Chapter 16: The Perfect Son
The morning air was crisp as Kian stepped out of the sleek, black car and onto the white stone drive of the Fenix estate. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the property, gilding the mansion in a quiet kind of gold.
The gates closed behind him with a finality that didn't faze him. He walked slowly but purposefully, his coat brushing against his legs, his collar pulled high and tight around his neck—not for warmth, but to hide the marks.
The bite marks still throbbed faintly beneath the fabric. They lined his throat and collarbone like a secret only he could feel—red crescents from her teeth, deeper ones over his shoulders, matching the sharp scratch lines carved across his chest. She had marked him with no hesitation, and his body bore the evidence proudly, though only he would ever see it.
Inside, the remnants of the previous night still lingered—the opulent hall lit dimly by sunlight bleeding through tall windows, the scent of rich flowers and expensive perfume still floating in the air. Everything was as it had been when he left. Except now, he had changed.
Kian hadn't expected to be intercepted so soon.
"Kian."
The voice was calm. Low. And carried the weight of empires.
Kian looked up to find his father standing at the top of the grand staircase, dressed immaculately in charcoal gray, one hand resting on the banister. The man's eyes were sharp and cold, but not hostile—watching, always watching.
He descended with silent grace, pausing a step above his son.
"You disappeared," his father said, voice even. "In the middle of your own birthday ball."
Kian stood motionless at the bottom of the stairs, face impassive. The high collar of his shirt kept the truth buried just beneath the surface. His hands remained in the pockets of his coat.
A pause.
"My friends wanted to celebrate," he said simply. His voice was soft, measured—stripped of all excess. "Separately."
No excuse. No apology.
His father studied him for a long moment. The silence between them was sharp, like a blade neither cared to sheath.
But then something flickered in the older man's eyes. A shift, quiet and deeply private.
This was his son.
His only legitimate son.
Born of the woman he had loved. The only woman he had ever truly called his wife.
The boy who never disobeyed. Who never drank, never smoked, never chased skirts. Who was not loud like the others. Not soft. Not foolish.
Cold logic in his blood. Emotional distance in his bones.
A creature molded of ice and steel. And yet… born of fire. His fire. Her fire.
The one he had chosen. The only one worthy of bearing his name by right.
The perfect son.
His son.
His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.
"Next time," the man said at last, "inform me beforehand."
Kian gave a slow nod—neither obedient nor defiant. Simply acknowledgment.
That was enough.
No further interrogation. No suspicion. After all, Kian was not like the others.
His reputation was clean, his self-control legendary. The last person anyone would suspect of slipping away in the middle of the night for... anything.
His father turned and walked away, steps echoing through the marble hall.
Kian ascended the stairs without a word. As the sounds of the house faded behind him, he moved through the long corridor to his private wing. Once inside, he locked the door and leaned back against it, exhaling quietly.
He shed the coat and loosened the collar.
The bruises were darker now. Red sinking into violet. Her signature.
One particularly deep bite stood just above his collarbone—a place her mouth had lingered for far too long. His fingertips brushed it, and he felt the burn return.
He walked to the mirror, pulled his shirt open at the top, and stared at himself.
There he was.
The perfect son.
Untouched by scandal. Clean in the public eye. Ice in his voice. Glass in his veins.
And yet, beneath the surface—beneath the carefully chosen layers and the thousand expectations—her fire still burned.
He touched one of the marks again, and this time, he allowed the ghost of a smirk to curve at the edge of his lips.
Let them believe what they would.
No one would ever know.
And no one would ever suspect.
Not even the man who had helped create him.