Rescued By Ruin

‎She walked.

‎Barefoot.

‎One step after another on Beltforte’s unforgiving streets—her feet bleeding from glass shards and gravel, but she didn’t feel them. Not really.

‎

‎The night was thick, heavy with rain that poured down in sheets, soaking her torn clothes until they clung to her like second skin. Her blouse was ripped at the shoulder, stained with something darker than mud. Her skirt hung lopsided, exposing bruises the streetlights politely ignored. One eye was swollen. Her lip—split. Her skin, ghost-pale beneath the flickering yellow glow of a lonely streetlamp.

‎

‎She held Rem’s stuffed rabbit to her chest like it might still warm her.

‎No bag. No coat. No shoes. No plan.

‎Just pain.

‎Just silence.

‎The world should’ve stopped. But it didn’t.

‎Cars passed. A few people stared. None of them came close. Not here. Not in the Deadzone—the place between districts, where cameras never worked and screams echoed until they were forgotten.

‎

‎And still, she walked.

‎

‎Because there was nothing left in her.

‎

‎Not for Rem. Not for herself. Not for this cold, cruel city.

‎

‎It took her nearly an hour to reach the bridge.

‎

‎The wind picked up, howling through the cables like it was singing for her. Or mourning her.

‎

‎Castelle stood at the edge of the bridge like a lone shadow stitched into the dusk—scared and all alone. The Beltforte skyline, usually romantic with its aristocratic design and domed rooftops, blurred through her tears. Below, the river churned—dark, cold, with an unforgiving current. Certain death.

‎

‎Her bare hands gripped the icy railing, knuckles white. She didn’t want to die—not exactly. She just didn’t want to feel anymore.

‎

‎Memories echoed—the sharp sting of a slap, the blows and apologies that followed. The demeaning laugh. The indifferent silence. The empty apartment. The bruises masked with makeup. The babies she never got to meet.

‎

‎She closed her eyes.

‎Then came the voice. Calm. Deep. Powerful. Commanding.

‎“Don’t.”

‎Her heart faltered.

‎

‎A man stepped from the shadows. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His suit—black as sin—whispered wealth and danger. Eyes like obsidian locked on hers with terrifying stillness. A lock of stark white threaded through his pitch-black hair.

‎

‎He didn’t plead. He didn’t panic. He just stood there—still as stone.

‎

‎“Get down.”

‎“I—” Her voice cracked. “Please don’t come closer.”

‎“I won’t,” he said, voice smooth and controlled. “But if you jump, you’ll regret it. Not because you’ll die. Because you’ll miss the war you’re meant to fight.”

‎

‎She blinked. Who the hell was this man?

‎“I’m tired,” she said, voice shaking. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

‎“Yes, you do.” He took one step forward. “You just don’t remember how.”

‎She wavered.

‎“What’s your name?”

‎“Castelle.”

‎“I’m Kane.”

‎She’d heard that name before. Beltforte’s underworld whispered it like a prayer… and a curse.

‎Kane—the Don. The mafia king. The ruler. The ghost wrapped in Armani, expensive scent, and iron. Ruthless. Powerful. Untouchable.

‎“What… why are you here?” she asked.

‎“I came to find someone,” Kane said, voice low. “Looks like I found her.”

‎Castelle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m no one.”

‎“No. You’re someone—you just forgot. You’re shattered a bit. But not broken.”

‎He held out a gloved hand.

‎She hesitated. The wind howled. Her soul screamed.

‎Then she reached.

‎And he pulled her back—pulled her close.

‎Not just from the edge. From the grave she’d begun digging inside herself.

‎

‎---

‎

‎Later, in the warmth of his midnight-black Rolls-Royce, she sat trembling. Kane didn’t touch her. He simply handed her his coat. Didn’t question her. Just poured tea and gave her his silence—like it was the most valuable gift.

‎“You live alone?” he asked finally.

‎She nodded.

‎“You work?”

‎“I’m a kindergarten teacher.” Her voice was small.

‎A beat passed. “That explains the gentleness in your eyes.”

‎“You don’t even know me.”

‎Kane turned then, his gaze lethal and alive.

‎“I know pain,” he said. “And I know a fighter when I see one.”

‎She looked away.

‎He didn’t press. But something about the quiet authority in his presence made her feel seen—really seen—for the first time in years.

‎

‎And she hated how much she needed it.

‎

‎---

‎

‎Castelle didn’t know why she gave him her address.

‎She didn’t know why she let him walk her to her door—his body a shadow beside hers, his hand never quite touching the small of her back.

‎

‎“I don’t save people, Castelle,” he said at her doorstep.

‎“Then why save me?”

‎Kane’s eyes darkened.

‎“Because I couldn’t look away.”

‎Then he was gone.

‎And for the first time in years, Castelle cried.

‎Not from fear. Not from hopelessness.

‎But because someone had looked into her wreckage… and stayed.

‎

‎---

‎

‎

‎Castelle sat on the couch, still sobbing—loud and broken, like her heart was finally letting itself be heard. The silence of her apartment pressed in like a second skin, thick with dread. She curled tighter, clutching the coat Kane had left behind, the scent of him—a mix of stormy night, power, and something maddeningly expensive—still lingering.

‎

‎Then came the knock.

‎Three soft raps. Measured. Intentional.

‎Her breath hitched. Her body froze. Every nerve screamed danger.

‎She scrambled off the couch, tiptoed to the door, and peered through the peephole.

‎

‎No one.

‎Her pulse thundered. Her mind raced. It’s him. The man who’d done this. Her husband. He must’ve followed her. Come to finish what he started. Panic surged.

‎

‎She grabbed the nearest lamp—ceramic, heavy. Her fingers trembled around it, but her grip was firm. Rage and fear merged in her chest, a combustible mix.

‎

‎She unlocked the door.

‎Flung it open.

‎And swung.

‎But Kane was faster.

‎He caught the lamp mid-air, hand like iron.

‎Twisted her arm—gently, yet firmly—and pulled her in, his other arm wrapping around her, anchoring her with infuriating ease.

‎

‎“Castelle,” he said, voice low and steady.

‎The scent hit her first. That same commanding presence. That devastating calm.

‎Her knees buckled, heart slowing as recognition set in.

‎Kane.

‎The King of the mafia.

‎The Don.

‎

‎She sagged against him, chest still heaving, eyes wide with confusion and leftover fear.

‎

‎He didn’t speak. Just lifted her like she weighed nothing and carried her out the door.

‎

‎“No—put me down! bastard! You have no right!” she hissed, pushing at his chest, legs kicking. “Let me go! You think you can just barge in here and—!”

‎

‎Kane didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver.

‎

‎He walked like a man possessed, unbothered by her flailing or the insults she hurled at him. Her fists beat at his shoulders, her voice cracked from the screaming—but Kane? Kane was not bothered .

‎

‎He placed her in the back seat of the waiting Rolls Royce like a porcelain doll having a tantrum. Buckled her in. Then slipped into the car beside her.

‎

‎It drove off.

‎

‎She wept in silence this time, slumped against the window, worn from fighting shadows. Kane said nothing. He didn’t have to.

‎

‎When the gates opened, she barely noticed the stretch of land, the way the towering trees whispered secrets, the sharp security team that flanked the perimeter like ghosts.

‎

‎They arrived at his estate. "The Abyss."

‎The mansion rose like a sanctuary for secrets—black stone, sharp lines, lit windows glowing against the night like embers.

‎But Castelle was too drained to marvel. Too broken to react.

‎She slumped slightly, unconsciously leaning into Kane’s side as the car came to a halt.

‎

‎He stepped out first.

‎Then turned, reached in, and gathered her in his arms once more.

‎She didn’t fight this time.

‎Didn’t have the strength.

‎And as he carried her through the grand entrance, under the vaulted ceilings and into the shadows of The Abyss, she wondered if she’d just traded one kind of prison… for another.

‎But at least this one came with silence.

‎And warmth.

‎And strangely, safety.

‎

‎---

‎

‎