Five years ago
Vyre City – Southside Gala
The ballroom was glowing with gold and glass. Crystal chandeliers lit the place like a thousand small suns, casting reflections across champagne glasses, pearl necklaces, and polished shoes.
Politicians, CEOs, celebrities—they were all there. Dressed to impress, fake-smiling like it was part of the dress code. The Southside Gala was one of the biggest charity events in Vyre City, organized by Mayor Diana Halbrook herself. All eyes were on her. And on her daughter.
Talia Halbrook.
The moment Bruce walked in, she was the first person he noticed—not because she was the most beautiful woman in the room (even though she was), but because she was the final piece in his puzzle.
"She's the daughter."
That night wasn't the beginning of something real.
It was the start of a mission.
He'd already studied her months before.
Her college history.
Where she shopped.
Who she dated.
What she liked.
What she hated.
And most importantly—how alone she really was.
Diana was never really a mother. She used Talia like a polished gem—tossed her into the spotlight when needed, then left her cold the rest of the time.
Perfect.
It made things easier.
Bruce wore a black suit that night, nothing flashy. No tie. His hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. He moved through the room like a shadow, shaking hands when needed, nodding when it fit. But his eyes—his eyes never left Talia.
She was standing near the balcony, alone with a glass of white wine, looking more bored than engaged. The moment he stepped up beside her, she didn't even turn. She just muttered, "If you're here to pitch another startup idea, save your breath. I'm not funding anyone tonight."
Bruce looked at her, calm. "I'm not selling anything."
She turned to him slowly, raising an eyebrow. "That's new."
"I'm just here for the view," he said.
She gave him a quick once-over. "You don't look like someone who likes views."
"And you don't look like someone who drinks wine she doesn't like."
She smirked, caught.
They spoke for twenty minutes.
Then thirty.
An hour.
She laughed twice. That was all he needed.
He played it cool, detached—just interesting enough to leave a mark, but mysterious enough to keep her wanting more.
When she asked for his name, he gave it with a hint of indifference.
"Bruce Dhark."
That was it. No title. No bragging. Just a man with eyes that had seen too much and lips that rarely smiled.
He let her ask the questions.
He gave just enough answers to make her curious.
When he walked away that night, he didn't ask for her number. He left first—like it didn't matter. Like she was the one who needed to chase.
She did.
A week later, she found him.
Through "coincidence" they met again at an art exhibit. He was already there when she arrived. Calm. Reading a book. Sitting in the quiet corner of the gallery.
She didn't believe in fate, but she asked him to coffee anyway.
He said yes.
That's how it began.
The Relationship
He never rushed it.
Bruce let it grow slow, let her peel away her layers. She told him things no one else knew. How her mother barely spoke to her unless there were cameras. How she always felt like a decoration, not a daughter. How her exes only saw her as a name or a prize.
He listened, nodded, offered little in return.
When she cried, he held her.
When she kissed him, he kissed her back.
When she said "I love you" for the first time, he looked her in the eyes and said it back without blinking.
She fell hard.
He never did.
One Night
They were lying in bed, her head on his chest, their breaths slow and steady.
She whispered, "You're different. I don't know what it is, but you're the only person I feel safe with."
Bruce stared at the ceiling, unmoved.
"I'm glad," he said, brushing his hand through her hair.
He didn't mean it.
Inside, his mind was sharp. Focused.
He was already two steps ahead.
Diana would accept the relationship. That was part of the plan. Bruce had built his wealth, his companies, his name—carefully climbing to the level where she couldn't ignore him. Couldn't say no.
And when the day came, she didn't.
Diana shook his hand like she'd forgotten what she did. Like her past wasn't soaked in blood. Like the little boy who watched his mother and sisters die wasn't standing right in front of her—smiling.
That was her mistake.
Present Day
Back in the present, Bruce stared out the window of his penthouse again.
The city lights danced in the glass.
Behind him, Talia was humming to herself in the bedroom. Folding laundry. Talking about something she saw on the news.
He said nothing.
He watched Vyre City like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.
She didn't know.
She couldn't know.
She was in love with a man who didn't exist. A perfect lie crafted out of pain and patience.
But that lie had a purpose.
And when the time came—
Diana Halbrook would lose everything.
And her daughter?
She was just part of the cost.
His phone buzzed.
He answered without checking the ID.
"Hello, Alfred."
A pause.
Then the voice on the other side, deep and smooth with a bit of static.
"We caught one of the guys. Name's Hector Lowa. The face checks out with the old security footage. Scar under his left eye. He was hiding in Eastport under a new name. We also rounded up his family. What's your next order, boss?"
Bruce didn't blink. His voice was calm.
"…Hold them. I'm coming."
He ended the call.
Behind him, Talia's voice floated in from the hallway. "Bruce? Everything okay?"
He turned his head slightly, eyes still on the glass. "Yeah. Just work. I'll be back late."
Talia poked her head into the room, drying her hair with a towel. "You just got back."
"I know."
She sighed and nodded, too used to it to ask questions. "Fine. Try not to overwork yourself, billionaire."
He gave her a small smile—fake, hollow—and walked to the closet.
---
Minutes Later
The black car cut through Vyre City's night like a bullet. Rain had started falling, light at first, tapping the windshield in rhythm. Bruce sat in the backseat, dressed in black once again. Gloves on. Hair tied back. Expression unreadable.
The car pulled into an abandoned lot near Eastport's shipping docks. A warehouse with no name, no cameras, no questions.
Inside, four men stood near a chair.
Tied to it was Hector Lowa—graying hair, mouth gagged, sweat running down his wrinkled forehead. His hands shook, and his eyes screamed louder than his voice ever could.
Beside him, huddled under a sheet in a corner, were a woman and two boys. His family.
Alfred, tall and sharp in his long coat, stepped forward the moment Bruce walked in.
"He was hiding for years. Went from city to city. But he slipped. One of our eyes spotted him three days ago at a gas station. We confirmed his face with the files from your vault. It's him."
Bruce stepped forward slowly. The sound of his shoes echoed across the concrete floor.
He looked at Hector for a long moment.
Then he crouched in front of him.
"You remember me?" Bruce asked, voice low.
Hector's eyes widened.
Bruce smiled faintly, leaning in just enough.
"You were the one who told my mother to shut her mouth before she got shot. You were the one who held my sister's arm when she tried to run."
Hector's body trembled. He tried to speak, to beg, but the gag blocked everything.
Bruce stood, quiet for a second.
Then looked at Alfred.
"Separate the family. Take them to another building."
Alfred nodded. Two of the men moved in instantly and dragged the woman and kids away, their cries echoing as they disappeared.
Now it was just Bruce and Hector.
And silence.
Bruce slowly walked to the table nearby. Laid out were gloves, a scalpel, a cloth, a vial, and a chair.
He sat in it calmly, crossing his legs.
"You're going to tell me every name. Every face. Who ordered the hit. Who paid. Where they are now."
Hector shook his head violently.
Bruce raised his eyes. "We're past the part where you get to say no."
He stood again and walked toward Hector slowly. Rain pounded the roof above like a war drum.
"Don't worry. I'm not going to kill you tonight."
He leaned in.
"I'm going to keep you alive until you give me the whole list. You and every one of you who thought my family's life was just a job."
He reached into his coat, pulled out a photo, and held it to Hector's face.
It was his mother.
Smiling. Holding a cake. The night before everything fell apart.
Bruce's voice dropped.
"She was all I had. And you… took her smile from me."
Then he dropped the photo, turned, and walked away into the dark of the warehouse.
Behind him, Alfred stepped forward.
"I'll begin."
Bruce didn't look back.
"Good. Start with his fingers."