..
"What have you done? I am asking you, Justin... what have you done?"
Justin sat with a terrifying, hollow stillness on the velvet sofa, nursing a glass of water as if he hadn't just sparked a war. He swirled the liquid, watching the small vortex as if he were dreaming of the storm that would soon drown them all. His father's voice was a frantic, jagged edge in the silence, but Justin remained lost in a delusional trance, his mind still trapped in the library, replaying the moment he had touched Win's skin.
Dr. Arthur approached his son, his teeth gritted in a mix of rage and primal, bone-deep terror. He stood directly in Justin's line of sight, blocking the dim light of the study like a shadow of a man already dead. "Didn't I warn you? Didn't I tell you never to even breathe the same air as Mark Mathew?"
Justin let out a long, bored sigh, his eyes tracing the ceiling as if his father's panic were merely a nuisance.
"Has your hearing failed you, Justin?" Arthur hissed. He leaned over the desk, his hands shaking so violently the papers rustled like dry leaves in a graveyard. He knew what Justin didn't—that Mark Mathew didn't just sue people; he erased them.
Justin stood up without a word, his movements sluggish and arrogant, intending to walk away. But his father's voice dropped to a desperate whisper that sounded like a death rattle. "He is not someone you can mess with, Justin. I am warning you one last time—stay away from him! If you touch that boy again, you aren't just signing your death warrant... you're signing ours."
Justin stopped, a dark, mocking snicker chilling the air. He turned back, his gaze empty of everything but a poisonous obsession. "Why? You're always taking his side," Justin spat, his voice dripping with a lethal, childish jealousy. "Are you really my father, or just the Mathews' loyal dog?"
"I am your father! That is exactly why I'm telling you to run!" Arthur's voice vibrated with a terror that came from his very soul. "Mark is a Sovereign Devil, Justin. He doesn't just kill; he vanishes. He will pull the foundation out from under this house and bury us alive. He will destroy everything that gets in his way, and you have no idea what Mathew is truly capable of when he decides you are a pest."
..
Dr. Arthur knew the truth better than anyone; he had the phantom stain of blood beneath his fingernails to prove it. He had known Mark Mathew since Mark was a boy, beginning his career as a family doctor with nothing but a starving thirst for gold. Over the years, he had become a ghost in the Mathew halls, performing "dirty" tasks that kept the empire's facade gleaming. He had altered the records of shattered bones, falsified the causes of "accidental" deaths, and ensured that the screams echoing from the basement never reached the ears of the world.
But thirteen years ago, in the bowels of that house, Arthur had seen the devil truly born.
The memory still had the power to make his skin crawl. He remembered the raw, agonizing sounds of David and Daniel—little more than children then—crying until their voices broke under Ethan's relentless, sadistic cruelty. He remembered the smell of copper and fear in the air.
And he remembered Mark.
The teenage heir had been standing in the shadows, his eyes no longer reflecting light. They had turned to obsidian—the same stone stare Arthur had seen earlier that day. In a sudden, volcanic surge of protective rage, Mark had finally snapped, attempting to slaughter his own father with a primal ferocity that nearly succeeded.
Mark had failed that first time, and the "exile" abroad was a hollow victory for Ethan. It wasn't a punishment; it was a strategic retreat. Ethan had realized too late that he hadn't raised a son—he had cultivated a predator who would eventually return to finish the job.
Mark had spent those long, frozen years abroad as a ghost—a shadow haunting the edges of the world. No letters reached his mother; no visits softened his heart. He lived in a cold, silent vacuum, waiting for the iron in his soul to harden. When he finally returned to the soil of his birth, he didn't come for a reunion or a legacy. He came for an execution.
He had carved the life out of his own father to end the nightmare for his brothers, and then he had used his staggering wealth to buy the city's very soul. Anyone who dared to whisper a question about the "natural death" of Ethan Mathew was systematically hunted, silenced, and buried.
Arthur had only survived that purge because he was a useful coward.
He was the one who had knelt in the fresh, copper-scented blood and forged the medical reports with a shaking hand. Under the Master's obsidian gaze, he had transformed cold-blooded murders into "heart failures" and "accidents" on crisp, official paper. He had been paid in blood-money to stitch his mouth shut, living thereafter as a ghost in the long, dark shadow of the Master's secrets.
He knew that Mark didn't value loyalty—he valued utility. And now, Justin was threatening to destroy the only peace the Master had ever found.
..
Justin's smirk twisted, his features contorting into an expression of pure, unadulterated rage. He couldn't grasp the gravity of the name Mathew; to him, the "Sovereign" was nothing but a ghost story told by weak men. In his mind, Mark wasn't a king—he was a thief who had dared to touch a treasure that belonged to Justin alone.
"I don't care about his reputation," Justin said, his voice flat and cold as a winter grave. "I don't care who has to die. I am going to make Win mine. I will walk through every 'devil' in this city to take what belongs to me."
Without a backward glance, Justin walked away, his posture rigid and his eyes glazed with a psychotic, single-minded fantasy. He walked with the confidence of a man stepping off a cliff, convinced he could fly.
Arthur remained standing in the center of the cold, opulent room, the silence of the house feeling like a burial shroud. He felt the weight of the world crushing his chest, his lungs laboring for air that felt poisoned. His mind raced back to the phone call he had received from Daniel an hour ago.
It hadn't been a shout. It hadn't been a threat. It had been a whisper, sharp as a razor and final as a heartbeat's end.
'Doctor,' Daniel had said, his voice carrying a polite, terrifying deadliness. 'The Master has very little patience today. If your son breathes the same air as Win tomorrow, I won't be calling to warn you. I'll be calling to tell you where to find the remains.'
..
At the long, mahogany dining table, the air was thick with Daniel's vibrating fury. He wasn't eating; instead, he kept aggressively stabbing a piece of bruschetta with his fork, the silver tines screeching against the fine china as he shredded the bread into a pulp.
When David finally sauntered in, he caught the murderous glint in Daniel's eyes and slowed his pace. He pulled out a chair, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the marble floor. "What's crawled up your sleeve? You look like you're ready to burn the entire estate to the ground."
Daniel's frown deepened into a jagged line. "It's Bryan. The bastard is getting on my last nerve."
At the mere mention of the name, David's casual smirk vanished, replaced by a mask of pure, unprovoked loathing. "That cockroach?" David spat, his voice dropping into a cold, raspy register. He didn't just dislike Bryan; he found his very existence offensive. "I don't know why you even bother wasting your breath on him. Just thinking about his oily face makes me want to break something."
"He's holding the daily guest register from Win's old apartment complex," Daniel explained, his grip tightening on the fork until his knuckles turned white. "I told him it was a direct order from Mark, but he's being a pathetic, power-tripping prick. He's actually stalling. He refused to hand it over."
David let out a harsh, bark-like laugh that held zero warmth. "He's a parasite. A waste of oxygen who thinks that because he has one scrap of information, he's suddenly untouchable." David leaned over the table, his eyes narrowing into predatory slits. "He needs a reminder of where he sits in the food chain. Honestly, Daniel, I hate the way he even breathes. He has that smug, self-important air that just... it irritates me to my soul."
"I know," Daniel muttered, "But I don't have the luxury of time to play his games. Mark wants those registers urgently."
The mention of Mark's temper made the room feel even smaller. David's mood soured further, his fingers drumming a rhythmic, lethal beat on the table. "Do you want me to go over there and erase that smug look off his face for good? I've been looking for an excuse to put him in the ground anyway."
"No," Daniel said, finally stuffing a large, aggressive bite of the mangled bruschetta into his mouth. "I'll handle him. If I let you go, you'll kill him before I get the names I need, and then I'll be the one explaining to Mark why we're empty-handed."
..
..
At seven in the morning, the Mathew estate was a tomb of silent, silver-gray luxury. Driven by a nagging hunger that felt like the only real thing in this dreamlike world, Win wandered into the kitchen. His bare footsteps echoed softly on the cold marble, a small, human sound in a house built for giants.
Finding the vast space empty, he began to forage with the practiced ease of someone used to being overlooked. He pulled two eggs from the massive industrial fridge, feeling the weight of the shell in his hand. But just as he was about to crack them, a voice cut through the stillness like a silken thread.
"Master Win..."
He spun around, nearly dropping the eggs, to find the Head Maid watching him from the shadows of the pantry. He offered her an awkward, boyish smile, his hair still sleep-mussed. "I was just... I thought I'd whip something up."
She bowed low, her posture a perfect angle of respect. Her expression was firm, governed by years of serving a difficult master, but it was softened by a rare flicker of genuine warmth as she looked at him. "You shouldn't be in the kitchen, Master Win. The Master would have my head if he knew you were performing even the slightest labor. Please, tell me—what can I prepare for you?"
"I really don't want to bother you this early," he replied, his voice carrying that natural, "kitten-like" shyness that seemed to pull at the heartstrings of everyone in the house.
The maid smiled secretly, a knowing glint in her eyes. No wonder the Master has gone mad for him, she thought. To the rest of the world, Mark Mathew was a devil, a Sovereign of ice and blood. But for this boy, the Master had built a kingdom of silk and safety.
"It is no bother, Master Win. It is our duty and our pleasure," she insisted softly. "Just tell me your heart's desire."
"Anything quick," he admitted, his cheeks flushing a faint, embarrassed pink. "I'm starving."
Win retreated to the grand hall, his small frame wandering past ornate oil paintings of plumerias and crystal vases overflowing with the honeyed scent of fresh plumeria branchlets. He looked like a lost kitten exploring a dragon's lair—wide-eyed, curious, and utterly unaware of the danger he lived within. Eventually, he settled onto the heavy, velvet-backed chair at the head of the table. It was the Master's usual place—a seat that functioned as a sovereign's throne, one that no one else in the estate dared to touch. Win, however, simply curled his legs up, scrolling through his phone in blissful ignorance of the taboo he was breaking.
By 7:15, the morning shift of the household staff began to filter in. The moment they spotted Win occupying the Master's seat, their casual chatter died as if a blade had been drawn. They bowed so deeply their foreheads almost touched their knees, moving past the hall like silent ghosts. They were terrified that even a loud footstep might disturb the peace of the Master's most precious treasure.
The Head Maid returned, her footsteps rhythmic and certain. She placed a heavy silver tray on the center table: golden bread with imported jam, a perfectly folded omelette, and a steaming cappuccino with a heart etched into the foam. Win's face lit up, a radiant beam that cut through the somber room. "Thank you so much!"
The maid stood at a respectful distance, her eyes scanning the room with the vigilance of a hawk. Her duty was not just to serve, but to protect the Master's sanctuary. Suddenly, her gaze sharpened into a lethal point.
Near the central staircase, tucked into the deep shadows, a guard was lingering. His body was half-hidden by a marble pillar, his posture tense. He wasn't standing at attention; he was peeking, his phone held at a covert, trembling angle to record a video of Win. To the guard, it was a moment of forbidden curiosity; to the Master, it would be seen as a desecration of his private heaven.
The maid didn't flinch. Decades of service in a house of shadows had taught her that blood was best spilled away from the light. She refused to allow even a drop of violence to stain Win's morning peace. Instead, she caught the eye of a security lead standing near the lift. With a sharp, nearly imperceptible tilt of her head toward the side exits, the command was given. The trap snapped shut. The spy would be intercepted before he reached the perimeter; he wouldn't leave the building alive.
Unaware of the silent execution being coordinated just a few feet behind him, Win was completely engrossed in his animated show. He giggled at the screen, his expression shifting from a silly, radiant grin to a cute, concentrated pout as he chewed. When he finished, he instinctively reached for the tray to clean up—the habits of an orphanage boy still clinging to him—but the Head Maid was there in a heartbeat, her hands gently intercepting his.
"Please, Master Win. Allow me."
Unaccustomed to being treated like a deity, Win murmured a quiet, embarrassed "Thank you" and stood up. As he walked toward his room, a sudden glimmer of light caught his eye from an antique side table he hadn't noticed before.
It was a heavy, pentagon-shaped block of clear resin, shimmering with suspended gold flecks that danced in the morning sun. But inside, the object preserved was far from perfect. It was two withered plumeria blossoms, their once-white petals now browned and torn at the edges. A thin layer of gray orphanage dust was forever trapped against the velvet of the petals, frozen in time by the resin.
They weren't beautiful to the eye, but to Win, they were breathtaking. These were the flowers from the day Mark left—the ones that had fallen into the dirt and been crushed under the weight of their goodbye.
Win froze. The air in his lungs seemed to turn to ice as he reached out, his fingertips grazing the cold, smooth surface of the resin. He kept them... even like this... A soft, disbelieving smile touched his lips, one that reached all the way to his tear-bright eyes. In a house full of guards, gold, and secrets, this was the most valuable thing he had found. Does he really love me that much?
..
"Ting..." The lift doors hissed open with a clinical precision, and Bryan stepped out into the early morning light of the Mathew estate. He carried himself with a casual, playful confidence, humming a tune that felt entirely too bright for a house made of cold, unfeeling stone. His eyes, sparkling with mischief, immediately locked onto a figure standing near the TV cabinet—a vision of softness that stopped Bryan mid-step.
He wandered over, his curiosity piqued, his designer loafers clicking rhythmically against the marble. "Hello!" he chirped, his voice smooth, melodic, and naturally flirty.
Win turned around, blinking in confusion. He didn't recognize the man, but his inherent kindness took over. "Hello," he replied, his voice small and wary.
Bryan was momentarily struck dumb. Up close, the boy was breathtaking—silky, sleep-mussed hair that caught the light, and wide, innocent eyes. Bryan leaned in closer than necessary, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. To a man like Bryan, beauty was meant to be admired loudly.
"I come here all the time, but I've never seen a pretty face like yours wandering around," Bryan said, his gaze lingering with a naughty, energetic spark. "May I ask who you are, or am I dreaming?"
"No, you may not."
The voice didn't just speak; it thundered, a low-frequency vibration that rattled the very floorboards. Bryan didn't flinch—he was used to this—but he did let out a dramatic, theatrical sigh as the temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees.
"Ugh, and here comes the Devil," Bryan muttered playfully, turning around with his usual bright grin.
"How are you, my favorite brother?" Bryan asked, his voice overly bright as he opened his arms wide for a hug he knew Mark would dodge.
Mark Mathew didn't even acknowledge the gesture. He crossed the room like a silent predator, walking right through Bryan's space as if his best friend were nothing but a minor inconvenience in the air. His focus was absolute—a singular, laser-like obsession pinned entirely on Win.
Mark's hand reached out, those lethal fingers turning impossibly gentle as he smoothed Win's messy hair.
"Why are you up so early?" Mark asked. His voice, which had been a thunderous warning moments ago, dropped into a low, intimate rumble meant only for Win's ears.
"I woke up because I was hungry," Win pouted. He leaned into Mark's touch with a deep, instinctive trust that made Bryan's eyebrows shoot up in shock.
Mark's expression shifted. The "Devil" mask slipped entirely, revealing a rare, private smile. "Did you eat?"
Win nodded cutely, his eyes bright. Bryan stood back, his energetic persona momentarily stilled as he watched with a mix of fascination and glee. He had seen Mark Mathew ignore the most beautiful people in the world, yet here he was, looking... absolutely smitten. The King was on his knees for a boy who barely reached his shoulder.
"I'm going to go get ready," Win said, breaking the spell. "I have class at 9:00 AM."
"Okay," Mark murmured, his eyes following Win until the boy disappeared from the hall. "Go get ready."
The second Win was out of sight, the warmth vanished. Mark didn't turn around immediately, but the tension in his shoulders signaled that the "Master" was back.
"Seriously, Marky?" Bryan broke the silence, his voice returning to its naughty, high-energy pitch. "A secret boyfriend? And you didn't tell your best friend? I'm hurt. Deeply wounded!"
..