Five minutes earlier—
The moment Prim shoved Haley into Ava's arms and vanished down the corridor, Ava exploded.
"THAT IDIOT—"
She cut herself off mid-curse, jaw tightening as she looked down at Haley's unfocused eyes and slack posture. Priorities first.
With a sharp command, she had servants help move Haley into a nearby guest room. Someone brought water. Someone else fetched towels. Ava crouched in front of her, snapping fingers, calling her name—no response.
"Tch."
Ava straightened, pulled Haley's phone from her pocket, and pressed Haley's thumb to the screen. The phone unlocked instantly. Emergency contacts popped up.
Mike.
She tapped the name, waited for the call to connect—then ended it before a word was spoken.
That was enough.
Across the manor, on the opposite balcony, Mike stood alone with a glass of wine in hand.
From his angle, the scene had been painfully clear.
Prim kneeling in front of Haley.
Prim cleaning her wounds.
Haley laughing, then wincing.
Her leaning too close.
Almost kissing him.
Then Prim pushing her away—clean, sharp, decisive—and handing her to Ava before disappearing.
Mike set his glass down slowly.
"I want to know," he said calmly to the empty balcony, "who drugged her."
The shadows behind him shifted.
A man stepped forward without a sound, received the order with a nod, and disappeared again.
Mike's gaze lingered on the now-empty spot where Ava and Haley had stood. His phone rang.
He glanced at the screen, answered, then ended the call just as quickly.
Turning on his heel, Mike walked toward the guest room.
Ava was mid-instruction when the knock came.
She opened the door and froze—just for half a second.
The man standing there was undeniably handsome. Clean-cut. Calm. The kind of face parents trusted and girls imagined futures with.
"…You're Mike?" Ava asked.
"Yes," he replied evenly.
She stepped aside. "Haley's inside. She's drugged."
"I know," Mike said. "I've already called a doctor."
He entered the room without another word.
Ava hesitated, glanced at Haley one more time, then met Mike's eyes. The silent dismissal was clear.
She left.
The door closed.
Mike walked closer to the bed.
Haley lay there, brows slightly furrowed, lips swollen, breathing uneven. Mike reached out, fingers tracing the faint redness along her cheek.
She whimpered.
"Prim…" she murmured softly, still half-asleep. "…it's cold…"
The room temperature didn't change.
But the air did.
Mike's hand slid from her cheek to her neck—not tightening, not yet—just resting there, possessive, controlling.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
"Yellow-haired guy and his friends," the voice reported. "They drugged Haley. They also drugged Emily—planned to frame Haley and send Emily to your bed. Haley was beaten."
Mike listened without expression.
"Nathan and another man handled six of them, including Yellow Hair," the voice continued. "They're alive. Also—your cousin, Sandra, hired two men to assault Haley. The same man who helped Emily stopped it."
A pause.
"Do you want them finished?"
"No," Mike said calmly.
Emily would handle her revenge herself.
"Send the boys to Emily," he added. "As a gift."
The voice acknowledged.
"As for my cousin," Mike continued, tone unchanged, "she's busy managing my affair. Break the two boys' arms and legs. Then throw Sandra in with them."
The line went dead.
Mike lowered the phone.
Haley stirred faintly beneath his hand.
The room remained silent.
Cold.
At the center stood the Shadow Guy—a towering figure cloaked in midnight-black attire that blended seamlessly with the gloom, his face obscured by a hooded mask revealing only piercing, cold eyes . His broad shoulders heaved slightly from the exertion of his brutal interrogation, knuckles still raw and glistening with the blood of his victims.
He turned slowly, his boots scraping against the cold marble floor, to survey his handiwork.
There lay the tied yellow-haired guy, his once-vibrant locks matted with sweat and crimson streaks, body slumped against the wall in ropes that bit deep into his bruised flesh. Beside him, his face-friend—pale and battered, one eye swollen shut, lips split and trembling—mirrored the defeat, their confessions wrung out through fists and threats.
Unconscious Sandra sprawled nearby, her chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths, dark hair fanned across the floor like spilled ink, oblivious to the chaos.
Further off, the two boys he'd dispatched to assault Haley lay in twisted heaps, their failed mission etched in their battered forms—broken noses, fractured limbs, a testament to the Shadow's unyielding wrath.
His gaze shifted to the twenty armed bodyguards lining the room's perimeter, their disciplined stances unbroken, rifles gripped with white-knuckled precision, faces stoic masks of loyalty under the dim light.
A faint, cruel smile tugged at the Shadow's lips beneath the mask, his voice emerging low and commanding, laced with finality. "Secure them. No one breathes a word of this. Dispose of loose ends by dawn." The guards nodded in unison, their movements efficient as steel traps snapping shut, dragging the broken forms away into the shadows.
Back to Haley
He turned to her limp form on the cold floor, her delicate features slack in unconsciousness, long lashes fluttering faintly against porcelain skin marred by faint bruises. Without a word, Mike scooped her up bridal-style, his strong arms cradling her effortlessly against his chest, the heat of his body seeping through her thin clothes. He strode out of the room, each step echoing down the manor's grand staircase lined with gilded railings and crystal chandeliers that caught the moonlight like frozen stars.
As they descended, Haley's eyelids parted in a daze, her emerald eyes hazy with confusion and lingering fog.
She stirred weakly in his hold, murmuring, "Prim..."—the name slipping out like a forbidden whisper, her voice soft and vulnerable, brows furrowing in disoriented longing.Mike's grip tightened vise-like on her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh with bruising force, his dark eyes flashing with possessive fury.
"Call that name again, and I'll throw you down these stairs," he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble that vibrated through her bones, hot breath fanning her face. He burst out of the manor into the cool night air, the gravel crunching underfoot as he reached his sleek black sedan idling under the portico lights.
The driver, a silent shadow in crisp uniform, didn't spare a glance, engine purring to life as Mike slid into the back with Haley.He tossed her roughly onto the plush leather backseat, her body bouncing once before he loomed over her, seizing her chin with iron fingers, tilting her face up to meet his stormy gaze.
Leaning in, his teeth sank into her shoulder through the fabric, a sharp bite that drew a gasp from her lips—pain mingling with unwelcome heat. "Haley, did you forget? I control you you are not allowed to get close to another man ," he whispered huskily into her ear, his lips brushing the shell before trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin.
His free hand roamed possessively, tracing the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip.The driver, sensing the charged air, activated the seat partition curtain with a discreet whir, plunging the back into intimate privacy.
Haley's eyes widened fully now, breath hitching. "Mike..." she breathed, a mix of fear, defiance, and treacherous desire flickering across her face—cheeks flushing, lips parting.
He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, tongues clashing in a battle of dominance and surrender. His hands explored boldly, mapping the dips and curves of her body with urgent hunger, fabric bunching under his touch.
As the car glided smoothly toward his sprawling villa—its modern glass facade glowing against the starlit hills—the driver pulled up and exited without a sound, leaving them undisturbed.
The vehicle rocked rhythmically, soundproofed walls muffling the erotic symphony within: gasps, moans, the wet slide of skin.
Outside, only a foggy handprint smeared against the tinted window and the relentless shaking bore witness—proof of their frenzy that pulsed unbroken until the sun crested the horizon the next day.
Emily's Serene FocusElsewhere, in the golden haze of the afternoon sun bathing a pristine outdoor range, Emily practiced her shooting scene with laser-focused grace. She wore a classy, elegant ensemble that screamed understated luxury: a tailored white silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers that hugged her lithe figure without excess, cinched with a slim leather belt gleaming subtly.
A lightweight cashmere cardigan in soft dove gray draped her shoulders for a touch of warmth, paired with polished ankle boots and a single delicate gold chain at her neck—simple yet stylish, evoking old-money poise amid the earthy scents of gunpowder and fresh grass.
Her stance was impeccable, feet planted shoulder-width on the manicured turf, golden hair pulled into a sleek ponytail that swayed with each precise movement. She raised the sleek pistol, her expression one of cool concentration—emerald eyes narrowed, full lips pressed in determination, a faint crease between her brows as she exhaled slowly.
The target loomed downrange, perforated with tight clusters from prior shots, wind whispering through nearby manicured hedges and rustling the villa's distant palm fronds.Then, the butler approached soundlessly across the lawn, his polished shoes silent on the grass, silver hair impeccable under the sun.
When the butler leaned down and whispered something into Emily's ear, her fingers paused for less than a second.
She glanced at him sideways, let out a soft snort, and calmly resumed her shooting practice—as if nothing in the world had changed.
The servant understood immediately.
Minutes later, the yellow-haired man and his friends were dragged into the private shooting range. Their earlier arrogance was long gone. Hands tied behind their backs, faces pale, legs trembling—they were shoved forward until they stood directly in front of the targets.
Apples were placed on their heads.
The moment Emily loaded the gun, the yellow-haired man froze completely. His pupils shrank in terror. One of his friends fainted on the spot, collapsing like a sack of flour. Another wet himself, the smell sharp and humiliating.
Emily raised the gun.
Her posture was elegant, relaxed—like a noblewoman enjoying a leisure activity.
Bang
Bang
Bang.
The bullet pierced cleanly through the apple, splitting it in half.
Screams erupted.
She didn't stop.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Each shot was precise. Each hit perfect.
She had already changed the bullets—nonlethal, but designed to hurt. A lot. The kind of pain that crawled into the bones and stayed there. The shooting range echoed with shrill cries, begging, sobbing, and pure terror.
Only when her wrist began to ache did Emily finally lower the gun.
She tossed it casually to the ground and rolled her shoulder once.
"I'm tired," she said flatly.
Without sparing the men a single glance, she walked past them.
"Tell the servants to prepare lunch."
She paused for half a second, then added calmly,
"And as for them—since they enjoy drugging girls so much… drug them. Let them deepen their friendship by exploring each other."
The servants bowed.
The screams grew louder as Emily walked away, her heels echoing steadily, never once looking back.
(End of the flashback, dear readers. To avoid confusion, we will return to the present timeline for now. After twenty more chapters, we'll dive back into the past. Thank you for your patience.)
[Back to the Future]
"So you're telling me—" Ava said slowly, tilting her head, disbelief written all over her face, "—that after the accident, you all reverted back to your teenage selves?"
She paused, then added flatly,
"And now Mom is seventeen. Dad is eighteen. Basically… our age-mates?"
The room fell silent for a beat.
Prim leaned forward, arms crossed. "Then what about the person who caused the accident?" he asked sharply. "And how exactly do you plan to exist in society again without the government catching on? You think they won't try to lock you up for research? Or that people obsessed with youth won't come after you?"
He scoffed. "And the businesses?"
Nathan yawned, resting his chin lazily in his palm. "That's where you come in. You guys take over. I'm bored of business anyway."
"Hell no," Prim snapped immediately, glaring at him. "Don't even think about dumping that on us."
"Mom, back me up," Prim said, turning toward Emily.
Emily raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Excuse you—who's your mother? Have you ever seen a seventeen-year-old mom?" she said coolly. "Are you wishing old age on me?"
She snorted.
Ava facepalmed hard.
"So…" Ava said tiredly, already knowing the answer, "you're all planning to start acting like teenagers again?"
"Yes," Emily replied instantly, without hesitation.
"I have a whole life ahead of me. I'm not thirty-eight anymore—I'm seventeen."
She leaned back, completely unapologetic.
"I'm younger, more beautiful," she added smugly, "and honestly? Even better than I was in my so-called prime."
The room went quiet.
Ava stared at them, deeply regretting everything.
"We already did a full checkup," Nathan said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
"It's stable. This isn't temporary—it's permanent.
Ava exhaled slowly.
"If you're saying you don't want anything to do with your old identities," Prim said, narrowing his eyes, "then how do you explain where you live? The money? Everything?"
Emily answered calmly, as if she had already planned this long ago.
"I told my parents," she said. "Unlike some families, mine didn't panic. They already arranged a new identity for me."
She crossed her legs, posture elegant and unbothered everyone knows she was targeting Nathan family cause if they told them those witches and wizards in the Carter household will be like vultures the only thing that shock them is she didn't straight up call them blood suckers like before she must be happy.
"I'll be introduced as the illegitimate daughter of a Hayes branch. The story is simple—I was thrown away, then sent abroad by my father. As for my parents now?" She smiled faintly. "They'll be my godparents."
Prim clicked his tongue. "Neat."
Emily turned her gaze to Nathan.
"What about you, Dad?"
Nathan shrugged lazily. "I'll let life drag me wherever it wants."
Ava frowned. "And your business?"
Nathan didn't even hesitate.
"I'll take the money I need. Everything else?" His eyes flicked to Prim and Ava. "That's for you two to decide. If you mess up, I'll step in. If not, I stay out."
Prim scoffed. "Talk about being selectively responsible."
Then he smirked and turned to Emily.
"So, Mom—if you're officially 'dead' to the world or traveling under a new identity," he said lightly, "that means you and Dad aren't publicly connected anymore."
He tilted his head, feigning innocence.
"You're single now. Ready to mingle?"
The temperature in the room dropped.
Prim didn't need to look to know—Nathan's lazy smirk had vanished, replaced by a sharp, dangerous glare burning into the side of his face.
Emily nodded thoughtfully, completely unfazed.
"You're right," she said coolly. "Especially considering I died because of him."
Nathan's jaw tightened.
"That stupid secretary was the one who tried to kill us cause of him," Emily added flatly. "Not exactly husband material."
"I'm not signing any divorce papers," Nathan said, folding his arms, his voice calm—but iron-hard.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Very heavy.