James left the mansion just after dinner, his expression stiff with dissatisfaction.
Kayla watched from the upper balcony, hidden behind the curtain, her gaze following him as his car disappeared beyond the iron gates.
The brief meeting with their father had ended poorly—she could sense it in James's posture, in the way his jaw tightened as if swallowing resentment.
Something was wrong.
Kayla returned to her room and opened her school bag. Beneath her books lay an old mobile phone—small, scratched, and outdated, with worn buttons instead of a screen. A relic no one bothered to monitor.
She remembered asking Madam Rina for it years ago, when the old woman had been ready to throw it away.
Teach me how to use it, Kayla had said.
Since then, she had spent years texting one person—always in fragments, always in code.
She turned the phone on and typed carefully.
Track this plate. Follow discreetly.
Send updates only.
She added the license plate number she had memorized the moment James arrived.
The reply came minutes later.
Okay.
Kayla closed the phone.
She didn't need more.
Meanwhile....
James arrived at the port just before midnight, accompanied only by his personal guard. Cargo lights glowed dimly over stacked containers, the air thick with salt and oil. He met with men he claimed were business partners—faces unfamiliar, voices too smooth.
They smiled.
They shook hands.
And then everything went wrong.
By the time James realized the trap, it was too late.
Hands seized him from behind. A sharp sting at his neck. His guard went down first—silenced before he could draw a weapon.
The last thing James saw was the ocean stretching endlessly into darkness.
Back at the Estate
Kayla received the message shortly after.
He's been taken. Alive.
Location secured.
She stared at the screen for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
James's fate meant nothing to her—except as leverage.
*Midnight*
The mansion slept.
Kayla moved soundlessly through the halls, barefoot against marble floors, her presence lighter than breath. Cameras blinked lazily, looping old footage she had learned to manipulate long ago.
Near her father's office, she stopped.
Two figures entered quietly.
Not guards.
Not staff she recognized.
Kayla leaned against the wall, a sly smile curling at her lips.
You won't matter by morning, she thought.
She turned away before the door even closed.
*Before Dawn*
Mr. Wayne sat in the dining room, sipping his coffee as maids stood silently behind him.
He frowned.
The taste was wrong.
"Who made this coffee?" he asked coldly.
One maid stepped forward, trembling. "M-my lord… it was me."
His eyes narrowed. "Where is the other maid? The one assigned this morning."
"She slept in the servants' quarters with us," the woman replied shakily.
"But she wasn't there when I woke up."
Silence fell.
Mr. Wayne set the cup down slowly.
"Who else is missing?"
The maids exchanged uneasy glances.
"Steve," one of them said quietly. "One of the night guards. He hasn't reported in."
The room felt suddenly colder.
Mr. Wayne didn't raise his voice—but the air around him hardened.
"…Call Kayla to my office," he said at last.
"I will address this… incompetence personally."
The maid bowed and hurried away.
Mr. Wayne stared into his untouched coffee, jaw tightening.
He didn't need confirmation.
He already knew.
Kayla had made her move.
And this time—
she hadn't left fingerprints.
Kayla walked into the office, the tension thick enough to suffocate.
Mr. Wayne stood behind his desk, eyes cold, hands clenched.
"What did you do to the servants?" he demanded.
Kayla tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into a faint, mocking smile.
"They were spies," she replied calmly. "Trying to sneak information from your office. I assumed an estate of your status would have better security—so I handled it for you."
"You should have told me first," Mr. Wayne snapped. "Before murdering them."
"They were prey," Kayla said, her voice shifting—deeper, distorted, as if another presence spoke through her.
"I needed to feed. You can clean the mess like you always do."
Before she could react, he pulled a needle from his pocket and drove it into her neck.
The reaction was immediate.
Her body convulsed. She staggered, coughing violently as blood spilled from her lips and stained the marble floor. Her knees hit the ground, strength draining from her limbs.
If she hadn't absorbed their lives earlier, the pain would have torn her apart completely.
Mr. Wayne exploded.
"Do you have any idea what you cost me?!" he roared, kicking her hard in the ribs. "They were humans! Eight years ago, when you killed those people—do you know how much time and money it took to make it look like an accident?!"
He grabbed her by the hair and smashed her head against the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Kayla's vision blurred. Blood filled her mouth.
And still—she laughed.
A low, broken chuckle escaped her lips as her healing struggled to keep up.
"Your son," she muttered softly, "is missing."
Mr. Wayne froze.
He grabbed her face, forcing her to look up at him. "What did you say?"
"What do you think?" His voice trembled with restrained fury. "Did you have something to do with it?"
Kayla smiled through the blood.
"Under your surveillance?" she mocked. "How would I dare?"
He shoved her away and pulled out his phone, dialing frantically.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Kayla's voice followed him, calm and lethal.
"My brother doesn't have much time left. The kidnappers plan to send you a message—his body, by the end of today."
Mr. Wayne turned slowly. "How do you know?"
"I have his location," she replied. "For a price."
For the first time in years, doubt crept into Mr. Wayne's eyes.
This wasn't bluffing.
He knew better than to underestimate her—or his enemies.
His jaw tightened. "What do you want?"
Kayla pushed herself upright, wiping blood from her chin.
"Four things.
"First—an antidote. Now.
"Second—you will name me the next heir to your empire. Your lawyer will draft the contract today.
"Third—you will find a permanent cure for me.
"And fourth—never again use anyone close to me as bait to control me."
Her eyes darkened.
"You won't like what I do next if you try."
Silence swallowed the room.
"In exchange," Kayla continued evenly, "I'll make sure your son survives."
Mr. Wayne had a thousand questions.
He asked none of them.
He turned, opened the safe behind his desk, and handed her the antidote.
She injected it without hesitation.
Minutes later, her wounds closed. Her strength returned. The haze lifted from her eyes.
An hour later, she stood freshly cleaned in the living room as the lawyer finalized the contract—documents that reshaped power, legacy, and ownership with a single signature.
Mr. Wayne signed.
Kayla watched closely.
When it was done, she took the papers, her expression unreadable.
This wasn't victory.
It was leverage.
And for the first time since the fire, Kayla felt something dangerously close to freedom.
Mr. Wayne did not waste time.
The moment Kayla gave him the location, he mobilized his best men—clean, efficient, loyal. No questions asked. The rescue mission moved swiftly through the night, and by dawn, James was pulled out alive. Bruised. Shaken. Silent.
A success.
But not his victory.
While the estate buzzed with activity, Kayla returned to her room and packed her belongings with unsettling calm. Clothes folded neatly. The sketchbook slipped carefully into her bag. The old button phone tucked into an inner pocket.
She didn't wait for permission.
She ordered a driver.
"Take me home," she said simply.
The man nodded, though confusion flickered across his face. He had been told to wait for instructions—yet something about her tone made him obey without question.
Behind closed doors, Mr. Wayne erupted.
"You let her walk away?" he roared, slamming his fist against the desk.
The guards stood rigid, fear etched into their faces.
"She knew the exact location," Mr. Wayne continued coldly. "That means she had help. Dig into everything—her routines, her school, her contacts. I want names."
"Yes, sir."
It wasn't enough.
One by one, the guards suffered for their failure. Bruises bloomed.
Blood stained the marble floor. Mr. Wayne did not stop until his rage dulled into something sharper—suspicion.
Kayla was no longer acting alone.
And that terrified him.
The car glided through the city streets, headlights cutting through the darkness.
Kayla sat in the back seat, posture relaxed, hands resting loosely in her lap.
Her face was expressionless—perfectly controlled.
Inside, she was exhilarated.
Everything had gone exactly as planned.
Mr. Wayne had followed her terms.
James was alive—but broken.
And the leash had loosened, if only slightly.
The driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror.
Once.
Twice.
She noticed.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened each time their eyes met.
"You're excited," he said cautiously.
Kayla's lips curved just a fraction.
"About tomorrow," she replied.
The driver swallowed and looked back at the road.
He didn't ask why.
As the car pulled up to her house, Kayla stepped out. The sun had already risen, casting a pale glow across the sky. It was nearly ten in the morning, and the air was still cool against her skin. She paused for a moment, lifting her gaze upward—watching the fading darkness retreat before the coming day.
Tomorrow, she would return to school.
Tomorrow, she would see them again.
And somewhere—hidden, watching, waiting—
the person who had helped her would still be out there.
Unseen.
Untouched.
Unfound.
Kayla smiled to herself.
Let them search.
They were already too late.
Mr. Wayne had built his empire on a single principle: nothing valuable should exist beyond his reach.
People could be bought.
Silence could be enforced.
Threats could be erased.
For years, Kayla fit neatly into his worldview—not as an equal, but as an asset. Dangerous, yes. Unstable, perhaps. But contained. Measurable. Something that could be regulated with chemicals, contracts, surveillance, and fear.
That illusion shattered the moment she walked out of his office.
Only after the door closed did it strike him—cold and unmistakable—that the balance had shifted long before he signed those papers.
He replayed the confrontation in his mind, not emotionally, but clinically.
She hadn't begged.
She hadn't threatened blindly.
She hadn't rushed.
She had waited.
She let him rage because rage clouded judgment.
She let him strike her because pain did not frighten her.
She let him believe he still had the upper hand—right up until the moment she mentioned James.
That was when he felt it.
Fear.
Not for his son's life—he had contingencies for that.
But fear that she knew things she shouldn't.
Fear that someone else had already breached his world.
Fear that Kayla was not reacting to his tests, but anticipating them.
Mr. Wayne had believed he was shaping her.
The truth was far worse:
Kayla had been studying him.
And the most dangerous part?
She didn't want revenge. She didn't want dominance. She didn't even want his empire.
She wanted autonomy.
And autonomy, Mr. Wayne knew better than anyone, was something power never granted willingly.
********************
Mr. Wayne ordered his men to locate the corpses and dispose of them—bury them or burn them, it did not matter. He then demanded that every trace of the bloodshed in his office be cleaned away.
The servants were left in the dark, unaware of the horror that had unfolded. All they knew was that their young master had been rescued from the kidnappers.