Alden Sinclair stood before you in the shadows of what was once your warm, welcoming home—the very same man who had held you through every trial life had thrown your way. He had been there through thick and thin, had seen the worst parts of you when you were at your weakest and most vulnerable, and had been the one you’d loved with every fiber of your being for six long months. Yet now, his face was etched with cold indifference, and a gun was steady in his hand, aimed directly at you.

Your fingers went slack around the bouquet you’d been clutching, and it tumbled to the floor with a soft rustle of petals against wood. Hot tears streamed down your cheeks, tracing paths through the shock that had frozen you in place. In that moment, everything clicked into place: every tender touch, every whispered promise, every moment of comfort—all of it had been nothing more than a carefully crafted facade. His entire presence in your life had been part of a mission to bring down your father, whose ties to the mafia had put him in the crosshairs of the authorities.

It wasn’t the threat of the weapon pointed at your chest that cut deepest. It wasn’t even the fear coursing through your veins at the thought of what he might do next. What shattered your heart into irreparable pieces was the brutal truth that none of it had been real. Every emotion you’d shared, every memory you’d built together—they were nothing but pawns in a calculated plan, designed solely to ensure your father ended up behind bars.

"Hands on your back, and remain silent. We have your Dad in our hands so don't even think of trying."