Chapter 2
Wren's POV
My mind violently snapped back to a late night in Greybell when I was ten years old.
I tiptoed to the basement door and pushed it open. My father, Elliot—the highly revered Chief of Cardiothoracic Surgery—was standing under surgical lights in dark green scrubs. Strapped tightly to the table was the director of the local orphanage, a man who had embezzled charity funds, leaving two dozen orphans to catch pneumonia in the freezing winter, only to bribe a judge to get away with it.
The man wasn't screaming. That's because his mouth had been impeccably stitched shut with black surgical thread, like a cheap ragdoll.
Father turned around, his gloves stained a blinding crimson, yet his eyes were as warm as ever. He patted my head gently. "Time for bed, sweetheart. Daddy has a minor procedure to finish."
I went back to bed like a good girl. The next morning, breaking news hit the channels—the orphanage director was found dead in an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. His abdomen had been sliced open with textbook precision in the shape of a cross, with every single organ neatly removed and lined up beside him.
My gaze unfocused on the carpet as memories of being fourteen surfaced perfectly.
My equestrian coach back then had slapped me hard across the face for botching a jump. I hid the bruise under my sleeves, but my mother, Vivienne, noticed it over dinner anyway.
A week later, that snobby coach suffered severe visual hallucinations while driving down a mountain road, plunging off the cliff and turning into a puddle of meat. The coroner found an extremely rare plant toxin in his system. The police searched every database in the state, but it turned into a dead end.
But neither Mother nor Father could hold a candle to Reid.
My brother. Reid.
When I was nineteen, Kieran Lockhart, the son of a powerful local real estate tycoon, spiked my drink at a gala. He half-dragged me into a VIP lounge on the top floor, laughing manically as he tore my dress and used his phone flash to take photos of me curled up half-naked and terrified.
I barely remembered how I escaped. That night, instead of an apology, the Lockhart family had their elite legal team send over an arrogant cease-and-desist letter, accusing me of "attempted seduction and malicious extortion."
The next morning, Greybell exploded.
The untouchable billionaire’s son was found dead in his bathtub. Every limb had been systematically snapped, spread out like a spider web, and nailed to the four corners of the tub with rusted spikes. His mouth was sliced wide open and stuffed completely with the very photos and negatives he had taken.
In a classified autopsy report, the coroner noted: The sheer terror and agony the victim endured for six hours before his death could barely be described in modern medical terms.
The Calloway family had never left a single traceable crime. We had money, power, and most importantly—we loved each other. Hidden inside that manor, we shared the same dark, twisted passion.
"Urgh—!"
A sharp burst of physical pain dragged me roughly out of my bloody reverie back to this sickening living room.
Sloane's stiletto ground down for the third time! Losing my balance completely, I collapsed forward, my forehead smacking hard against the floor with a sickening thud.
Constance leisurely stirred her tea, the silver spoon clinking crisply against the bone china. Piper took a half-step back, turning her head as if the scene was "too painful to watch"—but in the shadow of the floor lamp, I clearly saw the venomous smirk curling on her lips.
"I've made up my mind. We leave first thing tomorrow morning." Constance set her teacup down, her tone dripping with the authority of a judge handing down a sentence. "Wren, I don't care what kind of mental poison you've fed Declan to keep him hesitating. When we get to Greybell, I will personally strip your family bare and force him to sign the divorce papers. The Hargroves are done with your mess!"
With that, she took an aggressive step forward, raising her expensive leather shoe—ready to stomp on the trembling hand I had sprawled on the floor.
Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors of the living room swung open.
Deep, steady footsteps paused at the threshold. Declan stood there, his handsome face set in cold lines.
The air in the room instantly froze. The raging malice and frenzy vanished in a split second. Constance pulled her foot back like lightning, plastering on a guilty but bright smile.
"Declan, right on time." Constance turned around, her voice instantly reverting to the dignified, maternal tone.
She walked toward her son with a warm smile. "We were just discussing. Since Wren misses Greybell so much, we thought, as a family, we'd go with her tomorrow. Isn't that right, Wren?"
