Chapter 2

Sylvia stopped mid-step. Every instinct screamed at her to stay away from anything tied to the Smith Family, but the pounding rain, the cold biting through her skin, and the sheer lack of options pulled her in another direction.

She glanced around. The street was swallowed by a curtain of rain, the world vast and empty, yet she felt trapped with nowhere to go.

Without looking back, she drew a deep breath and stiffly changed course.

Henry Smith followed without a word, his umbrella tilted just enough to keep her dry.

The so-called lounge was small and worn — a cracked leather sofa, a low table, one lonely chair. The air carried a faint tang of disinfectant. But at least it was warm.

Sylvia curled into the far corner of the sofa, her back to the door, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Every line of her body radiated a warning: keep out.

Behind her, coffee streamed into a mug. Footsteps approached. A steaming cup landed softly on the table beside her.

"Here, drink while it's hot. It'll warm you up."

His voice was low, smooth, and unexpectedly warm.

Without waiting for a reply, Henry retreated to the far corner, making himself almost invisible.

Sylvia pressed her lips together. Somewhere in the quiet, she caught the faint click of old phone keys — the sound of someone typing a message.

A bitter laugh curled in her mind.

Of course. He was reporting back to Andrew, telling him how pathetic she looked, how easy she would be to break.

Her eyes shut tight, sarcasm and despair twisting together.

Henry seemed unaware of her thoughts. His long fingers tapped out a final message on the encrypted chat with his aide: [Start liquidating every asset under Andrew's name. Create chaos. By tomorrow, I want him drowning.]

The night dragged on. Sylvia drifted in and out of a restless half-sleep, exhaustion and cold gnawing at her.

Henry stayed in the shadows, silent as a statue.

By dawn, the rain had eased. Sylvia's ankle still throbbed, but her head felt clearer. She rose, intent on leaving and finding a way forward.

The door eased open.

Henry stood in the frame, tall and composed, holding a bowl of steaming porridge and a clean towel.

"Morning's cold. This will warm you up."

He stepped inside, offering the food without expression.

Sylvia's fingers curled. The gesture was too careful, too deliberate. No ordinary hotel worker would go this far for a disgraced socialite — not unless he had a reason.

Only one explanation made sense: this was surveillance dressed as kindness.

Andrew wanted her broken in slowly, made to accept charity until she surrendered.

Revulsion surged through her. She felt like prey, cornered by a hunter who used civility as a cage.

"I don't need it." Her voice was ice.

She pushed the bowl away.

The porcelain struck the floor with a sharp crack. Hot porridge splattered across her skirt and Henry's faded uniform trousers.

The air froze.

Sylvia's eyes flicked to the mess, a flash of guilt crossing her face before stubborn defiance took over. She hadn't meant to do it — but anything tied to the Smith Family was poison she refused to swallow.

The door banged open.

"Well, well. No wonder I couldn't find you. Hiding in a dump like this for a little private time with your boyfriend?"

Andrew leaned against the frame, arm draped around Rosa, smirk curling his lips.

His gaze swept over the spilled porridge, the disheveled Sylvia, and finally landed on Henry. Contempt sharpened his expression.

"Really, Sylvia? Yesterday you were playing the saint. Now you can't keep your hands off some low-rent hotel help? What, can't survive without a man?"

He reached for her lazily. "Stop sulking and come back with me. The wedding isn't yours to refuse."

"I am not going with you."

Her eyes hardened.

Before Andrew's hand could touch her, Henry stepped forward, his tall frame cutting between them. The cheap uniform did nothing to blunt the quiet authority in his stance.

"Sir, you need to respect this lady's choice."

The room went still.

Andrew blinked, then barked a laugh. "Who the hell do you think you are? Get out of my way."

His foot lashed out, driving into Henry's stomach.

Henry's eyes flashed, but he didn't dodge. The blow sent him staggering back, his spine slamming into the wall. A muffled grunt escaped him as he slid down to the floor, head bowed, pain etched into every line of his body.

Sylvia's chest tightened, a cold fist squeezing her heart.

This was power — the kind that crushed anyone in its path, from servants to fiancées. And she wasn't strong enough to protect herself, let alone anyone else.

Her eyes shut hard. When she opened them, she glared at Andrew and Rosa.

"You're disgusting."

She turned and left, ignoring Henry on the floor.

She didn't see the flicker in his eyes — pain melting into something sharp, dangerous — or the slow curl of his lips.

Sylvia limped down the hall, then broke into a run.

What could she do? What could anyone do?

At the corner, she ducked into the restroom, splashing cold water onto her face. Her mind was a storm — fury, humiliation, and a pang of guilt for the man she'd left behind.

Andrew's voice erupted from the corridor.

"What do you mean the project was shut down? Who did this? My accounts are frozen? Are you kidding me? Find out — now!"

Sylvia leaned out, catching sight of him pacing, phone clutched tight, rage stripping away his earlier swagger.

Henry was nowhere to be seen.

A faint, unsettling thought brushed the edge of her mind.