Sophia’s POV

The room is nice. Too nice.

Soft lighting. Velvet curtains. A queen-sized bed that looks untouched. Everything smells faintly of cedar and something more expensive—whatever scent Adrian wears.

But I can’t sleep.

I’ve been lying on top of the covers for hours, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything.

Emma’s bruised face flashes through my mind again. Her voice trembling as she said the words I’ve been chasing for months: trafficking ring. It’s not just a theory anymore. It’s real. Ugly. Alive.

And I’m in the middle of it.

I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, pressing my bare feet into the cool floor. I don’t know what time it is—well past midnight, probably—but I need air. Space. Anything.

I step into the hallway, careful not to make noise. The house is silent, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural. Like it's holding its breath.

I pass Emma’s room. The door is cracked slightly. I catch a glimpse of her curled up on the bed, her arms wrapped around a pillow, her back rising and falling with each breath.

Good. At least she’s resting.

I keep walking until I find the staircase that leads down to the main floor. The living room is dim, moonlight spilling in through tall windows. I spot a small bar tucked in the corner and head straight for it, grabbing the first bottle that looks halfway familiar. Whiskey. Perfect.

I pour myself a small glass and take a sip, wincing as it burns down my throat. It’s smoother than the cheap stuff I’m used to, but I’m not drinking for taste. I just need the edge taken off.

“You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.”

I jump, nearly spilling the drink.

Adrian steps out of the shadows near the window, his expression unreadable.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “Do you always lurk in the dark?”

He doesn’t answer. Just steps forward slowly, his gaze flicking to the glass in my hand.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I explain, as if I owe him a reason.

He nods once. “Me neither.”

We stand in silence for a moment. There’s something different about him tonight. Less armor, maybe. Less… performance. He’s still tense, but his eyes are tired. Haunted.

“You okay?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He lets out a low, humorless sound. Not quite a laugh. “That’s a dangerous question.”

I tilt my head. “Because you might actually answer it?”

He glances at me, then away. “Because you might not like the answer.”

I take another sip. “Try me.”

Another pause. Then, he walks over and pours himself a drink. For a while, he just stares at the liquid in the glass.

“I’ve seen a lot of things,” he says finally. “Things I’ll never forget. Things I can’t fix.”

I say nothing. I let him talk.

“I used to think if I just worked hard enough—if I got close enough to the top—I could shut it all down. Cut the head off the snake.”

“But it didn’t work,” I guess quietly.

“No.” He turns to face me. “Because the head isn’t just one person. It’s an entire system. A network that stretches through this city like rot. And every time I cut off one part, another takes its place.”

His voice is tight with frustration. With guilt.

“I should’ve saved Emma,” he says. “She was part of my team. Trusted me. And I failed her.”

I set my glass down. “But you didn’t stop trying.”

Adrian’s gaze meets mine. There’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes, like he wasn’t expecting that.

“Most people would’ve walked away a long time ago,” I say. “You didn’t.”

He watches me for a beat. “And you haven’t either.”

“I couldn’t.” I shrug. “I kept thinking about the girls. Their faces. Their families. The silence that followed after every headline. I couldn’t let it go.”

“You remind me of her,” he says softly.

I frown. “Who?”

He hesitates. “My sister.”

The word hits me like a stone to the chest.

“She went missing ten years ago,” Adrian continues, his voice low. “No leads. No ransom. Just… gone.”

I cover my mouth, my stomach sinking. “Oh.”

“She was sixteen.” He takes a long drink. “No one believed me when I said it wasn’t a runaway case. Not the police. Not the press. Not even my own father. I was the only one who kept looking.”

My chest aches.

“What happened?” I whisper.

“I never found her,” he says. “But I found the people who took her. And I’ve been hunting them ever since.”

Everything makes more sense now. The obsession. The rage. The need for control. This isn’t just a mission for Adrian—it’s personal.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He doesn’t reply. Just finishes his drink and sets the glass down with a soft clink.

A long silence stretches between us. It’s heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just… real.

“I don’t want to lose anyone else,” Adrian says.

The words are quiet. Raw.

And for the first time, I see him not as the cold billionaire, or the mysterious alpha with secrets, but as a man who's been carrying grief for a decade, wearing it like armor.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, surprising even myself.

He looks at me. Really looks at me.

The air shifts. That strange energy from the ballroom returns—hot, electric, magnetic. I feel it humming under my skin, tugging me toward him.

“I’m still not sure I believe all this mate bond stuff,” I murmur.

“You don’t have to believe it,” he says, stepping closer. “You already feel it.”

I want to argue. But I don’t. Because he’s right.

I feel it.

The pull. The fire.

And when his hand brushes mine, I don’t pull away.

He leans in, his voice a whisper against my skin. “I’ve been fighting this. Fighting you.”

“Why?”

“Because wanting you makes you a target.”

My heart skips.

“I’m already a target,” I say. “Might as well get something out of it.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. But he doesn’t kiss me.

Instead, he steps back.

“You should get some sleep,” he says, his voice rough. “We have work to do tomorrow.”

And just like that, the moment breaks.

I watch him walk away, disappearing back into the shadows, leaving me standing in the moonlit room with a drink in my hand and a storm brewing in my chest.

He’s right—we do have work to do.

Because whoever’s behind this?

They’re going to wish they never messed with me.