Adrian never attended his father's birthday celebration. Not since the man disappeared almost a decade ago. But Maria — loyal, devoted, stubborn wife — always made sure Mr. Stark was celebrated. She loved that man too much. Worshiped him, really. Submitted to him like he was royalty and she his willing subject. But after one fight on Adrian's sixteenth birthday, David Stark vanished from the face of the earth. Left his son shattered into pieces no amount of architecture could rebuild.
So Adrian did the only thing he knew: he built himself back up, brick by brick, blueprint by blueprint. He loved to design. Artistry was his blood. And he became an expert at it.
Now, in his art room at home, the chaotic noise of his father's forgotten birthday celebration drifting into oblivion downstairs, Adrian stood alone. His eyes fixed on the portrait of Star he had penciled with his own hands.
His Star.
---
She was a beauty he'd never seen before. Long, naturally curled, wavy hair that reached her waist like a waterfall frozen in time. And her body? God, her body was what first hooked him — pulled him in like a fish too stupid to see the hook. She probably thought he accidentally dropped those books that day in the library.
She was wrong.
He'd planned it.
---
The first time Adrian truly interacted with Star was in the library. But he'd seen her long before that. Every lunch period, she sat alone by the flower tree just three steps from the Engineering Building at Crestfall University, selling sweets to anyone who passed. She didn't have friends. No lunch crew. No "besties" she giggled with on campus. Just her, a small bag of homemade treats, and that tree.
For a month, Adrian watched her. Studied her. Stalked her, if he was being honest with himself — which he wasn't, because billionaires don't stalk, they observe with romantic intent.
But one day, an hour passed and she wasn't under the tree. His chest tightened. *Where is she?* He couldn't ask anyone — because who would know? Star had no friends. That was the thing that made him most curious about her. A girl that beautiful. That intriguing. And completely alone.
Finally, he asked a random student about "the sweet girl." Turned out, the student was her coursemate. "Oh, Star? Yeah, we have an exam in two hours. She's probably in the library studying."
The library.
Adrian had never set foot in the university library before. Why would he? He was an honor student doing his master's in architecture, yes, but he was also a billionaire. He had every book, every computer, every research database known to man sitting back home in his private study. Libraries were for peasants.
But for Star? He'd walk through fire. Or, you know, a mildly dusty reading room.
---
He stepped onto the third floor and froze.
There.
Those dark-hazel eyes. That long brown wavy hair. That smooth, camel-toned skin he could lick every single day and still wake up wanting more.
He stood by the stairs like an idiot. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. Brain completely offline. Students passed him — some recognized him, whispered his name, admired his perfectly tailored blazer — but Adrian saw none of them. He saw her. Only her.
Say something. Walk. Do the thing. You're Adrian freaking Stark.
But his feet wouldn't move.
Then, as if the universe hated him, Star stood up and walked toward the book racks. She didn't see him. Her mind was buried in circuits and capacitors and whatever other nonsense electronics engineers cared about.
Move, he commanded himself. MOVE.
A movie scene flashed across his mind. The classic library meet-cute. The accidental bump. The falling books. The flustered apology. Yes. Yes, that was it.
He grabbed random books from a nearby rack — didn't even look at the titles — and walked toward her. She was on her tiptoes, scanning titles on a high shelf, completely unaware that a billionaire was about to commit romantic fraud in broad daylight.
He tripped.
Well, *pretended* to trip. Very convincingly, if he said so himself. Books flew everywhere. One smacked her shoe heel. She jumped, frowned deeply — those brows coming together like they were having an angry meeting — but then she exhaled and knelt down to help him pick up the mess.
Perfect.
Except it wasn't.
Because when Star's fingers accidentally brushed his hand while handing him a book, Adrian's entire nervous system exploded.
He froze.
Not the cute, flustered freeze. The medical emergency freeze. His eyes locked onto hers. Unblinking. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. His heart was screaming, SAY SOMETHING YOU ABSOLUTE WALNUT, but his brain had left the building, taken a vacation, and was now sipping a coconut somewhere tropical.
This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to smile. Act embarrassed. Be apologetic. Charming. Maybe even witty.
Instead, he was a statue. A very expensive, well-dressed statue having a crisis.
Star tilted her head. Her frown deepened. She looked genuinely concerned — like she was witnessing a man have a seizure in slow motion.
Does he have a condition? her expression seemed to ask.
Then, mercifully, she smiled. It didn't reach her eyes — it was more of a "I think this guy needs medical attention" smile — but it was a smile nonetheless.
"I'm Star," she said.
And just like that, the spell broke. Adrian blinked. His lungs remembered how to work. A slow, almost embarrassing grin spread across his face — the kind of grin that said *I just died and came back to life in three seconds flat*.
"Adrian," he managed. His voice was deeper than he intended. Rougher. Like he'd been screaming internally for hours.
She nodded once. Picked up the last book. Handed it to him. And walked away.
But she'd said her name. Star.
And Adrian had smiled.
The rest, as they say, was history.
---
Back in his art room, Adrian traced the charcoal lines of her portrait with his fingertip. A year. A whole year since that day. A year of crushing so hard he could barely breathe around her. A year of craving those lips.
And tonight, he'd kissed her.
He didn't know what came over him. But he also cut himself some slack — he'd thought something terrible happened to her. He'd panicked. And somewhere along the way, he'd realized he couldn't breathe without knowing she was safe.
But now she was *safe*. In the hands of that lunatic. Lucian Throne.
Seeing Star hug him. Interlock fingers with him. *Smile* at him.
Adrian's grip tightened on the portrait frame. His nails dug into the wood. Blood beaded along his fingertips — but he felt nothing. No pain. Just rage. Hot. Thick. Boiling.
His Star. Not Lucian's. Not ever.
She didn't know who Lucian really was. Adrian was sure of it. Even at the station, Lucian had masked his words carefully — kept his voice low so Star couldn't hear the ugly truths. Lucian probably thought Adrian hadn't noticed.
But Adrian noticed everything.
And he wouldn't let her be taken by a killer.
---
"Easy there."
Adrian's wild mind snapped back to the present. He turned the portrait face-in toward the wall — quick, protective — before looking up.
Bonita stood in the doorway. A glass of red wine dangled from her manicured fingers. Her heels clicked against the floor as she stumbled inside.
"Mom said you were home," Bonita slurred. "I thought it was one of her pranks again — like every year — but... truly. Here you are."
Adrian stood stoic. Hands in his pockets. Eyes narrowed into slits.
"Are you tipsy?" he asked flatly.
Bonita stumbled back against his desk, knocking over a jar of paintbrushes and grabbing the edge for support. "What can I do?" she laughed bitterly. "Dad isn't here to reprimand me. And you, brother... you're just so *fucking* here at the wrong time."
Adrian sighed — long, heavy, exhausted — and walked toward her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and guided her out of the art room, up the staircase, toward her bedroom.
Behind him, the portrait of Star faced the wall.
Waiting.
Like she always did.
***
Star stepped inside and let the door slam behind her like a judge's gavel.
Her expression wasn't just tight. It was carved. Stone. The kind of face people make when they've run out of shock and landed somewhere past fury into a cold, quiet place where words become weapons.
She knew her father was egotistical. That wasn't news. But bringing his mistress home? Under this roof? While her mother existed in the same breathing space?
That wasn't a brow raise.
That was the last brow. The final straw. The crumbling of Rome in slow motion.
Her mother could only take so much, Star thought. And I've watched her take too much for too long.
"Out," Star said.
The word landed like a frozen dagger. No heat. No scream. Just ice.
Frieda, who had been shrinking into herself like a guilty houseplant whenever Lucian was around, suddenly found her spine. Funny how that worked. Abusers always found courage in the absence of consequences.
"I knew you'd say this," Frieda said, bold now, chin lifted like she'd won something. "But this is just as much my home as it is yours. Your mother's. And Tomas's...my lover."
She dragged the last word out like a trophy. Then she bent down to help Tomas, who was still nursing his cheek where Star's slap had landed like a divine intervention.
Star crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the living room entrance. A slow, terrifying smile tugged at the corner of her lips — the kind that doesn't reach eyes and promises nothing good.
"Let me guess," Star said, tilting her head. "The twins. Daniella and Daniello. They're his, aren't they?"
Frieda froze.
Tomas's eyes went wide — a man caught not just with his hand in the cookie jar but the entire bakery.
How does she know?
Frieda recovered quickly, because shameless people always do. "My children need their father. And we're tired of hiding. Tired of sneaking behind your mother's back like criminals."
She said criminals like she wasn't describing herself.
Star's mother, Loise, sat motionless on the couch. Not bothered. Not broken. Just... done. The way a tree stops swaying after the storm has already taken every branch worth keeping. She didn't need a war. She needed her daughter. And she had that.
"My sons will stay here," Tomas sneered, finally finding his voice through the sting on his face. "And you won't do a damn thing about it. I'll give them everything they lacked."
Star rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her own brain.
"You're really shameless," she murmured. Then, louder: "You two deserve each other. A matching set of moral garbage."
She turned, took her mother's hand, and led her toward her parents' bedroom.
"That's our room!" Tomas yelled from the living room.
Star's hand paused on the door handle. Her back stiffened. Slowly, like a predator reconsidering its exit, she turned her head.
"You mean... your whore sleeps on my mother's bed?"
The word landed like a bomb.
Whore.
Even Loise blinked. But she said nothing. This wasn't the time to lecture Star about manners. Not when she'd been sleeping on the floor for two weeks. Not when Tomas had starved her for three days as punishment. Tonight, she was supposed to sleep in her own bed again.
Loise opened the bedroom door and slipped inside, leaving Star to handle the war.
"You bastard," Tomas spat, rising from his chair like a man who forgot he'd already lost. "What has your useless mother taught you? No manners at all!"
He raised his hand — the old reflex — but the memory of Star's slap was still fresh and stinging on his cheek. His arm lowered.
Star didn't flinch.
"My mother taught me to hide while you hit her," Star said quietly. Then, with surgical precision: "You're a disgrace to fatherhood. To all manhood."
She didn't know what manhood was, really. But she knew what it wasn't. And it wasn't this.
Tomas scowled, furious, impotent. He settled for massaging his cheek.
Meanwhile, Frieda stood frozen.
Whore.
The word echoed in her skull like a bad song stuck on repeat. It tasted like feces just thinking it.
She recovered quickly — because narcissists always do — and walked toward Star with deliberate, slow steps. A wide grin spread across her face. Star swore she was looking at the devil's sister.
But Star didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
Something had shifted in her this morning. Waking up had brought not fear, but something darker. Something that stood its ground.
Frieda must have seen it too — the flash in Star's eyes, cold and ancient — because she kept a safe distance.
Then she leaned in close. Whispered. A threat only Star could hear. An expression of concern on her face.
"Did you at least get tested?"
Star's face crumbled.
Tested?
Her mind scrambled, clawing at memories that wouldn't come. Flashes. Snips. A naked hooligan, his member dancing on her stomach like a grotesque puppet. Then a gunshot. Blood. His body slumping heavy and warm on top of hers.
Did they... did those men really...?
Frieda leaned closer, her breath hot and cruel against Star's ear.
"Between me and you," she whispered, "you're the real whore. Body count of over seventy men."
Star went pale.
White as a sheet. White as milk. White as someone who just watched the floor drop out from under her feet.
"No," Star breathed. Blood cold. Heart stopped.
Frieda laughed — a full, maniacal cackle — and walked back to Tomas, who was watching with confused satisfaction. He didn't hear what Frieda said but at least it shut Star up.
"Come on," Frieda said to Tomas. "Let's get takeout."
With that, she finished her sentence, and Tomas stood up. The two of them headed outside.
It was still early evening, and Star had already finished the food Frieda had cooked for them for dinner. Now, she regretted not adding poison to it and ending the job her brother had failed to finish. She made a mental note to call him later and give him a piece of her mind.
Meanwhile, Star drifted in her thoughts, her mind detached from the room around her. What if she had really been raped by those hooligans? What if she had contracted an STI, or some other infectious disease? They had looked like they had not seen water in years. Worse still, what if she was pregnant?
"Are you all right, baby?" Loise asked, concern threading her voice.
Star barely noticed her. She was too far gone, her mind elsewhere.
"Earth to Star," Loise repeated when she still did not respond.
Star snapped back to the present.
"Mom, I need to go to the hospital real quick," she said suddenly, breathless and close to losing control.
Loise rose from the bed, worry deepening on her face.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I am fine," Star said, her eyes lingering on her mother for a long second. "I will be fine," she added, forcing her expression into something stoic, smoothing over her panic with deliberate control. She gave her mother a reassuring look and moved away, leaving only calm behind her.
Outside, Frieda and Tomas froze.
The Ferrari was still parked in the yard.
"That billionaire boy is still here?" Tomas muttered, walking to the driver's side window. Tinted as he couldn't see inside. He knocked anyway.
Frieda was in the middle of another call, but it went straight to voicemail—again. She had lost count of how many times she had tried her brother's phone, only to be met with silence.
A cold thought crept in. Had Lucian gotten to him? Had he been caught?
Frieda exhaled sharply, forcing the thought aside, shaking off the lingering memory of the moment Lucian had threatened her.
Suddenly, the Ferrari's lights flashed orange twice. The owner was near.
They turned in unison toward the house door as keys jangled. Star locked the front door and walked past them without a glance.
"Are you locking us out?" Frieda demanded.
Star stopped. Turned. A perfect look of confusion on her face — the kind actors spend years practicing.
"I'm sorry," Star said, tilting her head. "Who are you?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She walked to the Ferrari, slid in, and zoomed off.
Tomas stood frozen, not because he was locked out of his own house, but because his daughter — his daughter — owned a silver sleek Ferrari.
He smirked.
Frieda frowned at him.
***
Meanwhile, Lucian stood by the table, his gaze fixed on a photograph of Star from her high school days.
That day came back to him with unsettling clarity. He had just returned from registering for his first year at university—seventeen, already ahead, already feared for the kind of mind that skipped grades and finished a master's degree by twenty-one.
She had been waiting for him in the park near Crestfall University.
Flowers in her hands.
A smile on her face.
"Please say you got in. I've been preparing for this my entire life," Star had said, her excitement spilling over, as though it were her future on the line.
"I got in," Lucian replied.
She had jumped—literally jumped—in joy, laughter breaking out of her like sunlight. It was as if she had been the one accepted. She handed him the flowers, then pulled out a small camera from her jeans pocket and snapped a selfie—her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her cheek pressed close.
That was the moment.
The spark.
The quiet, dangerous certainty.
Star was his.
"Mmm."
The sound cut through his thoughts.
Lucian blinked back to the present.
He was in the château—master bedroom. The very room where Star had woken up. The walls were lined with photographs. Too many photographs.
Of her.
"Are you here to scold me, Alex?" Lucian asked, not turning immediately. When he did, Alex was already there, leaning lazily against the doorframe.
Gone was the white coat. In its place—a tailored blue suit. Controlled. Clinical.
"Will you look at that," Alex said dryly. "You read my mind."
Lucian ran a hand through his hair, frustration breaking through his composure. "How do I explain this to her? That I love her? These pictures—how I got them. Especially this one…" He pointed at a photograph of Star asleep, unaware she was being watched.
Alex's expression hardened. "I told you this was a bad idea—bringing her here."
"Yeah, well…" Lucian exhaled. "She doesn't know I was the one who rescued her. And it's staying that way."
Alex frowned, disbelief written plainly across his face.
"I thought you skipped grades because you were a genius," he said flatly.
Lucian shot him a look, confused.
"You need to get over it," Alex continued, sharper now. "You're broadcasting your weakness. Your enemies are noticing."
His voice rose, deliberate, forceful. "If I don't get through to you now, you'll keep making the same mistake—thinking like a lovestruck fool."
Lucian's jaw tightened.
"Don't make me regret training you," Alex went on, stepping closer. "I built you for an empire. People fear your name—Lucian Throne. Rooms go silent when it's mentioned. And all of that?" He gestured vaguely. "It collapses because of her."
He stopped right in front of him.
"Let her go, or—"
He cut himself off.
Lucian caught the flicker in his eyes. Dark. Calculated.
"Or what, Alex?" he asked, almost curious.
Alex didn't hesitate this time. "Or I will force you to put a bullet in her head."
A beat.
"Please," he added, quieter—almost as if that softened anything.
But this was Alex. His mentor. His architect.
The man behind MediPrivate Medical Center—a private hospital catering to the rich and powerful, more advanced, more exclusive than Summits Heights. The man who had taught Lucian everything—strategy, control, the underworld's language.
Lucian ruled because Alex had built him to.
Ding.
The sharp sound of a notification cut through the tension.
Lucian's attention snapped away. He reached for Star's phone without hesitation. Of course he had access—face recognition, registered long ago. Trusted.
He unlocked it and read the message.
His expression darkened instantly.
Alex scoffed as Lucian turned and walked out of the room, already dialing.
The call connected.
Lucian's voice dropped, cold and lethal.
"What do you want?"