Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Fabien let out a long, controlled sigh the moment the door clicked shut behind him. He slowly removed the blanket covering his lap, revealing the fresh bandage wrapped tightly around his thigh. The wound still looked angry, raw—a stark reminder that death had brushed past him again. From where I was standing, I could see every subtle tension in his posture, the way his fingers curled slightly, as if restraining something deeper than pain. He had enemies—too many enemies—and it wasn’t a matter of if someone would try to kill him, but when.

I didn’t know exactly which rival from the black market was after him this time. Maybe it didn’t even matter anymore. Attempts on his life had become routine, survival a constant expectation.

Earlier, his father had scolded him again. I hadn’t been there, but I could imagine it perfectly: Don Vitto’s voice, commanding and sharp, filling a room no one dared speak loudly in. Everything with his father was always about control, never conversation.

Was it really his fault, though?

Fabien had grown tired of being shadowed constantly, followed around like a caged animal. Ever since he had been kidnapped as a child—ever since that traumatic incident—his father had insisted on surrounding him with bodyguards at all times. Dozens of them. Shadows that never left. He told me once, almost casually, how it was back in high school:

The boys laughed at him.

The girls adored him.

But the illusion of untouchable power always shattered when armed men appeared behind him like a moving wall. It ruined everything—his image, his pride, the idea that he could live a normal life. People whispered. They called him names. Papa’s boy. Some said worse—that he was hiding behind a tough exterior, a “bad boy” image that wasn’t real.

No one understood the truth.

No one understood what it meant to be kidnapped, to have fear carved into your very bones, so deep that it never left. No one understood why he hated blood—not just discomfort or fear, but a terror rooted in the most irreversible trauma imaginable.

Even his father didn’t understand. Don Vitto believed fear was weakness, something to crush, not heal. But the mind doesn’t work that way, especially when the fear is tied to something irreversible, something permanent. Especially when the blood he feared had once belonged to someone he loved.

And his fear didn’t end with trauma—it came with guilt. With memories that refused to fade. With a past no therapy could erase.

Cataleya's POV

Meanwhile, I had slept like the dead.

It surprised me. I had expected to toss and turn all night, overthinking every word, every movement, every interaction. But exhaustion had claimed me completely. Even my body had surrendered. I stretched lazily, scratching my underarm without a care in the world—until a sharp clearing of a throat sliced through the quiet room.

I froze. Slowly, I turned my head.

There he was. Watching me.

“Hey!” I yelped, instantly pulling the blanket up to cover my chest. “What are you doing here?!”

“Picking you up,” Fabien said flatly, as if that was the most normal thing in the world.

Only then did I notice how he was standing—slightly leaning, one hand gripping the injured thigh. The bandage was visible beneath his clothes.

My annoyance vanished instantly.

“Where’s your wheelchair?” I asked, rushing to his side, grabbing his arm. “Didn’t the doctor say you shouldn’t be standing?”

I glanced toward the door. There it was. Outside. Of course.

“Come on,” I muttered, guiding him toward it. “What do you even need this early in the morning? Did you really bring your nanny along?”

He was ridiculously big.

And here I was, barely half his size, trying to support him like I could actually carry him. I wasn’t that small—I stood at 5’3—but beside him, I felt tiny.

“I need sex.”

I choked. Literally choked. I stopped walking and looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Then I laughed.

I couldn’t help it. It was absurd.

“S-serious?” I managed to ask, still coughing a little.

He didn’t look amused. If anything, he looked mildly irritated.

“You can’t even properly step on one leg,” I said, shaking my head, “and that’s what’s on your mind?”

“Who says I’ll use my legs?” he said smoothly. “You’ll use yours.”

My mouth fell open.

No words came out.

Because what the hell was I supposed to say to that?

I pushed the wheelchair instead. Safer. Definitely safer.

We were just entering the mansion when his father appeared, like a storm waiting at the door.

“Fabien,” Don Vitto called, calm but commanding. “Don’t get used to sitting on that chair. I need you attending business meetings again. The election is coming, and I badly need you.”

Ah. That was it. Not concern. Not relief. Just business.

“Papa, you heard the doctor,” Fabien replied evenly. “Four days.”

The older man exhaled sharply, clearly displeased. His gaze shifted toward me briefly, sharp and assessing. I offered a polite, restrained smile.

“I’m reminding you,” he continued, “you might start enjoying that wheelchair too much. You’re not crippled. I know what you want. You’re a grown man now. Thirty-one.”

I blinked.

“Thirty-one already?” I whispered, glancing up at Fabien. His expression was calm but there was a flicker in his eyes—sharp, almost amused. “You look… older.”

He shot me a look that told me I should probably shut up. I didn’t.

“You don’t have to push him like that, Vitto,” a new voice cut in sharply.

I stiffened. That voice. I recognized it instantly.

Fredrin. The man who had punched me yesterday, standing casually near the bushes, hands in pockets, like he hadn’t just inflicted a mild panic attack on me.

“S-s-he slapped me,” I whispered to Fabien, leaning in slightly, and my lips brushed his ear accidentally. He flinched just slightly, and I noticed a fleeting twitch of amusement cross his features.

Fredrin continued, calm and authoritative, “Fred is free for now. He can accompany us to the meetings. We can’t pause business just because Fabien was shot. Let him rest first.”

I noticed the tension flicker in Fabien’s shoulders. His father’s will was heavy on him, always, but Fabien carried something else: a stubbornness, a refusal to let anyone see him falter. And yet, even in his defiance, his body betrayed him, trembling slightly from the effort of staying upright.

As we navigated the hallways of the mansion, I realized how surreal all of this was. I was walking beside the heir of a criminal empire, a man both terrifying and intoxicating, injured and yet undeniably dominant. The power he held in any room—even this one, filled with silence—was magnetic. And yet, I knew the layers beneath it: the trauma, the fear, the constant expectation to be perfect.

I didn’t know which was stronger—the allure of his dominance or the vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see. But I knew one thing: being near him made my heart race in ways I couldn’t control.

By the time we reached the private elevator, Fabien’s father had already retreated, leaving a lingering presence of authority behind him. The weight of it pressed on the air, reminding Fabien that nothing in his life was ever simple. Every step he took, every decision he made, was under scrutiny, tethered to the legacy of a name that demanded obedience.

And here I was, caught in the whirlwind of his world, powerless but willing, utterly fascinated by the contradictions that made him who he was: a man who could command fear yet be haunted by it, a dangerous figure with a hint of fragility, a predator trapped by his own demons.

He glanced at me briefly, that sharp intensity softening ever so slightly as if acknowledging that I had seen something others never would. And in that look, I understood him better than anyone else possibly could—not the legend, not the heir, but the man.

And maybe that made this even more dangerous.

Because now I wasn’t just a bystander. I was involved. Already entangled. And no one, not even Fabien himself, could predict where that would lead.