4.

CHAPTER FOUR

MIKA'S POV

"Watch out!"

Elsa's scream cut through the air just as the masked man who had shot her turned his gun toward me.

My eyes widened.

For a moment, I couldn't move. I could only stare at the weapon pointed at me, my mind struggling to accept what was happening.

Then I squeezed my eyes shut and braced myself for the worst.

Perfect. Now I'm going to die pathetically like a rat.

Gunshots rang out.

I flinched, waiting for the pain that never came.

A second passed. Then another.

When nothing happened, I cautiously opened my eyes.

The masked man was lying on the floor, completely motionless. Blood spread beneath his body, staining the polished tiles.

He was dead.

I stared at him, unable to process what I was seeing.

Someone had just saved my life.

Again.

Before I could catch my breath, four security men rushed toward us. I recognized them immediately. They worked for my father and were among the men assigned to his personal security.

Two hurried to Elsa while the others kept their guns raised, watching the corridor for more attackers.

"GET IN THE ELEVATOR!" one of them shouted at me.

I didn't argue.

With trembling hands, I stumbled into the elevator as the guards helped Elsa inside. I pressed the button for the ground floor, and the doors slid shut.

For the first time since the shooting began, I had a moment to breathe.

Except I couldn't.

My heart pounded so violently that I thought it might burst out of my chest. I pressed my back against the elevator wall, trying to steady myself as I glanced at Elsa.

She was barely conscious.

One of the guards held her upright while another pressed a cloth against her wound. Blood had soaked through the material, and I couldn't stop staring at it.

She had been only a few feet away from safety.

A few more steps, and she would have made it.

But someone had shot her.

And she had been trying to get me to safety when it happened.

The thought settled heavily in my stomach.

I looked away, swallowing hard.

I didn't like Elsa. I still didn't trust her, and I certainly hadn't forgiven her for the way she treated me.

But I hadn't wanted her to get hurt. I hadn't wanted anyone to die.

"Is she going to be okay?" I asked before I could stop myself.

The guard pressing the cloth against her wound glanced at me.

"We're doing everything we can."

That wasn't an answer.

I looked at Elsa again, but she didn't move.

For some reason, I found myself wishing she would open her eyes and say something irritating. Anything at all.

The elevator doors opened, and the guards rushed out with her.

A line of black cars with tinted windows waited in the hotel's parking lot. Armed men stood beside them, their pistols drawn as they watched the surroundings.

Nobody explained what was happening. They simply moved as though they had rehearsed this exact situation a hundred times.

Two guards hurried toward one of the cars and opened the back door. Another helped Elsa inside, carefully supporting her injured body.

I climbed in beside her.

One of the guards handed me my bag and Elsa's wallet before shutting the door.

The engine roared to life. Within seconds, we were speeding out of the parking lot.

I sat rigidly in my seat, my hands gripping my bag as I stared out the window.

I had been shot at twice in less than a week.

Two separate attacks. Two different locations. And both times, someone had been hurt while trying to protect me.

What the hell was going on?

I turned toward Elsa.

Her head rested against the seat, her face pale and her breathing shallow. The guard beside her continued applying pressure to her wound, occasionally checking her pulse.

I wanted to ask if she was going to be okay.

The question sat at the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't bring myself to say it again.

Instead, I looked away and pressed my lips together.

I would ask later.

When she was conscious.

If she woke up.

---

It took us about twenty minutes to reach an estate I hadn't known existed in the city.

The moment the car stopped, the guards got out and helped Elsa onto a stretcher waiting at the entrance.

I followed them into the house.

It was magnificent, with marble floors, tall ceilings, and expensive paintings hanging along the walls. Yet there was something unsettling about the place. The security was tighter than anything I'd seen at my father's mansion, and several armed men stood at different points throughout the building.

This wasn't an ordinary house. It was a place meant to keep people in. Or keep people out.

I didn't have time to think about it.

"Where is she?!"

My father's voice echoed from somewhere inside the building.

"Where's Elsa?!"

I stopped walking.

Elsa?

Had Dad just asked about Elsa without even checking whether his own daughter was safe?

I stood there for a moment, waiting for someone to mention me.

To ask whether I had been hurt.

To ask if I was all right after nearly getting shot in a hotel corridor.

Nothing.

His voice came again.

"Get her upstairs! Call the doctors! Now!"

I followed the sound until I reached a room that appeared to be a study. My father was pacing from one end to the other, his hands resting on his waist.

He looked furious.

No, not furious.

Worried.

I'd seen my father angry countless times. I'd watched him threaten men twice his size without blinking and dismiss terrible news as though it meant nothing to him.

But I'd never seen him like this. He looked genuinely unsettled.

"How bad is it?" he demanded as one of his men approached him.

"She's been shot, boss. We're taking her to the medical room now."

"How bad is it?" he repeated, his voice rising.

"We don't know yet."

My father dragged a hand over his face.

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

I stared at him.

He looked like a man who had just been told someone important to him might die.

And for some reason, that hurt more than I wanted to admit.

I had spent my entire life wishing my father would look at me with that much concern. Even after he brought me out of the foster home, I had hoped that one day he would stop treating me like an inconvenience and start treating me like his daughter.

But here he was, practically losing his mind over a woman he had hired only days ago.

I slowly raised my hand and touched my chest.

"I'm right here, Dad."

He didn't hear me.

Or perhaps he chose not to.

"Who was responsible for securing the perimeter?" he demanded. "I was assured the entire place would be protected!"

One of his men lowered his head.

"We're still investigating, sir."

"Investigate faster. The council had better have an explanation for this."

He pulled out his phone and began walking toward the door.

I took a step forward.

"Dad—"

He walked straight past me.

Just like that.

He left me standing in the middle of the room with my questions unanswered.

I stared at the doorway long after he disappeared.

I couldn't believe it. I genuinely couldn't believe it. A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

Was I invisible?

Had I somehow become so unimportant that my own father couldn't spare a second to ask whether I was alive?

I wiped at my face, only then realizing how tightly I had been clenching my jaw.

"Ma'am?"

I turned.

One of the guards stood a few feet away, holding out my bag and Elsa's wallet.

"These are yours and Elsa's. The cars are being taken care of, so you don't need to worry about them."

I blinked at him.

"The cars?"

"Yes, ma'am."

I decided not to ask.

I was beginning to understand that my father's people had a way of making problems disappear without explaining where they went.

"Thank you," I muttered, reaching for my belongings.

The guard's hands trembled slightly, or perhaps I was imagining it. Either way, Elsa's wallet slipped from his fingers and hit the floor.

A small metallic object fell out, followed by an identification card.

"Sorry, ma'am!" he exclaimed, quickly bending to retrieve them. "I'm sorry."

"It's fine."

He handed them to me, looking so nervous that I almost felt bad for him.

Almost.

He hurried away before I could say anything else.

I looked down at the items in my hand.

The identification card caught my attention first. I picked it up. A photograph of Elsa stared back at me.

Except the name printed beneath it wasn't Elsa Jean. It read Claire Xavier.

I frowned.

What?

I turned the card over, hoping to find an explanation, but there was nothing that made the situation any clearer.

Why was Elsa using a different name?

Was it a fake identification card?

Had she changed her name?

Or was Elsa Jean not her real name at all?

I stared at the photograph again.

The woman in the picture looked exactly like Elsa, but the name made me question everything I thought I knew about her.

Not that I knew much to begin with.

I shook my head and slipped the card back into the wallet.

I'd ask her about it when she woke up. Assuming she woke up.

My gaze fell on the other object in my hand.

A small locket. I hesitated before opening it.

Inside was a photograph of a little girl who looked about five years old. She had missing front teeth and a wide smile, her cheeks round and her eyes bright with the kind of happiness children rarely knew how to hide.

It took me a moment to realize the little girl was Elsa.

I stared at the photograph.

She looked so different. Not just younger, but happier. There was something innocent about her expression, something that didn't match the cold, intimidating woman I'd come to know.

For a brief moment, I wondered what had happened to her.

What had turned that little girl into someone who could knock a grown man unconscious without hesitation?

Then I closed the locket. It wasn't my business.

I'd already looked at more than I should have. I placed both items back in the wallet and headed upstairs.

---

The medical room was unlike anything I'd expected to find inside a private estate.

It was fully equipped, with hospital beds, medical monitors, cabinets filled with supplies, and equipment that looked as though it belonged in a proper clinic.

Two doctors stood beside the bed where Elsa lay unconscious.

One was removing his gloves while the other checked the monitor beside her.

My father stood near the bed, watching every movement.

He hadn't even noticed me enter.

"Will she make it?" he asked.

One of the doctors glanced at him.

"Barely."

My stomach tightened.

The doctor continued.

"The bullet grazed her kidney, and she's lost a considerable amount of blood. Fortunately, she was brought here in time. We've removed the bullet and stabilized her condition."

I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

She was alive.

Thank God.

"She needs rest and close monitoring," the doctor added. "If there are no complications, she should recover over the coming days. However, we need to watch her carefully."

My father nodded.

"Good. Keep an eye on her. I want her alive."

He paused, looking down at Elsa.

"She's far too valuable to me."

I went still.

Far too valuable?

I looked at Elsa, then at my father.

What did that even mean?

Why was he so concerned about her? Why had he looked as though the world was ending when he'd heard she had been shot?

And why was he acting as though her life mattered more than mine?

I couldn't keep quiet any longer.

"What's happening here?"

My voice drew everyone's attention.

My father turned toward me, and for a moment, I saw the concern on his face disappear beneath his usual cold expression.

"What does it look like to you? Elsa is receiving treatment."

He walked toward me.

"What are you even doing here? You shouldn't be here."

I stared at him. I actually stared at him.

Was he serious?

"I wasn't finished talking to you when you walked out of the study," I said, squaring my shoulders. "I thought we could continue the conversation here."

He sighed and waved a dismissive hand.

"Not right now, Mika. I have other priorities."

I let out a sharp laugh.

"Other priorities?"

His expression darkened.

"Watch your tone."

"By other priorities, you mean Elsa?"

The words came out before I could stop them.

I didn't care. I was tired of being ignored. Tired of watching my father show concern for everyone except me.

He shot me a cold glare.

"Mika—"

"No, Dad. Seriously, what is going on? Someone shoots at me, and you barely ask whether I'm hurt. Elsa gets shot, and suddenly you're running around like a madman, demanding doctors and answers."

My voice cracked.

I hated that it did. I hated that, even now, some foolish part of me still wanted him to reassure me that I mattered.

"Why?" I whispered. "Why do you care so much about her?"

For a moment, he said nothing.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze shifted briefly toward Elsa.

That tiny movement was enough to make my stomach twist.

He was hiding something. I could feel it.

Before he could answer, the door opened. One of my father's men walked in.

Kendrick.

He was one of the few people in the household who occasionally spoke to me like I was an actual person instead of a problem that needed managing.

He looked from my father to the doctors, then hesitated.

"Sorry for the interruption, boss, but there's something you need to know."

My father turned toward him.

"What is it?"

Kendrick glanced at me before returning his attention to my father.

"We've been looking into the recent attacks."

"And?"

He hesitated again.

This time, I noticed the tension in his shoulders.

"These attacks might have something to do with your ex-wife, Phave."

My father's expression changed instantly.

"What?"

His brows drew together, and he took a step toward Kendrick.

"Explain yourself."

Kendrick swallowed.

"We found information connecting her to some of the people involved. We haven't confirmed everything yet, but there are indications that she might be involved."

The room fell silent.

I stood completely still.

Phave?

My mother?

The woman who had cursed me when I was seven? The woman who had blamed me for the collapse of her marriage and then disappeared from my life?

What did she have to do with any of this?

I looked at my father, waiting for him to deny it. To laugh and tell Kendrick that he had made a mistake.

To explain that there was no way my mother could be responsible fo

r the attacks.

But my father wasn't laughing. He was staring at Kendrick with an expression I had never seen before.

And suddenly, I understood something that frightened me more than the gunshots at the banquet.

Whatever was happening, my father might already know more than he was willing to tell me.

I swallowed hard, my feet rooted to the floor.

For the first time in years, I found myself thinking about the woman who had given birth to me.

What had you done, Phave?