---
It had been exactly two years, three months, two hours, and three hundred fifty seconds since Arin last saw Lucien.
Not that he was counting.
And yet, every second since that final moment played in his mind like a broken film reel—flickering, burning, never stopping. Time hadn't moved forward; it had simply existed around him while he stayed trapped in that final memory. The sound of Lucien's voice. The curve of his smirk. The warmth of his hand disappearing from Arin's grasp.
He had searched for him like a madman.
There were no limits. No boundaries. No rules.
For two months straight, Arin turned cities upside down. His name—once whispered with curiosity—became synonymous with dread. He raided safe houses, interrogated every name linked to Lucien's past, and paid off every informant with blood or coin. But Lucien had vanished like a ghost, careful and clever. As if he had been erased.
And after two months of running through ash, Arin finally did what he swore he never would.
He gave up.
He walked into his father's estate, eyes dead and spine straight, and signed the contract that made him heir to the empire he loathed. A legacy built on blood, cruelty, and manipulation. A throne made of knives.
It wasn't ambition that drove him to it.
It was desperation.
He traded his pride for power. Money for silence. Control for pain. If he couldn't find Lucien in the light, he would claw through the darkest corners of the underworld to reach him.
And so, Arin became what the world feared.
Cold. Ruthless. Impeccably dressed, with a blade for a tongue and eyes that felt nothing. He conducted meetings with a calm that unnerved the oldest criminals. He signed deals while bodies rotted beneath the floorboards. His smile never reached his eyes, and his silence was the most dangerous weapon in the room.
The Ice Prince, they called him.
But none of them knew the truth.
He hadn't moved on. Not even close.
In the penthouse overlooking the city, where he lived like a king in a glass tower, Arin still clung to the past like a dying man to air. Every night, he wore Lucien's old black shirt to bed—the one two sizes too big, frayed at the collar. He never washed it, afraid the scent would fade. The shirt smelled like sandalwood, ink, and something Arin could never describe. Something that smelled like home.
He still ate from Lucien's plate.
Still drank from his chipped mug, the one he always said tasted better when Lucien held it.
All of Lucien's sketches remained untouched. Framed. Displayed. Protected. They lined the walls like sacred art—Arin drawn sleeping, frowning, crying, sometimes smiling.
Every piece was a heartbeat he could no longer hear.
The world, however, demanded performance. His father watched him like a hawk, always testing for weakness, always dragging him to the public eye. So Arin gave them a show. He agreed to a fake engagement—Arzal, his childhood friend. A boy with a gentle heart and understanding eyes. They smiled for cameras, held hands at social events, and played the perfect couple on glossy magazine covers.
But behind closed doors, they were silent.
Arzal knew the truth. He never asked for more. He never tried to replace what was gone.
They shared nothing but secrets.
Arin didn't love anymore. He didn't feel in front of others. He kept everything locked behind a mask carved from grief.
He had become untouchable.
Unreachable.
But never healed.
---
Until that day.
The day the silence cracked.
Riya, his top informant, entered his study without knocking. That alone was unusual.
She looked pale.
Arin didn't glance up from the document he was signing. "Talk."
"There's… been a sighting. At a hospital."
His pen paused mid-stroke.
Her voice tightened. "XXX City Hospital. The CCTV footage caught a man—heavily changed. Stronger build, shorter hair—but the face match was flagged. 89% at first. But the handwriting from the hospital admission form… it's a 96% match to Lucien's."
Silence.
Riya stepped forward, placing a printout on the desk. A cropped image from security footage: Lucien. His face was partially hidden, but unmistakable. His posture, his profile, the faint scar on his jaw. He looked… different. Bulkier. Darker.
But it was him.
Standing beside a man Arin didn't recognize.
That was when the cold in Arin's veins turned into something far sharper.
"Who the fuck is that?" he asked, eyes locked on the man in the footage.
"We're still trying to identify him," Riya said carefully. "But they arrived together. He checked Lucien in."
She placed the second file down. "And this… this is the handwriting match from the patient intake form."
Arin stared.
Lucien's writing. Slanted. Sharp. Rushed at the tail.
He knew it better than his own.
And yet…
Why was Lucien at a hospital? Why now? What happened to him?
Why was another man taking care of him?
His hand curled into a fist.
That was his job. His right. His place.
And yet someone else stood there—close enough to touch him.
---
Later that night, the closet creaked open.
He reached for the locked cabinet behind his suits. Inside, protected by darkness and reverence, were the pieces of the life he once had. The paintings. The sketches. The shirt. The letter.
He touched the fabric slowly, running his fingers over the collar.
Then he pulled it on.
It clung to his body like a second skin.
Like a ghost's embrace.
Arin looked at himself in the mirror.
He didn't look like someone who loved.
He looked like someone who had been loved and lost—and turned that pain into a blade.
He reached for his gun.
It slid into its holster like it belonged there.
---
Just before leaving, his phone buzzed.
Riya again.
"Sir… one more thing. Your father just activated a location ping. You're being tracked."
Of course.
The old man was watching him again.
Arin's jaw clenched. "Can you disable it?"
"I tried. He hardwired the signal. He must've known you'd move if we found a trace."
Of course he knew. He always knew.
That Arin would never really let go.
That even buried under titles and power and pretend smiles, Arin was still his son.
Still a creature of love.
Still chasing a ghost.
He ended the call.
The war of his love was starting again.
But this time… he wasn't scared.
He was prepared.
Arin stepped into the elevator, dressed in black, eyes sharp.
And for the first time in years…
He was going to find what belonged to him.
No matter who stood in the way.