4

Chapter 4

I keep walking, faster and faster. The wound's pull has gone numb. All that's left is the suffocating pressure deep in my chest, threatening to tear me apart.

Behind me, Ethan's voice—controlled to the point of frenzy—roars out:

"Lana, stop."

I don't turn back.

"Turn around now and this ends here. Take one more step—and I'll treat you like a traitor to the group."

Traitor.

I know what that word means in the Lancaster Group better than anyone.

Not termination. Not blacklisting. But erasure.

Career, reputation, records, social ties—all vanish overnight.

Even death is just an "accident."

My fingers clench, but I don't stop.

"Try it, Ethan." My voice is soft. "See if you actually have the guts to do that to me."

Without looking back, I push through the door and walk out of his controlled world.

Wind pours into my lungs, ice-cold and piercing.

But it tastes like freedom.

I head to a safe house I prepared in advance—an old warehouse in an abandoned industrial district. Unremarkable on the outside, but renovated by my own hands into a hidden base.

No Lancaster surveillance here. No shadow of Ethan. It's the only place in ten years that's truly mine.

I collapse on the bed, body trembling with pain, yet for the first time, I can breathe freely.

But the calm lasts less than a day.

Deep in the night, the iron door is suddenly kicked open from outside—

The sound of shattering metal echoes through the entire warehouse.

I jolt upright, reaching for the gun on the nightstand, but a tall figure has already stormed in, locking the door behind him.

His black coat whips around him. His eyes are savage enough to rip someone apart.

Ethan.

He's like a restrained, repressed storm on the verge of madness.

In the next second, he grabs my waist, lifts me, and slams me back onto the bed—rough, forceful, as if pinning me down.

The air is stolen from my lungs. I can barely breathe.

I lift my hand to shove him off, but he catches my wrist, pinning it above my head.

"Are you insane—"

Before I finish, his mouth crashes onto mine.

It's not a kiss.

It's plunder. Punishment. His last line of self-defense before consciousness shatters.

He bites my lip, pushing me until I can barely breathe, a familiar yet dangerous chill rising in my chest.

His breath is scorching but carries the scent of metal and tobacco—Ethan's scent, the hell I drowned in for ten years.

He presses his forehead against mine, voice raw to the point of distortion. "Do you have any idea? I spent all day searching for you. I thought something happened to you."

I laugh bitterly, though it hurts. "Wouldn't that be perfect? I die, and you can devote yourself to your fiancée."

I finally muster the strength to push him off. "Ethan, you shouldn't be here."

He lifts his head, eyes a dangerous black tide. "You shouldn't have left."

He grips my chin, voice almost biting. "You think without me, what's left of you? Your name, identity, achievements, research—everything's in the Lancaster system. You're mine. You need to stay with me."

I laugh coldly. "Stay with you? Keep watching you propose to someone else, tattoo her name, build everything for her that I once did for you?"

He falls silent.

It's not indifference—it's the frustration of being hit where it hurts, leaving him speechless.

I look up at this cold-blooded man showing vulnerability for the first time.

"Ethan, I don't need your version of 'what's good for me.'"

I say softly, "I just need you to let me go."

His jaw tightens sharply.

"Impossible."

As he says it, his voice drops to something deep as a curse from hell.

He stands, straightening his clothes, resuming his cold, commanding presence as head of a global defense conglomerate.

"Tomorrow's wedding ceremony. You will attend," he says, as if delivering a verdict.

"That's an order."

With that, he turns and leaves like a passing storm—shattering all peace but offering no explanation.

As the door closes, I realize my hands are shaking.

I prop myself up and pull out my phone.

Missed calls, a long string—all from him.

I don't open them. I dial a different number.

"Dad." I stare out at the gray, cold sky. "Tomorrow. Come get me."