Callista's POV
It's been a few months since the fall of LUMENN. Time passed, but the ache never really did. The scars aren't always visible — some are tucked deep beneath the surface, where no one can see. Where no one can heal.
The survivors from LUMENN were scattered across different places — those who were lucky enough to escape. But I haven't heard any news about Aurelius. Not a single trace. And I miss him… desperately. Every night, I sleep with the sound of his voice echoing in my head. Every morning, I wake up hoping this is all a nightmare I can crawl out of. But it never is.
Xavier — no, Laurence Wilson now — has been acting as my bodyguard, shadow, and emotional anchor. He works part-time at a nearby shop just to keep our low profile afloat. And me? I'm seven months pregnant… with Aurelius's child.
Everything has changed. I cut my hair short, dyed it darker, and adopted a new identity: Melody Xander. Gone is the girl known as Callista Evangeline Moreau or you prefer Callista Valemont — the brilliant Computer Science student, the daughter of a powerful chairman, the secret member of LUMENN. Melody is quieter, more cautious… broken in ways no name can disguise.
As for my father, he's still alive, but I can feel his grief from miles away. Ever since the deaths of my mother, Aunt Vivian, cousin Caleb, Phelia, and Simon… something in all of us shattered. We lost too many pieces. My father is grieving silently, and I haven't had the courage to face him — not yet.
My brothers, Caelus and Castillo, seem to be thriving in their own ways. Caelus, the CEO overseeing five companies under my father's wing, is more successful than ever. Castillo, the psychiatrist, is steadily building his name. I'm proud of them — truly. But none of us have spoken since everything fell apart. It's as if the shared pain has built walls instead of bridges.
I haven't visited them. I haven't called. Not once.
Because Callista doesn't exist anymore.
Only Melody does now.
It was just another morning — quiet, peaceful, too ordinary. Xavier — or rather, Laurence — and I sat at the small wooden table, eating breakfast in the little house we now called home. The place was simple, modest, but filled with a strange warmth. A kind of borrowed calm.
From the outside, we probably looked like a married couple. A young woman, seven months pregnant. A man who always stayed close to her, protective, careful, quietly devoted. Strangers would smile at us on the street, assuming love and comfort, not knowing the truth beneath the surface.
Laurence wasn't my husband. He was my best friend — my rock through the nightmare. My shield when the world collapsed. And even now, when everything feels so uncertain, he never left my side.
"I think we're running low on milk," I said quietly, trying to break the silence.
He glanced at me, nodding slightly. "I'll pick some up after work."
But this morning felt... different.
We both felt it.
That subtle pressure. The weight of unseen eyes. The air was too still, too sharp. My instincts — dulled by months of pretending to be someone else — suddenly stirred to life. I set my fork down and met Laurence's gaze. He felt it too.
"We're being watched," he said quietly.
My pulse quickened.
The fake life we built was never going to last forever.
Every inch of my body was sweating — not from the warmth of the room, but from the weight of invisible eyes. I couldn't run. Not in this state. Seven months pregnant, tired, slower than I used to be. Vulnerable.
Laurence looked at me. That subtle, silent glance. It wasn't fear — it was a signal. Pretend everything is normal.
So I smiled.
I curled my fingers gently around his hand across the table, leaning in just slightly, like we were the picture of a loving couple. From anyone watching, we looked like husband and wife sharing a quiet, intimate breakfast.
He played along, of course. He always did. He even smirked, eyes twinkling like he was holding back a laugh. If I wasn't so tense, I would've rolled my eyes. Classic Xavier — finding humor in pretending to flirt with me.
I rested my head briefly on his shoulder, sighing softly, as if we were just savoring a calm morning. "You're overcooking the eggs again," I teased under my breath.
He chuckled lowly. "And you still eat them."
But even as we played the part, our bodies were tense beneath the surface. Every sound — the creak of wood, a distant footstep, a shadow moving outside the thin curtain — put us on edge.
There wasn't just one person watching.
There were many.
We could feel them.
Like wolves circling sheep.
We kept talking — about eggs, the weather, the faulty sink that kept leaking last night — all completely normal. If anyone was listening, they'd hear a quiet morning shared between two average people with nothing to hide.
But beneath the table, our fingers tapped against each other's hands in the rhythm only we understood.
Morse code.
A habit from our youth, drilled into us by my late mother during our LUMENN training.
Do you know who's watching us?
No. But more than two.
VARAK?
Maybe. Could be locals bribed.
We kept tapping. Calm, steady. Our voices never broke the illusion.
"I think I'll water the plants today," I said with a fake little stretch.
Back exit? he tapped.
I reached for a slice of toast. "Only if you fix the back gate. It's jammed again."
Ready when you are.
His fingers squeezed mine lightly. Protective. Familiar. Grounding.
I gave a soft laugh, playing along. "You're such a bad actor, Laurence. Everyone's going to think we're really in love."
He leaned in with a fake grin. "Well, Melody, you better get used to it."
All while outside the window, shadows shifted. A silhouette passed. A figure lingered too long near the fence.
We didn't know who was watching us.
But we knew what came next.
Our conversation stayed light and casual — full of smiles, soft laughter, and gentle teasing. But beneath the surface, every word carried weight. Every glance was laced with silent meaning. Our hands never stopped speaking.
Three outside.
One near window.
Stay calm. Protect you.
I nodded subtly, reaching for my glass of water with the grace of a tired housewife — not a fugitive carrying seven months of war in her womb.
Then—
A knock.
Sharp. Controlled. Not rushed.
Xavier and I froze for half a second.
He didn't speak. He just looked at me, nodded once, then slowly stood. Every movement deliberate. Every step prepared. His hand slid behind him — where he hid both a gun and a dagger beneath his hoodie.
My breath caught.
He reached the door.
His fingers hovered over the handle.
Then—
He opened it.
And—
[End of Chapter 32]