Two Days Later
Deep in the Southern Countryside
The road narrowed into a dirt path, trees crowding in from both sides like silent sentinels. The convoy of black SUVs pulled into the sleepy little village, engines purring low, tires cracking over gravel and mud.
Children paused mid-play. A man on a bicycle skidded to a halt. Housewives behind woven baskets froze. It wasn't every day that outsiders came here—let alone men in black suits with earpieces and dark glasses.
Lucien stepped out of the car.
The contrast was stark—he looked like something cut from an entirely different world. His black coat billowed slightly in the wind, hair gleaming like raven's wings, and his eyes swept over the villagers with practiced disinterest. He didn't need to speak. His presence spoke volumes.
At the edge of the village stood a small bakery—modest, clay-roofed, and crooked from age. The scent of warm bread drifted faintly in the air.
Inside, Valerie wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron, humming softly as she arranged small loaves on the wooden shelves. Her silver-haired grandmother stood at the back, stirring a pot of broth, smiling as she always did—like feeding the whole world was her only calling.
The front door burst open.
Valerie turned, startled. The smile on her lips faded as she took in the dark-suited men now filling the tiny shop.
One stepped forward. "Valerie Atwood?"
She blinked. "Yes…?"
He stepped aside.
Lucien entered.
The bakery suddenly felt too small.
Her eyes went wide. She'd never seen him before, but she could feel something was wrong—deeply wrong. "Can I… help you?" she asked, voice fragile.
Lucien studied her. She looked different. Fragile, yes. Gentle even. Her light brown hair was pulled into a loose braid. Her hands were dusted with flour, and her cheeks were soft with innocence. She didn't look like a threat. She didn't look like someone who had infiltrated his hotel room with such precision.
But Lucien trusted his gut—and the hacker's work. She was the same girl.
"I'm taking you with me," he said simply.
Valerie froze. "What? I don't understand."
"You've been missing for two weeks. You broke into my private suite. You know exactly why I'm here."
"No, I—I really don't!" Her voice trembled now. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen you before."
Lucien frowned. "Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying," she said, backing away toward her grandmother. "I don't know who you are or what this is about. I live here. I help my grandma bake bread every morning. That's all I know!"
Her grandmother came forward, placing a protective arm around Valerie's shoulders. "Please," she said gently, voice soft but firm. "My granddaughter hasn't left this town. There's a mistake."
Lucien's gaze didn't waver. "No mistake."
He gave a nod.
Two men stepped forward and gently but firmly took Valerie by the arms.
"No—wait! Let me go!" she cried, her voice rising now. "Grandma!"
"Valerie!" her grandmother cried out, trying to reach her, but another guard held her back.
Tears spilled down Valerie's cheeks as they dragged her toward the door.
"Please, let me go! I don't know anything! Grandma, please!"
The older woman's hands trembled as she reached forward, but Lucien stepped between them. He met her eyes, cold and unyielding.
"She'll be returned," he said with chilling calm. "Once I get answers."
"She's just a girl," the grandmother said, desperate. "She's sick sometimes. She forgets things. You must understand. If she's done something wrong, she didn't mean to. Please… she's all I have."
Lucien's jaw tightened ever so slightly.
But the car door closed behind Valerie.
And just like that—she was gone.
The village stood in stunned silence as the convoy pulled away, the trail of dust rising behind them. Valerie's cries echoed faintly in the wind, fading as quickly as they had come.
---
Lucien's Private Estate — Underground Holding Room
The room was dimly lit—no windows, no clocks, no view of the outside world. It was silent but not cold. Lucien never favored steel cages or bloodied concrete. He believed in elegance, even when dealing with enemies. The walls were smooth ivory, the furniture minimal. A single camera blinked red in the corner. On the opposite side of the room, a heavy door clicked as it opened.
Valerie sat in the middle, hugging her knees on the plush beige couch. Her face was pale, her eyes red from crying. She had been cleaned up and given warm clothing, but nothing about the calm exterior disguised the fear beneath her skin.
Lucien stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him.
The sound of his shoes against the marble echoed.
She looked up, flinching slightly.
His gaze locked onto her face—and for a moment, just a flicker, something tugged at him. Confusion. Her eyes held no cunning. No spark of mischief. No steel.
But it was her. It had to be.
Same high cheekbones. Same colour of eyes. Same shape of her mouth.
Only now, her hair was cropped into a neat waist-length, thick and shiny, falling in waves Last time—it had been bob, barely touching her neck but wild, like something untamed. And her voice…
Lucien stood in front of her. "What's your name?" he asked, tone sharp, direct.
She stared up at him with wide, tear-glossed eyes. "Valerie. Valerie Atwood. I told your men."
He narrowed his gaze. "You've been here before and since you didn't tell my men anything, it was really hard finding you." His voice grew colder as he spoke "You broke into my hotel suite and managed to escape but you won't have that chance anymore"
Her brows pulled together, eyes flashing with genuine confusion. "I've never met your men before l. I've never been to the city in my life."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying!" she cried, her voice trembling, soft as porcelain. "I—I bake bread with my grandmother every morning. I help clean the shop. I've never even left our village. Why would I break into your hotel room?!"
He folded his arms, watching her squirm. "Two weeks ago, someone broke into my hotel suite. I was in a business meeting when they came in. They disabled the security systems, bypassed two locked doors, and went through my private files like they belonged there. I caught her."
She blinked fast, shaking her head. "That's not me. I—I wouldn't even know how to—"
"You looked just like this," he interrupted coldly. "But you didn't cry. You didn't cower. You looked me in the eye and told me to go to hell."
Valerie's breath hitched.
"She had a scar on her hand." Lucien stepped closer. "Right here." He reached for her hand and turned it over, but her skin was smooth. Clean. No scar. No burn. No cut.
He frowned.
"She cursed like a sailor. And she didn't sound like you. Her voice was bold—raspy. She spoke like a street rat raised in alleys."
"I don't curse," Valerie whispered. "And I'm not from the streets. I—I don't even know what I'd be looking for in your room."
Lucien stared at her for several long seconds.
She looked real. She looked innocent. But Lucien had built his empire by trusting what he knew, not what he saw.
"Wigs can be worn. Scars can be erased. Voices can be faked. I'm not easily fooled."
"I swear, I'm not lying," she said, voice cracking as she covered her face with both hands. "Why are you doing this to me? I don't know you. I don't know anything about a hotel or files or whatever you're talking about!"
Lucien's jaw flexed.
The last time… he hadn't been able to interrogate her himself. His aunt— who had raised him like her own—had collapsed from a relapse in her illness. He'd left to be by her side, trusting his men to handle the matter. It wasn't supposed to take long. A few questions, a few answers. Then he'd return and finish the job.
But by the time he came back, the girl had vanished—from his home. Not a trace left behind. His men had been humiliated. The surveillance wiped. No name, no ID. The girl had laughed in their faces, then vanished.
And now she sat here, crying in front of him. Saying she was just a baker's granddaughter.
It made no sense.
He stepped away from her slowly, exhaling through his nose.
Valerie looked up again. "I am telling you the truth."
"You just don't realize how unbelievable it sounds. You're identical to a girl who broke into a room no one should have been able to access. Same face. Same hands. Same damn heartbeat. But now you talk like a schoolteacher and smell like yeast and cinnamon rolls."
"I don't know what else to tell you," she whispered, voice barely audible. "I'm not her."
Lucien stared at her for a long moment, his handsome features expressionless.
She's definitely lying and in his whole 28 years of living, he had never met anyone who was so good at lying like she does.
So he would wait.
He would watch her—study her.
And eventually, the mask would crack.
Because no one disappeared from Lucien Blackmoor unless he allowed it.