with something she couldn't quite name—expectation, calculation.

Her aunt's voice broke the silence first, smooth but almost too sweet. "It's over?"

Sasha swallowed, her throat dry. She forced a nod, unable to form words.

Her uncle glanced at his wife, something unspoken passing between them before he offered a tight smile.

"Good," he said evenly. "Then it's time we move forward."

He paused, as if weighing his next words, then added with unnerving finality—

"You should marry Ryan."

The sentence landed like a slap across her face.

Sasha's breath faltered. Her hands curled reflexively at her sides, fingernails biting into her palms. "What?" she rasped, disbelief slicing through her fog.

Ryan didn't bother to hide his smirk. He tilted his head, voice lazy but laced with something darker. "It makes sense, doesn't it? We've done this together. You and me."

Her uncle's nod was slow, deliberate. "You owe him. You owe *us*. We raised you, sheltered you, gave you everything after your parents died. Now it's time you repay that debt."

The room seemed to shrink, the air thick and cloying. Sasha's stomach churned, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Her aunt's smile was polished, but her eyes remained cold. "Besides, you won't inherit your parents' fortune otherwise. The will states you must be married first."

The ground seemed to tilt beneath her.

She stared at them, numb, as the revelation sank in.

They had kept this from her. Hidden the conditions of her inheritance. Controlled every step of her life, steering her toward this exact moment.

The house she once called home no longer felt like a refuge. It felt like a carefully constructed trap.

Her voice trembled when she spoke. "I can't."

A weighted silence fell over the room.

Then—

A sharp crash shattered the quiet.

Ryan slammed his hand violently against the table, sending plates and glasses skittering to the floor.

Before she could react, he was in front of her, moving with the fluid aggression of someone who had been waiting for this opportunity.

His fingers fisted into her hair, yanking her head back roughly, forcing her to meet his eyes.

"You think you have a choice?" he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "After everything we've done for you? After I helped you kill Darius? You *owe* me, Sasha."

Her gasp came out ragged as she clawed at his grip, but neither her uncle nor aunt made a move to stop him.

They simply sat there, watching.

As if this was exactly how it was supposed to unfold.

"You're nothing without us," her aunt's voice drifted, soft but razor-sharp. "And you will do as we say."

Each word cut like glass, sharper than any weapon.

Sasha felt something inside her splinter—something that had been teetering on the edge for too long.

She had spent years consumed by hatred, believing she was fighting for justice, for her parents.

But tonight, the bitter truth was undeniable.

She had been nothing more than their pawn.

Later, she lay rigid in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the weight of her choices pressing down like lead.

But the night wasn't done with her yet.

The faint sound of the door creaking open sliced through the silence.

Her pulse spiked.

Ryan.

She didn't need to look to know. His footsteps were soft but deliberate as he crossed the room.

"Sasha," he breathed, his fingers ghosting over her cheek, possessive, claiming.

Before she could react, his lips pressed against hers, cold and unwelcome.

Revulsion surged through her, freezing her in place—until his hands slid lower, bold, entitled.

That's when instinct took over.

Her hand shot out, grabbing the vase from the nightstand—

With all her strength, she smashed it against his skull.

The sharp crack echoed.

Ryan crumpled to the floor.

Her breaths came in harsh, shallow gasps as she stumbled backward, heart pounding wildly.

She had to get out. Now.

She bolted toward the hall—

**And stopped.**

From the other room, her uncle and aunt's voices drifted, muffled but unmistakable.

A sick pull of curiosity kept her rooted in the shadows, listening.

And there it was.

The truth unraveled in soft, cutting whispers.

Darius hadn't killed her parents.

Her family had orchestrated everything. Manipulated her grief, steered her hatred, fed her lies—all to control her, to secure the wealth and power that came with her inheritance.

The blood drained from her face.

Every memory, every decision, every step she had taken felt tainted, twisted.

She had killed an innocent man.

Darius—the man she had hated, feared, wanted revenge on—had been nothing but a scapegoat.

The raw, hollow ache in her chest burned deeper, sharper than before.

Tears blurred her vision as she staggered back to her room, the house suddenly suffocating.

Her hands shook as she grabbed a bag, stuffing in documents, cash, her phone, car keys—anything she could gather.

She couldn't stay here another second.

By the time she reached a quiet, rural village miles away, dawn was breaking, pale light bleeding across the horizon.

She rented a small, anonymous room, locked the door behind her, and collapsed onto the bed.

But sleep refused to come.

All she could feel was the crushing weight of her betrayal.

She had destroyed the only man who had never truly betrayed her.

And there was no undoing it.