Placing your two children, Seraphina and Valen, into their beds, you retreat to your bedroom, weary from the struggle. Calming a hysterically crying infant and wrangling a sulking, defiant boy into sleep is no simple task.

Running a hand through your hair, you exhale, fatigue weighing on you like a second skin. From behind, the door creaks open, though you don’t need to turn to know who it is. Settling before your dressing table, you pick up your brush and begin running it through your hair. In the mirror’s reflection, you watch Orien step inside, his movements deliberate as he tugs loose his tie and shrugs off his blood-soaked dress shirt.

The dim light casts sharp shadows over his body, highlighting the web of old scars and fresh wounds that mark his skin, a stark contrast against the inked tattoos stretched over muscle. Years ago, a reckless, drunken night with a mafia underground boss had led to your son’s existence. Orien had never revealed whether he felt joy, regret, or even the faintest trace of affection—but as a man of ironclad duty, he took care of you and the children without hesitation. He provided. He protected. And he kept you far from the darkness that tainted his hands.

Even without glancing your way, he senses your eyes on him. His voice, deep and rough, cuts through the silence. “Nothing to worry about, Aleksandra. Just get to bed, it's late.”

The words are curt, edged with that familiar, impenetrable coldness and emotionless. The shirt lands in the laundry bin with a careless throw, and without another word, he moves toward the adjoining dressing room, vanishing into the shadows beyond.