A month had passed since the night of the alliance and the after-party. The city had returned to its rhythm, and so had they. On paper, nothing had changed. In truth, everything had.
Draven threw himself into the business, sealing deals, tightening security around the company, and preparing for the upcoming fundraiser. The board saw a tireless CEO; no one saw the restless warrior pacing beneath the suit.
Nora, the little lion, became even harder to pin down. Always "out with friends," always quick with excuses, she slipped from the mansion at odd hours. And though Draven never voiced it, his instincts whispered—she was hiding something.
Isabelle, ever perceptive, noticed his growing suspicion. So she dragged him out when he least expected it—afternoons in the city, evenings over dinner, late-night walks in the park. She laughed, teased, even scolded him, all in an effort to keep his mind elsewhere. "You'll go mad watching her every move," she told him once, flashing that disarming smile.
That weekend, the calm broke.
Isabelle had insisted on running errands of her own—just a handful of things from a boutique downtown. Hector, her ever-watchful shadow, waited by the car outside, arms folded, scanning every face that passed with the patience of a stone guardian.
Inside, Isabelle drifted through the aisles, humming softly, her hands brushing against dresses and scarves, picking one or two with that thoughtful smile of hers. Nothing about the afternoon seemed unusual.
Until it was.
The moment she stepped into the changing section to try on a cardigan, two men slipped in behind her. Another blocked the hallway. By the time she turned, the cloth was already pressed against her face. A sharp, bitter chemical filled her lungs, and her vision blurred. She struggled—muffled, clawing at the grip that held her—but her body gave way before her voice ever could.
They caught her before she fell. Quiet. Efficient. Like they had done this a hundred times before.
Through the back door they went, slipping into a waiting black sedan. By the time Hector felt the wrongness—a tickle in the air, a whisper of instinct—it was already too late. He stormed inside, hand on the pistol beneath his coat, and found nothing but a scarf left on the floor, dropped in the struggle.
By the time he raced out the rear exit, the taillights were already vanishing into the Saturday crowd.
Hector's jaw clenched. His failure wasn't just a failure to protect Isabelle—it was a message. A bold one.
Draven sat at his desk, eyes buried in company reports, the scratching of his pen echoing faintly in the silence of his office. Numbers, projections, contracts—on the outside, he looked calm, but every line of his signature carried the weight of an empire he refused to let slip.
On the sofa by the window, Orion lounged, watching him with that mischievous calm of his, a drink in hand.
"What's with the look?" Draven finally muttered without lifting his head. "Something bothering you?"
Orion smirked, leaning forward. "Your sister is—"
The words cut short at the sudden, razor-sharp glare from Draven. His tone was ice and steel when he spoke:
"Finish that sentence, Orion, and you'll lose your tongue."
The silence that followed was heavy. Orion swallowed hard, an audible gulp breaking the air. For once, the cocky grin slipped from his face.
Before the tension could snap further, the office door swung open. Gideon stepped inside, his usually composed face strained.
"Sir," he said, voice firm but urgent. "We have an emergency."
Draven straightened instantly, pen dropping from his hand. "What is it?"
Gideon hesitated, glancing toward Orion.
Draven's eyes narrowed. "Ignore him. Speak."
The butler's words fell like stone. "Miss Isabelle's bodyguard just called. She's been abducted. Minutes ago."
The room froze. For a heartbeat, Draven didn't move. Then, like a switch flipped, he shoved back from his chair, snatched his suit jacket, and stormed past Gideon. Orion was already on his feet, following close behind.
The ride back to the mansion was silent, tension thick enough to choke on. When they arrived, Hector stood in the foyer, shoulders stiff, guilt carved into every line of his face.
Draven's aunt rose from her chair the moment she saw him. Her voice trembled, though she tried to steady it.
"Draven… calm yourself."
But one look at him—the red in his eyes, the raw anger—made her falter.
Draven turned to Hector. "What happened?"
Hector's jaw tightened. "She was ambushed while shopping. I was outside. By the time I realized, they had taken her through the back exit into a car."
His aunt stepped forward. "Have they called? A ransom?"
"Not yet," Hector admitted.
"Then what the hell is this?" Draven growled.
The bodyguard glanced at the aunt, waiting. She nodded, signaling him to speak. He exhaled heavily.
"There's a group… they've been pressuring Isabelle's father into a deal. A dangerous deal—one that could endanger lives. My guess? These men are theirs. They took her to force his hand."
Draven's hands clenched. His mind sharpened instantly into calculation.
"Did you at least catch a plate number?"
"No, sir. Too fast."
"Where exactly?"
Hector gave him the boutique's location.
Without another word, Draven pulled out his phone, his fingers quick on the screen.
"Tracker," he said the moment the line picked up.
On the other end, the voice came calm but concerned. "What's wrong, Draven? You sound… agitated."
Draven's jaw clenched. His eyes burned like steel. "I can't explain now. Just—listen. I need you to tap into the downtown boutique's server. Check the cameras. Every angle. A car pulled out with someone they shouldn't have. I need the plate, the faces, the route. Everything."
There was a pause. Then Tracker's voice steadied. "Got it. I'll move fast. You'll hear from me soon."
Draven ended the call, exhaling sharply through his nose. His hand lingered on the phone for half a second before he shoved it into his pocket, his face hardening again.
His aunt tried again, voice soft but pleading.
"We've already informed the police…"
But he didn't respond. He didn't even look at her.
Instead, he turned to Gideon. "Drive me back to my apartment."
Orion raised a brow but followed as if he knew Draven wouldn't shake him off.
By the time they reached his private apartment, Draven wasted no time. He moved with sharp precision, unlocking hidden compartments, pulling out gear and laying it across the table. Gloves, blades, grappling hooks, smoke bombs—all carefully checked as if his hands were on instinct. This was no boardroom work. This was war.
His phone buzzed. He snatched it up.
"Talk to me."
Tracker's voice came through, quick and sure. "Got the feed. The car pulled off from downtown and is heading west. Abandoned warehouse, outskirts of the city. Looks like they're preparing for a long stay."
Draven's eyes narrowed. "Send me the coordinates."
"Already on your screen," Tracker replied.
Ending the call, Draven turned to Gideon. "Handle everything at the office. Push my schedule back. No interruptions until I return."
"Yes, sir," Gideon bowed slightly, though his eyes showed he wanted to say more.
Just then, Orion, who had been lounging like it was all a casual affair, finally stood. "You can't be leaving me out of this game."
Draven froze mid-step, his cold eyes flicking toward him. "Game? What do you mean?"
Orion smirked. "You told me the Raven was retired. So tell me, old friend, what are you doing preparing for a hunt? Once a mercenary, always a mercenary."
Draven's jaw tightened, but before he could answer, Orion added, "Relax. I'm not here to snitch. I'm here to stand by you. Rivals, yes—but rivals who've been through fire together. And besides, you'll need backup."
Orion's gaze fell on the armory spread across the table. His grin widened. "Any chance you've got something in my size?"
Draven shot him a sharp look. "You're not serious."
But Orion was already rifling through the kits, humming to himself. He pulled out one of the spare combat suits—all black—and whistled. "Nice craftsmanship. But black's not my style."
He grabbed a can of spray paint from the workbench, shaking it with a sharp rattle. With quick strokes, he bleached the suit white, then drew thin gold lines tracing the armor plates. When he was done, he held it up, grinning.
"Now this," he said, "is more my speed."
Draven pinched the bridge of his nose in silent irritation. "You're unbelievable."
"Unbelievable," Orion said, slipping the newly painted vest over his shirt, "is what gets results."
The two men locked eyes. For the first time that night, Draven didn't correct him. Instead, he holstered his weapons, sealed his mask into place, and gave one curt nod.
"Fine," he muttered. "Let's move."
And together, the rivals walked into the night.