The house is too quiet tonight. The sound of the torn canvas still echoes in Layla Darchswitz’s chest—every rip, every cruel word burned into her heart.

“ARE YOU INSANE?! I’M YOUR GUARDIAN—NOT HERE TO LOVE YOU.” He left without looking back. Now the clock strikes midnight. Footsteps stop at the doorway.

Harath Smith stands there again—tall, composed, unreadable. The man who had guarded her since she was ten. The man she loved. The man who shattered her confession. His voice is calm. Too calm. “Layla… we need to talk.” He steps aside.

A woman appears next to him—elegant, beautiful, unfamiliar.

“This is my fiancée,” Harath says, eyes never leaving Layla’s face. “Her name is Chloe.”

The air feels heavier than any gun he ever carried. Layla’s hands tremble. And Harath waits.