Ivana strode toward the mansion doors with lethal grace, each click of her heels echoing like a warning. She rang the bell twice. The heavy doors slid open, revealing two maids who bowed deeply in practiced deference. She gave them a curt nod and swept inside without a word.
The doors sealed shut behind her with a final, ominous click, leaving her alone in the vast living room.
Her emerald eyes swept over the space with cold detachment, this house that had once pretended to be home.
Framed photographs lined the walls like carefully curated lies: perfect smiles, warm embraces, the illusion of a devoted family.
She stared at them with open disgust, her gaze hollow. If only the world knew the rot festering beneath those polished surfaces. If only they understood the monster wearing the mask of Mr. Louis Moore, pillar of society, old-money aristocrat, a silent demon cloaked in humility.
A snake among saints.
The cruelest man she had ever known.
The real darkness hadn't begun at her birth or even when he destroyed her company. It had started in high school, on a day she had buried so deeply that not even her mother, not Edna, not even Kacy knew the truth.
A scar so vicious it still bled every time she looked at him.
She wore her masks well, warm smiles for the world, poised elegance in public, but in this house, every breath tasted like ash and old trauma.
She drew in a slow, steadying breath and walked to his office. Her fingers closed around the brass knob. Her heart finally calm, she turned it and stepped inside.
The room screamed old money and quiet power. Dark mahogany panels lined the walls, absorbing light and secrets alike. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves groaned under leather-bound tomes and rare first editions.
A massive antique desk dominated the center, its surface gleaming under the golden glow of a green banker's lamp. Behind it, heavy velvet drapes framed tall windows that overlooked manicured gardens, keeping the outside world at a calculated distance.
The air smelled of aged whiskey, polished wood, and faint cigar smoke. Oil paintings of stern ancestors watched from the shadows, their eyes following every movement like silent judges.
Louis Moore sat in a high-backed leather chair, his legs crossed atop the desk as he read a newspaper through gold-rimmed glasses.
In his early seventies, his silver hair was impeccably styled, his sharp jaw still strong beneath wrinkled but commanding features.
He looked every inch the distinguished patriarch, until you noticed the emptiness in his eyes and the calculated cruelty lurking beneath the surface.
He slowly lowered the newspaper, meeting her glare with mild amusement.
Ivana snorted.
Without waiting for an invitation, she strutted forward, her heels stabbing against the hardwood like daggers. She shoved the chair back with deliberate force and sank into it like a queen claiming hostile territory, legs crossed, her posture proud and unyielding.
Her heels clacked once, twice, then fell silent as she turned her glare toward the large photograph behind him: a younger version of herself, smiling brightly while hugging both her parents.
*Disgusting.*
Fucking bloody show-off.
This so-called happy family was pure fiction.
Her skin crawled with revulsion.
Louis dropped the newspaper, removed his legs from the desk, and leaned back with professional composure, folding his hands.
"To what do I owe this… uninformed visit?"
He asked smoothly.
Her lips pressed into a thin, dangerous line. Their emerald eyes, identical in shade and sharpness, clashed.
"Finally acknowledging my presence, Mr. Louis?"
She spat, voice dripping acid.
"Oh really? No more 'Dad'? Ouch. I do miss hearing you call me Daddy."
He smiled, evil, mocking, and laced with venom.
She scowled, hissing through her teeth. Damn him for passing down that sharp, sarcastic tongue, especially that phrase she always used, Oh, really? It was his greatest curse and her sharpest weapon.
"Let's be realistic, Mr. Louis,"
She said coldly.
"The show is over. No press, no cameras. If you want to hear 'Dad' from my lips again, you might as well call the media, you asshole."
He chuckled, low and amused.
"Still quick with the comebacks. Understandable. You inherited that talent for shutting people down from me."
Her eyes narrowed, scanning him with open contempt. Crisp white shirt, black suit trousers, tie loosened around his neck, blazer draped over the back of his chair. He looked like he'd just returned from another meeting where he likely ruined lives for sport.
"Tsk. Who did you destroy this time, Mr. Louis?"
"Are you bothered, or just faking that you care? Because if you ar.…"
He began, but his voice faltered as he noticed her staring at the family photo with pure disgust. A dry, bitter laugh escaped her lips.
The tension in the room thickened like smoke—poisonous, heavy, and decades in the making. Father and daughter, bound by blood and buried sins, facing each other across the desk like predators circling the same kill.
"Care? Let's not insult each other with pretty lies, Mr. Louis. We both know care doesn't exist inside these walls. I only asked because you're still dressed like you've just come from ruining someone else's life."
Her words were poison wrapped in silk.
Louis's eyes glittered with cruel amusement. He clutched his chest in mock heartbreak, wiping away nonexistent tears.
"Oh dear. Here I was, foolishly hoping my daughter might actually care. My mistake."
The fake gesture made her fingers itch for a blade.
"So tell me,"
She continued, voice laced with mocking sweetness.
"Whose name did you add to your death list this time?"
His smirk deepened into something colder, sharper. A soft, wicked chuckle escaped him before his expression hardened into pure ice. He leaned forward, pressing both palms flat against the desk, meeting her gaze with dead, unfeeling eyes.
"It would be pathetic if the only reason you dragged yourself back into this house was to inquire about my latest victim. Enough with the games, Ivana. Why are you really here?"
Her fake smile dissolved.
For a moment, she toyed with the bracelets on her wrist, twisting the delicate chains until one nearly snapped. She hissed in annoyance, kissing her teeth loudly before lifting her gaze to meet his.
"Since you asked so nicely… I'm not here to trade sarcasm with you. I'm here because I want to know who the hell gave you the right to keep trying to destroy my happiness."
Her voice dropped into something lethal.
"Wasn't once enough? Now you're coming for me again?"
Louis's smirk twisted into a full, vicious grin. He leaned even closer, eyes locked with hers in a battle of emerald fire.
"Some things aren't meant to last, daughter. Especially your happiness."
His voice was soft, almost tender, yet dripping with malice.
"You don't deserve it, Ivana. You never have. You deserve sorrow. Misfortune. Endless tears. I thought you learned that lesson clearly enough back in high school."
The words sliced through her like poisoned blades, reopening wounds she had spent years stitching shut.
For a second, the old trauma surged, the hidden scars in her heart, even the small scar at the back of her left hand, so faint that unless you looked closely, you would never notice it. Even her husband didn't know about it.
But this was real. And his words didn't land like a dagger or a poisoned arrow; instead, in a sick way, they felt like home, like when she visited her birth house and sometimes forgot about the scars, tears, and pain she had endured.
His cold, cruel words reminded her again that she wasn't in a safe place or even in her husband's world, but in her family's house, a place that forced her to remember a buried past, deep like a knife: sorrows, tears, and pain that Kacy had never known about.
Her mother might know, but as always, she paid deaf ears, as though it meant nothing. Those pasts were something she never wanted anyone to know, something she intended to take to her grave, because if her husband ever knew, it would only mark the beginning of another cycle of blackmail and cruelty from her father.
The shame. The nights she had cried until she was hollow. The ones no one knew about. Not her mother. Not Edna. Not even Kacy.
But she wasn't that broken girl anymore.
She closed her eyes for one heartbeat, then opened them.
The emerald orbs had turned almost black with rage. Her glare was no longer daggers—it was a poisoned sword pressed against his throat.
Even Louis shifted uncomfortably in his seat and broke eye contact first.
"You've reminded me exactly what it feels like to be home,"
She said, voice cold, trembling with restrained pain and fury.
"Thank you for that. This cage never lets you forget what you are. But I'm not here for your insults or your nostalgia. Let's get straight to the point."
She lifted her chin, eyes blazing.
"I won't divorce Kacy. Not now. Not ever. Especially not while I'm carrying his child."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room.
"Then abort it,"
Louis said flatly, without a flicker of emotion.
Ivana's blood turned to fire.
"Are you insane? I'm seven months gone and It's your grandchild."
"So?"
He shrugged, utterly remorseless.
"That thing inside you is the seed of betrayal. I'll never allow you to bring it into this world."
The casual cruelty stole her breath for a moment. Then rage exploded through her veins.
"You deranged motherfucker,"
She snarled, voice shaking with pure disgust.
"How dare you tell me to abort my baby? Who the hell do you think you are? You sit there in your expensive suit pretending to be a saint while you're the biggest betrayal in this entire fucking story. If our lives were a drama, you'd be the villain everyone cheers to watch burn. The devil wearing a human mask."
She exploded.
Fury and spent rage poured out of her in a vicious storm of curses and venomous accusations. Yet the man across from her simply leaned back in his leather chair, a faint, twisted smile playing on his lips.
He let her burn herself out, silent and patient, like a predator watching prey exhaust itself against the bars of its cage.
When she finally fell quiet, breathing hard, he slammed his palm against the mahogany desk with a sharp crack. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Their emerald eyes, identical in shade but opposite in soul, clashed with murderous intensity.
Father and daughter, both radiating cruelty, both seconds away from tearing each other apart with nothing but their gazes.
The air grew thick, suffocating.
Then he made that familiar sound, "Tsk, tsk," and she tore her eyes away first, sinking back into her chair with a disgusted scoff.
He did the same, exhaling slowly before letting out a low, evil laugh that slithered through the room like frost.
The temperature itself seemed to drop. It was the laugh of a man who had long ago embraced the monster staring back at him in the mirror.
"Finished now, dewdrop?"
His voice was deceptively soft.
"Good. Now it's my turn."
He leaned forward, eyes glinting with cold calculation.
"This psychotic father of yours will ask you nicely, one last time. That baby will never know happiness if you bring it into this world. I will make sure of it. So be a good girl and abort it."
She cut him off sharply, voice trembling with rage.
"This child did nothing to you! It shouldn't have to pay for your twisted games."
A slow, chilling smile spread across his face.
"Exactly. It's innocent. Which is precisely why you should get rid of it now. Spare it. Spare yourself. The earlier you erase this mistake, the better for everyone."
Ivana stared at him, speechless, her breath caught in her throat.
The shamelessness. The utter lack of remorse.This man, her own father, was calmly suggesting she murder his own grandchild, his blood, his legacy.
The cruelty ran so deep it had poisoned whatever was left of his soul.
"Speechless, dewdrop?"
He mocked, clearly delighted by her horror.
"It's understandable. Some truths hit harder than others. You'll recover… eventually."
His expression shifted again, cold, serious, utterly devoid of humanity. He studied her like a specimen on a dissection table.
"This child doesn't deserve to live. You *will* abort it. And then you will divorce that man. After all, this sham of a marriage was never built on lov—"
He stopped mid-sentence.
Ivana shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her face paling as the words landed like a blade between her ribs.
Her hand instinctively moved toward her belly, a protective gesture she couldn't hide.
Her emerald eyes flickered with raw, unguarded pain, the kind that came from loving someone so fiercely it terrified her.
Louis noticed.
Something dark and vicious flashed across his face—anger, possession, and a sick, twisted satisfaction at seeing her so hopelessly in love with a man he despised.
His lips slowly curved into a smirk, slow, poisonous, and intoxicatingly cruel, the kind of smirk that promised suffering wrapped in velvet.
He leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight as he watched his daughter unravel right in front of him.
The silence that followed was heavier than any scream.