Paradise Hotel, Private Suite
"You're charging us way too much, Mr. Soren," the middle-aged man grumbled, leaning forward in his chair. "We've been your regular buyers for years. Shouldn't our relationship count for something?"
Soren took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze icy and unwavering. "Mr. Nolan," he replied, his voice low and cold, "I care about profit, not relationships. And don't think I don't know you double the price and resell my goods. Don't try to play smart with me. If you're not interested in the deal, there are plenty of others lining up to take your place."
Nolan's face paled, his lips twitching in nervous haste. "No, no, Mr. Soren. Of course not. We'll take the deal. Let's finalize it now."
Moments later, the paperwork was signed, and Nolan hastily exited the suite. Once alone, Soren walked toward the large window, his drink in hand, gazing at the city skyline beyond the storm-smeared glass. Dark clouds hovered ominously overhead, the distant rumble of thunder echoing through the sky.
Just then, his assistant, Riyan, stepped in with a respectful bow. "Sir, I've booked the room on the top floor, as requested. Any other orders?"
Soren didn't turn to look at him. "Any news about my Sweetheart?"
Riyan hesitated. "No, sir. Our intel team is still searching. If we had a photo, the process would've been easier. I'm sorry."
With a flick of his hand, Soren dismissed him. Riyan bowed once more and quietly left.
Soren remained by the window, his voice a whisper of ice as he stared into the storm. "How long will you keep hiding from me, Sweetheart? One way or another… you will end up in my arms. Just a little longer."
---
Moments Later
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
As Soren stepped out, a girl stumbled into his chest. She reeked of alcohol or something stronger, her balance barely held by the fragile sway of her frame.
His sharp, cold eyes locked on her.
She slowly lifted her head. Strands of her hair clung to her flushed face. Her half-lidded eyes were red, dazed. She was clearly intoxicated.
And then… everything stopped.
Soren froze.
His heartbeat surged violently.
Only one word left his lips, unbidden, breathless. "Sweetheart."
Freya blinked up at him with hazy confusion, then suddenly buried her face against his chest. Her voice was hoarse, cracked, needy. "I feel hot… so hot…"
Soren blinked, returning to his senses. He looked down at her, carefully studying the curve of her neck. That familiar mark — a butterfly tattoo just below her collarbone — snapped something inside him.
His Sweetheart.
Without another word, he swept her into his arms.
Freya instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, her body nestling into his like a lost puzzle piece.
Soren couldn't tear his eyes off her face. His usually cold eyes shimmered red, the storm outside reflected in their depths.
---
Inside the Room
Soren laid Freya gently on the bed. As he began to pull away, her hand shot out, gripping his collar tightly.
In one swift move, he landed above her.
She rubbed her face against his chest like a kitten seeking warmth. Soren's breathing grew ragged, eyes burning with something dark and primal.
A strange heat began to surge through his veins.
Something was wrong.
His mind flashed to Nolan's smirk as he'd left earlier. The wine... it had been drugged.
Rage flickered inside him, but it was too late.
The drug had already taken hold.
His gaze dropped to Freya's parted lips, glistening and trembling. A surge of hunger overwhelmed him. He leaned down, brushing her mouth with his own.
Then kissed her.
But it wasn't gentle.
His kiss deepened, teeth grazing, biting—eliciting a painful gasp from Freya.
She tried to push him away, but he held her tightly, her strength no match for his.
Soren's control shattered.
He kissed down her neck, trailing to her collarbone, and then to her shoulder, pulling her dress aside as he claimed every inch with his mouth. Freya was too weak to resist, her limbs barely moving.
The storm outside raged louder now. Rain pounded the windows. Lightning lit the darkened room.
Their clothes lay discarded on the floor. Soren leaned close to her ear, his voice a seductive promise, dark and possessive.
"You're mine now, Sweetheart. Only mine. Your body… your fate… everything belongs to me."
As he entered her, pain surged through Freya.
She cried out, but Soren smothered the sound with his mouth.
Tears welled in her eyes, slipping silently down her cheeks.
---
One Hour Later
Freya lay against his chest, unconscious from exhaustion and the remnants of whatever she had been given. Soren ran his fingers gently through her hair, watching her as though committing every feature to memory.
"You have no idea," he whispered, "how long I've searched for you. How many years I spent chasing shadows. And now that I have you… I'm never letting you go."
He held her tighter, finally allowing his eyes to close.
---
Morning
Freya's eyes fluttered open.
Pain shot through every part of her body. Her head pounded.
She sat up slowly, covering herself as the previous night came back in disjointed flashes.
The party… the drink… the boy her family forced her to meet… the drugged wine… her escape…
And then—
Her breath caught.
She looked down at her bare skin.
Love bites—angry red bruises—marred her neck and chest.
Tears stung her eyes as she scrambled off the bed, grabbing her clothes and throwing them on in haste. Her heart pounded as she opened the door, unable to bear seeing the man whose name she didn't even know—only the word "Sweetheart" on his lips.
At the door, she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, "I hope we never meet again."
And then she was gone.
---
An Hour Later
Soren's eyes opened.
The space beside him was empty.
His gaze swept the room—no sign of Freya.
His jaw clenched. He stepped out of bed, noticing the missing clothes on the floor.
She had left.
Without a word.
A cold breath left his lips.
"You shouldn't have left me like that, Sweetheart," he muttered. "Did you really think I wouldn't find you again?"
He picked up his phone and called Riyan.
"Yes, sir?" came the assistant's voice.
"Check the hotel security footage. My Sweetheart left my room this morning. I want every detail. Now."
Riyan's breath hitched. "Y-yes, sir. Right away."
As he hung up, Soren's eyes landed on the crimson stain on the bedsheets.
His expression darkened—not with guilt, but with a twisted satisfaction.
She was his now.
Forever.
He slipped on his suit jacket and stepped outside.
Ten luxury cars waited at the hotel entrance. A guard opened the door of the Rolls-Royce.
Soren got in.
And the convoy rolled out.
—--
Blackwood Residence
SLAP!
The harsh sound rang through the lavish living room.
Freya's cheek burned.
She stared at the woman in front of her—Helena Blackwood, her stepmother.
"We told you to seduce that boy, trap him into marriage. And what did you do?" Helena hissed. "You ran off and spent the night with someone else."
From the sofa, Amelia—her stepsister—smirked while scrolling on her phone.
Helena's voice was venomous. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? Just because we refused to pay for your mother's surgery."
Freya's eyes welled with tears.
"I told you," Helena sneered. "Marry that boy, and we'll save your dying mother. But now? Forget it. You've lost your only chance."
Freya trembled. Her mother's surgery was just days away.
A pair of servants placed a suitcase in the foyer.
Freya looked at them in confusion.
"You don't live here anymore," Helena said coldly. "You and your mother have always been nothing but a burden. Now get out."
Her voice cracked. "Does Dad know about this?"
Helena smiled cruelly. "What do you think?"