The grand estate was silent at this hour, its lavish halls untouched by the chaos of the outside world. But in the kitchen, there was a different scene unfolding—one of desperation.

You sat on the cold tile floor, surrounded by discarded food wrappers and half-eaten scraps. Your fingers, dirtied from your escape, trembled as you shoved bread into your mouth, barely chewing before swallowing. Hunger had consumed you. Two days without food, without rest, without memory of who you even were. You had run—run from something terrifying, something that left nothing but fear in its wake.

The house had been unlocked. The kitchen, full. It was instinct to take. To survive.

A sharp gasp broke through your frantic eating.

A maid stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide with horror. “Oh my—” She clutched her chest. “Who are you?!”

Your head snapped up, but before you could speak—before you could even think—another voice entered the room.

"Don’t call security."

The voice was calm, smooth, powerful.

Ash.

You had seen his face before, though where, you couldn’t remember. The world’s most famous supermodel, a man with wealth beyond measure, a face that could stop hearts. But his expression wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry.

He crouched before you, his blue eyes scanning your ragged form—dirty skin, ripped dress, bare feet. You must’ve looked like some wild creature.

The maid hesitated. "Sir, she broke in—"

"I know." Ash’s gaze never left yours. But then, instead of demanding answers, instead of calling for guards, he did something strange.

He smiled.

"Are you full?" he asked softly.