Chapter 3 – Liam's POV
When I finally regained consciousness, my instincts kicked in. I dialled the code to the hidden safe room and pushed the door open, heart pounding like a war drum. I stumbled out, my eyes scanning the chaos. Blood. Silence. Destruction.
"Mum?" My voice cracked. "Mum!"
No answer. Just the echo of my own trembling voice. I dropped to my knees, hot tears burning tracks down my cheeks. My father had always warned me—a man doesn't cry. But I couldn't stop. Not today.
I remembered that day he made me shoot my childhood dog—just to see if I could take pain and not flinch. "Emotion makes you weak," he said. But here I was, breaking.
Then—a low, gurgling moan.
My head snapped around.
Lyra.
I ran to her, her body crumpled in a corner, blood soaking through her dress. I cradled her head in my lap, trying to apply pressure to the wounds, though I knew—deep down—it was already too late.
"Lyra, stay with me! What happened? Who did this?" My voice was ragged with desperation.
Then, she laughed. Not the warm, light laugh I remembered. This was broken. Dark. Hollow.
"My sister... and my family... we're all in on this..." she gasped, her breath ragged, her words sharp as blades.
I froze.
"I brought them here," she said. Her eyes locked onto mine—cold, distant, soulless.
"I hate you, Liam. I wish you died. You and your family..." She choked, the words drowning in blood. "My sister... hates you more. I... I... h—"
Her eyes glazed over. Her body fell limp in my arms.
Silence.
The world stopped.
I gently laid her down and turned toward my mother. Her lifeless eyes stared upward, frozen in terror. I knelt beside her and carefully closed them, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
A single white lily, shattered and stained with crimson, lay beside her. I placed it gently in her hands—her favourite flower. She didn't deserve to die like this. She was the light in our cold, bloody world.
I stumbled through the wreckage. My father's body was nowhere to be seen—buried beneath the heap of guards and fallen men, perhaps. I didn't stop to confirm. I couldn't.
Survival instincts took over. I found a large duffel bag and stuffed it with cash and important documents. My father's phone—cracked but functional—was next. His contact list would become my arsenal.
And then, the silver bracelet.
Delicate. Precious. Etched with charms from our travels together. I unclasped it from my mother's wrist, pressing it to my lips.
A promise. A reminder.
I turned back to Lyra's body—no, not Lyra. Not anymore. A ghost. A betrayal. A lesson.
This was only the beginning.
The one responsible for this? They wouldn't get peace. They wouldn't get forgiveness.
They'd get me.