“Y-You're a monster! I remember you now. Daddy, your fiancée—she's the one who killed Mom!!”

Frias’s voice cracked like thunder inside the sterile hospital room. His face was pale, his eyes wide and wild, like he was staring at a ghost. The machines beeped in sync with the chaos building around us.

That moment shattered everything.

André—the man I loved, trusted, was supposed to marry—froze at his son’s bedside. His gaze slowly shifted to me, full of something I never expected.

Doubt.

“Jella…” he muttered, his voice tight. “Is it true?”

My throat dried. “No. No, of course not! Frias just woke up—he’s confused—”

But André’s silence spoke louder than anything. He took his son’s hand and stepped back from me like I was poison.

That night, the wedding was canceled. No confrontation, no goodbye. Just a sharp text that felt like a bullet: It’s over.

The mansion that once felt like home turned hostile. Guards avoided my gaze. Staff whispered behind my back. Within days, I was forced out like I was some criminal.

I had nowhere to go. I went to my father’s estate, but the moment he saw me on the porch, drenched and trembling, he slammed the door in my face.

“You brought shame to this family. Leave.”

The media had already exploded with the story—heiress accused by her stepson of murder. Rumors spun out of control. Jealous fiancée kills ex-wife in secret! Headlines screamed my name. Even strangers spat at my name online.

I slept in an alley for two nights. No one knew. No one cared.

Then, Sergio came.

My old bodyguard, the only one who had ever treated me like more than someone’s puppet.

He found me at midnight, curled beneath a busted bus stop.

“Get in the car,” he said. His voice was low, unreadable.

He took me to a quiet apartment hidden in the slums—untraceable, far from the city. The walls were peeling, the air smelled like dust and rust, but for the first time in weeks, I felt safe.

He never asked questions. Never brought up the scandal. He just protected me, fed me, gave me space to breathe.

Weeks passed.

Then one morning, nausea hit me like a truck. I started throwing up. The smell of food made me dizzy. Pain bloomed in my lower abdomen more than once. Sergio noticed.

“You’re pale,” he said. “And slower. Something’s off.”

“I’m just tired,” I muttered, brushing him off.

He didn’t let it go. A few days later, he dragged me to a private clinic, deep inside the outskirts, run by an old doctor he trusted. She was silent, discreet, and fast.

“You’re pregnant,” she said with a calm smile. “Almost eight weeks.”

The world stopped spinning.

Pregnant?

I pressed my hand to my stomach, shaking. There was only one possible father—André. The last time we were truly together was before the nightmare began. He didn’t even know.

When we returned to the apartment, I didn’t cry. I just sat there, staring at the wall.

“I need to talk to him,” I said. “He deserves to know.”

Sergio was quiet for a long time. Then he stood and stared at the window, his arms crossed tightly.

“Even if he believed you now,” he said slowly, “it won’t change the fact that someone wanted this to happen.”

I turned to him. “What do you mean?”

He looked back, face unreadable. “That accusation Frias made—it was too perfect. The timing, the memory after three months in a coma? It felt staged.”

A chill rolled down my spine. “You think I was framed?”

He gave a small nod. “I think someone wanted you out of the way. And pinning the murder of your stepsister—André’s ex-wife—on you? That’s not random. That’s a warning.”

I stared at him, stunned. I had almost forgotten the connection. My stepsister—who died mysteriously a year ago—had once been André’s wife.

“You’re telling me… that someone used her death to ruin me?”

“There’s more going on than what you see,” Sergio said. “And if you stay still too long, you’re not just going to lose your name—you’ll lose your life.”

That night, I finally found the courage to try calling André. I wasn’t sure what I would say, but he had a right to know about the baby.

But before I could even dial his number, Sergio burst into my room.

“Pack your things. Now.”

I stood, confused. “What? Why?”

His jaw was clenched. His voice came out like a warning shot.

“T-The mastermind behind your sister's assault found out our location. They'll kill you tonight... if we stay here. C'mon!”

DANG! W-What?

The sky outside was ink-black, smeared with faint stars. I didn’t know where we were going, and honestly, I didn’t care anymore. I was too tired to argue, too scared to stop running. So, I just stared out the window while Sergio drove like the devil himself was chasing us—which, considering my life lately, might not be far from the truth.

We didn’t speak during the ride. I just held my coat tight around me, hand over my belly, trying to make sense of everything. My thoughts swirled like a hurricane—Kyora’s death, Frias pointing at me, André’s silence, and the one truth screaming loudest in my head: I was pregnant.

After a few hours, we finally arrived at a remote cabin tucked deep in the woods. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe—or at least it felt that way. Sergio called it a "safehouse," one of his old fallback spots from back when he worked dirty contracts. No cameras. No visitors. Just silence, trees, and an overwhelming sense of being forgotten.

A few weeks passed like fog—slow, quiet, and strange. Sergio cooked, fixed up the place, made sure I had everything. But what got to me most wasn’t the solitude… it was how gentle he became. The way he always checked if I had eaten, how he fixed the heater before the frost came in. He didn’t act like a bodyguard anymore. He acted like something else—something warmer, heavier.

And I felt it. That strange feeling. A pull I couldn’t name. Although I tried to ignore it.

But until the day came. One morning, I finally decided when I couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my reflection—pale skin, wild hair, rounded stomach. I didn’t recognize the girl anymore, but one thing I knew: André had to know.

“I’m going back,” I told Sergio as I shoved my things into a duffel bag. “He has a right to know.”

He blocked the doorway, arms folded, voice calm but firm. “No, you’re not.”

That’s when it happened. The explosion.

WHAT?!:

“I’m not your prisoner, Sergio! You're just Dad's late bodyguard!" I shouted. “Why the hell do you care what I do anyway? Why are you even protecting me like this?”

He flinched like I slapped him. For the first time in weeks, his mask cracked. “Because I’m your father.”

I blinked. Laughed. It sounded wrong and empty. “What?”

“I’m your biological father, Jella.”

I stared at him like he’d grown two heads. “What kind of sick—”

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” he said, his voice raw. “Years ago, your mother… she and I… it was a mistake. A real one. But I loved her. And when she got pregnant, I wanted to raise you. The Colonel—her husband found out. He fired me on the spot. Said if I didn’t back off, he’d have your mother killed."

DANG! Is this for real?

My legs felt like jelly. I sank into the couch, trying to breathe.

“He made a deal,” Sergio continued. “Said he’d raise you as his own—pretend you were adopted from some distant cousin. As long as I stayed out of your life. I agreed. I had no choice. But what you didn't know... Colonel had a mistress that's why you had Kyora." he added.

Silence.

For a long time, I didn’t speak. My mind refused to accept it, but my heart… it had already known. That strange pull I’d felt? That softness in his eyes? It all made sense now.

“I-I hated you,” I whispered. “When you first dragged me out of that hospital. I thought you were just another one of André’s spies.”

“I deserve that,” he said, softly. “But I won’t ever stop protecting you again.”

Months passed. The pain didn't go away, but it dulled. I grew used to the isolation, started cooking again, reading books by the fireplace. My stomach grew rounder. I gave birth on a rainy afternoon, screaming into a towel while Sergio— my father boiled water and muttered prayers. When I finally heard the baby’s cry, I sobbed like my soul had cracked open.

I named him Hoppe Francis Vance.

He had my eyes. And André’s mouth.

But the peace didn’t last. Sergio couldn’t let go of the night Kyora died. He started digging, calling old contacts, hunting for pieces of a puzzle I didn’t even know existed.

Weeks later, he found something. A sealed file buried in the Colonel’s records—footage, reports, erased logs. The truth was uglier than either of us imagined.

The Colonel killed Kyora. He staged the entire night, tampered with security, and left just enough blood on my hands for everyone to believe it.

But why did he do that to his own daughter?

I’d been framed.

And I had nowhere else to go.

I didn’t think André would even pick up. But when he did, my voice cracked.

“I need your help.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just breathed, heavy and quiet. Then he whispered, “Jella? Where are you?”

We met in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. I held Hoppe tight, my fingers trembling.

André looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes fell on Hoppe and something in him… twisted. Hardened.

“That’s your son?” he asked, voice flat.

I nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t say anything. Just turned and walked out.

Later that night, Sergio said André had gotten drunk. Angry. Jealous. Thought I’d moved on. Had a child with another man before our relationship began.

He was spiraling.

Until one night, he showed up at the cabin, reeking of whiskey, his voice ragged.

“You cheated on me,” he growled. “You let me believe you were dead. And then you show up with a kid?”

“I didn’t cheat,” I snapped. “That’s your son.”

He froze.

“What?”

“Hoppe is yours, André.”

It was like watching someone come back to life. He dropped to his knees, touched Hoppe’s tiny hand like it was made of gold. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

For a while, things were better. Not perfect, but better. André stayed. Protected us. Played with Hoppe like a proud father. I even let myself believe we could be something again.

I felt valuable. For once and for all, I felt loved for Hoppe and I.

But danger wasn’t far behind.

The Colonel had caught wind of me through the media. He started pushing stories, twisting facts, planting lies. Suddenly, I was the wanted woman—the accused murderer, the scandalous lover, the runaway.

We hid. Moved often. Changed names. But one day, while I was rocking Hoppe to sleep, André walked in, his expression unreadable.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

My heart dropped. “What is it?”

He exhaled sharply. “Jella, I couldn’t do this anymore. The truth is…”

He looked me straight in the eyes, voice low and brutal.

“Your father, Colonel—we partnered in an illegal group. And I knew... everything. He killed Kyora ‘cause your sister didn't agree to marry the mafia prince. Worst case, the prince still didn't know about it. And all of us will be put to danger if he found out the truth." he said.

WHAT?

“W-What? This is a huge mess." I said, biting my lower lip in restraint.

Meanwhile, André nodded.

I swallowed hard. “There's no other way. I needed to pretend as Kyora. I'll marry him to unveil their darkest secrets. Colonel should be punished."

André stood up from his seat, looking pale. “NO! You're not going to do that. Don't you know how dangerous they are? It's a trap! That's why your father partnered with them."

My eyes widen as I realized some thing. In the first place, André had a son with Kyora. For sure, our father knows that so his demonic son—Frias will be our ace in this mission.

What if I let Frias know the truth? That his beloved mother was supposed to marry a mafia prince?

The silence between us was crushing.

André’s words still echoed in my head. “The truth is... your father, Colonel—we partnered in a mafia group. I knew he killed your sister.”

I didn’t even realize my knees had given out until I felt the cold floor bite into them. Everything spun.

“You knew?” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

André ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. He looked like he was in pain. “It wasn’t that simple, Jella. Back then, I didn’t have proof. I suspected it... but I thought confronting him would get you hurt.”

I laughed bitterly, shaking my head. “So instead, you married my stepsister and turned a blind eye to her murder?”

His eyes snapped to mine, guilt flashing behind the anger. “I didn’t love Kyora. You know that. She was part of a deal—something the Colonel arranged before I even met you. But after Kyora died, and Frias woke up blaming you... it was all too convenient. I should’ve looked deeper, I know.”

After a moment, I stood, arms wrapped tightly around myself. “Too late for apologies, André. My life was destroyed. I had to run, give birth in hiding, live like a fugitive.”

He took a step forward, then stopped. “That’s why I’m here now. To fix what I broke.”

I wanted to believe him. But something inside me had hardened over the past year. I wasn’t the same naive girl who once thought love could solve everything.

Still... when he gently picked up Hoppe, who had just toddled into the room with sleepy eyes and chubby cheeks, my heart faltered.

“Hey, little man,” André whispered. “Guess what? I’m your dad.”

Hoppe blinked up at him and smiled, like he already knew.

It was unfair. How easily they connected, while I was still stuck between betrayal and forgiveness.

A few days passed in uneasy quiet. André stayed close, guarding us like a soldier on a mission. He slept on the couch, cooked simple meals, helped clean the tiny apartment Sergio left us when he went to follow a new lead.

We were starting to feel... like a family. Almost.

But peace never lasted in my life.

One morning, I noticed André hadn’t returned from the store. An hour passed. Then two. I was pacing the kitchen when a strange number popped up on the burner phone.

I answered—and immediately dropped the phone.

It was André.

Beaten. Tied to a chair. Blood dripping from his temple. The screen flickered from some basement somewhere.

A voice growled behind the camera, “Tell Sergio we want the girl. Or the fiancé dies.”

Then the line went dead.

Hoppe started crying in the other room. My hands were shaking, but I forced myself to move, to think. I grabbed the emergency phone Sergio had left and dialed the only number on it.

He answered on the second ring. “What happened?”

“They took André. Someone knows we’re here.”

Sergio cursed under his breath. “I warned him not to go out alone. I’m close to something—Kyora’s murder, the Colonel, all of it. But they’re moving faster than I thought.”

“They said they want me in exchange,” I said softly.

There was a long pause.

“Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll handle it.”

But I knew I couldn’t just sit and wait.

By nightfall, I had made my decision. I packed a bag for Hoppe, called an old friend who owed me a favor, and arranged a meet-up with someone from the black market network—someone who could trace the source of the call and help me track the location.

Three hours later, I stood outside a decaying warehouse, the wind whipping through my hair.

I was ready to trade myself for André.

But the moment I stepped inside, things didn’t go as planned.

André wasn’t alone.

The Colonel was there.

Alive. And smiling.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my runaway daughter,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “You always had a flair for drama.”

I froze. “You... you were supposed to be overseas. I thought you disappeared after the scandal.”

“I did,” he said. “But this little reunion was long overdue.”

That’s when the real bomb dropped.

A woman stepped out of the shadows beside him.

My dead stepsister.

Kyora.

I staggered back. “No... that’s not possible.”

She smiled, a cruel twist of her lips. “Surprise.”

My mind reeled. “But the autopsy. The funeral—”

“Faked,” the Colonel said casually. “It was all part of the plan. She needed to disappear for a while. And you, Jella, were the perfect scapegoat.”

Everything started falling into place. Frias’s memory. The way the story leaked. The Colonel’s sudden coldness. Sergio’s obsession with uncovering the truth.

Kyora had never died.

And I had been framed for nothing.

“You ruined me,” I said through gritted teeth. “Why?”

Kyora tilted her head. “Because you always got in the way. First Father’s attention. Then André’s. You had to be erased.”

André looked up at me from his restraints, eyes full of fire. “Don’t believe a word she says.”

But before I could react, something behind me exploded—a flash grenade. The whole room filled with smoke.

Sergio.

Gunfire echoed. Shouting. I ducked, clutching the bag with Hoppe inside, my heart racing as bullets tore through the walls.

Sergio’s voice boomed, “Get out! I’ve got this!”

I ran, dragging André with me, his arm around my shoulder.

We made it to the car, breathless, bloodied, but alive.

That night, after patching up André and putting Hoppe to sleep, I sat beside the window, my hands trembling.

André looked at me, his voice rough. “We’re not safe. Not until we bring them down for good.”

I nodded. “Then we’ll fight.”

He reached over, brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. “Jella, no matter how twisted this gets—I need you to know I still love you.”

And just as I leaned in, needing to feel something real again, the burner phone buzzed.

A text.

From an unknown number.

“You still don’t know the truth about Hoppe’s bloodline. Ask Sergio who he really is.”

I stared at the screen, my pulse freezing.

What did that mean?

Who really was Hoppe? Perhaps, is André hiding something from me?

And Sergio along with André knew that?

I frowned. “DAMN! What is this, huh? Even our son? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!" I yelled at him.

In a few seconds, his face started to look pale. I shook my head.

He gasps. “Jella, i-it's time for you to know. The night we made love. Y-You were sobber. And that's why I injected you a sperm of that mafia prince that Colonel gave me ‘cause supposedly it should be for your sister. I-I'm sorry. I thought... I thought she died and I have no choice."

My world stopped. On the other hand, André tried hugging me but I pushed him.

“H-Hoppe... h-he is the son of that damn mafia prince? WHO IS HE?" I asked inside my mind.