"To the office," Lyan said firmly. "And make it quick."
The driver gave a small nod, shut the door, and got behind the wheel.
Back at the house, Angela felt restless. The TV buzzed in the background, but it only made the silence feel louder. With a sigh, she turned it off and walked to her room.
She sat by the window, pulling her knees to her chest. Memories of her life kept coming to her mind, washing everything in silver. It was quiet. Too quiet.
Without thinking, she began to sing.
Her voice came out soft at first, hesitant—then fuller, steadier, almost like a confession wrapped in melody. It wasn't planned. It just came from somewhere deep. It was rich with feeling, filled the quiet space, resonating against the walls and spilling into the hallway. It wasn't just a song—it was a release, a way to momentarily forget the danger and chaos that had overtaken her life.
Downstairs, two staff members in the kitchen froze mid-task.
"Is that her?" one whispered.
The other nodded, wide-eyed. "I didn't know she could sing like that."
"She sounds… broken. But beautiful."
"I've never heard anything like it in this house."
Upstairs, the song floated through the halls like a secret carried on wind.
When Lyan stepped into the house, he paused with one foot inside. The voice hit him instantly—soft, aching, magnetic. He had never heard it before, but it gripped him.
That's her? he thought. Angela?
He didn't wait. His body moved before his mind caught up, climbing the stairs two at a time. Something pulled him—urgency, curiosity… something more.
The closer he got, the clearer the sound became. Her voice carried a kind of sorrow that made his chest tighten. It wasn't just beautiful—it was haunting.
At the study door, slightly ajar, he stopped.
Through the gap, he saw her.
Angela stood by the window, arms lightly folded, moonlight tracing her figure. She looked fragile and strong at the same time. Her voice wrapped around the room like a memory that refused to fade.
Lyan's eyes blinked as he stared at her.
He leaned on the doorframe, stunned. "She's been holding this in? All this time?"
Lyan leaned against the doorway, captivated. He had never seen this side of her before. She seemed to pour all her sorrow into the melody, turning pain into something achingly beautiful. Her voice wove through the air like a fragile thread, binding her emotions to anyone who listened. This wasn't just a performance—it was an offering, a glimpse into the raw depths of her soul.
Lyan couldn't look away. It wasn't just the song that held him—it was Angela herself. She seemed transformed, as if every struggle she had endured had shaped her into something deeper.
"She just reminded me of my mother! She used to sit by the window knitting, just months before she died." Lya murmured to himself. Right now, he admired Angela even more, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time.
The last note lingered before fading into silence. Angela exhaled, her shoulders dropping. Then she turned—and saw him.
Her eyes widened. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.
Lyan's heart thudded. She looks... different. Like someone I've never really seen until now.
He didn't dare move. He just looked at her, unable to find the right words.
"I didn't know anyone was there," Angela said, her voice low, colored by a mix of surprise and embarrassment. She quickly brushed her hand across her face, trying to hide the emotion that had slipped through.
Lyan stepped further into the room, his voice softer than she expected. "I didn't mean to interrupt. Your singing... it's beautiful, Angela."
She gave a short, self-conscious laugh and looked down. "It's nothing. Just... helps clear my head."
He hesitated, then said gently, "I came to tell you—your mother's been rescued. She's safe now. You'll probably see her tomorrow morning."
Angela blinked. What? For a split second, she couldn't believe what she'd heard. Then the words sank in, and her body moved before her mind could catch up.
She threw her arms around him, clinging to him tightly, like a lifeline. Her emotions cracked open—tears and laughter tangled as she buried her face in his shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much, Lyan."
Lyan stood stiffly for a moment, startled. He hadn't expected this. Not from her. Not like this. But slowly, his arms rose and wrapped around her, holding her close. Her warmth, her trembling, the way her breath hitched—it made something shift in him.
"You don't have to thank me," he murmured. "It's what anyone would do."
Angela pulled back slightly. Her eyes were bright with tears, but they sparkled in a way he'd never seen before. "No, it's not what just anyone would do. You've done so much. You didn't have to—but you did." She looked at him, really looked at him. "I don't know how to repay you."
"You don't need to repay me," he said, meeting her gaze. "Seeing you like this—relieved, smiling—it's more than enough."
She sniffed, the corners of her lips lifting. "You have no idea how much this means to me. She's all I have left. I've been so scared, Lyan."
Then she realized she was still pressed up against him—close, too close—and quickly stepped back. Her face turned crimson.
"I'm so sorry," she stammered. "I just... got carried away."
He let out a soft chuckle, low and warm. "It's okay."
He stepped back too, though part of him didn't want to. "I have to go—there are things I need to handle before tomorrow. But if you need anything... anything at all, just call me."
His voice was calm, but there was something in the way he looked at her. Something quiet. Kind. Something that made her chest flutter in a way she wasn't ready to name.
Angela nodded slowly, her hands clasped tight in front of her to stop their shaking. "Thank you, Lyan. For everything."
He offered her one last look—a soft smile that lingered longer than it should've—then turned and walked out.
The house felt quieter now—but not in a way that suffocated her. For the first time in weeks, the silence felt almost peaceful. A reprieve from the storm she had been weathering.
For the first time in her life, she slept peacefully—untouched, unafraid, and no longer taken advantage of.