Chapter 4

                                                                          Sera Kaine

If there's one thing my mother, Isabella Kaine, loves more than her jewelry collection, it's social entrapment disguised as "family bonding."

I should've known something was wrong when she entered my room at eight in the morning in pearls and perfume. That's never a good sign.

"Get up, Sera. We're going to the Russo's."

Her tone was sugary-sweet—the kind of tone she used right before ruining my day.

I groaned from under the blanket. "Who died?"

"No one," she replied cheerfully. "Cassandra Russo invited us for lunch."

There it was. My cause of death.

"I'd rather attend a funeral," I mumbled.

But of course, my protests meant nothing. By noon, I was stuffed into a cream silk dress that screamed obedient daughter of respectable billionaires, my hair brushed to deceptive perfection, and my soul slowly dying inside my mother's car as we drove through the golden gates of hell—also known as the Russo estate.

The mansion appeared like it was built to intimidate heaven. Ivory walls, towering pillars, fountains with marble angels that probably cried real tears of champagne. Every inch of it screamed, We have money, and yes, we want you to know.

I leaned closer to my mom. "Do I have to curtsy or something?"

She shot me a look. "Sera."

"Just checking. I like to be respectful before I enter a cathedral of capitalism."

"Behave."

"Define 'behave.'"

Her glare answered for her.

Inside, the place smelled like expensive candles and control issues. A butler who probably hated his life opened the door, ushering us in with the grace of a man who'd seen too much.

The hallway was lined with portraits—oil paintings and photographs of faces carved by money and good lighting. I was about to make a snarky comment when my gaze caught on one particular frame.

And froze.

There he was.

A man with raven-dark hair and eyes so deep they looked like sin distilled into color—onyx eyes, glinting with restrained chaos. His jawline was sharp, his mouth unsmiling, and his presence even in a photograph was enough to command silence.

There was something terrifyingly calm about his expression. Like the world had disappointed him one too many times, and he'd stopped pretending to care.

He wasn't just handsome. He was dangerous to the peace of mind.

My breath hitched, and before I could stop myself, I whispered, "Who's that?"

"Ah," a soft, refined voice said behind me, "that's my son. Aaran."

I turned to find Cassandra Russo gliding toward us. She looked like the personification of elegance—honey-blonde hair, soft eyes, and the kind of smile that made you think she'd never known struggle.

Up close, she was stunning—warm, poised, and intimidatingly kind.

"He's..." I cleared my throat. "Your son?"

"Yes," she said with a hint of pride. "My only one."

"He looks..." I tried to find a word that wasn't unfairly magnetic. "Serious."

Cassandra laughed softly. "That's an understatement. He was born serious. I sometimes wonder if he even knows what fun looks like."

I smiled politely, but my gaze went back to the portrait. His eyes seemed to follow me. Watchful. Cold. Curious.

Cassandra sighed. "You must have heard about him. Everyone has, one way or another. But I suppose... not the truth."

Her tone changed—softer, fragile at the edges. My mother drifted off to admire a sculpture, leaving me standing there with Cassandra, curiosity gnawing at my ribs.

"I heard he was married," I said carefully. "Once."

She went quiet for a moment. Then—"Yes. He was."

Her voice carried a weight I wasn't ready for.

"She was lovely," Cassandra continued slowly. "Sweet, gentle, a little lost. But... she wasn't well. We tried to help her, but..."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the pearls around her neck.

"She... took her own life," Cassandra whispered, her eyes fixed on the portrait. "A few years ago."

My chest tightened. "I'm so sorry."

"She was pregnant," Cassandra added quietly.

The air left my lungs. "She—what?"

She nodded. "Aaran doesn't talk about it. None of us do. It broke him in ways you can't see. He hides it behind that composure, but..." Her voice trailed off, lost in memory.

For the first time, the house didn't feel cold. It felt haunted.

And not by ghosts—but by grief.

"I shouldn't have said this," Cassandra said after a moment, offering me a brittle smile. "Forgive me. I sometimes forget which parts of the past are mine to share."

"It's alright," I murmured, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

She straightened, regaining her warmth. "Come, dear. There's tea in the garden."

But I didn't move. Not immediately.

Because I was still staring at that portrait—at him.

At Aaran Russo, the man with eyes that looked like they'd seen the world burn and never blinked.

And I realized then that obsession doesn't always begin with love.

Sometimes, it begins with curiosity.

A pull.

A silent question that lingers long after you've looked away.

Who was he before the tragedy?

And what did it do to him?

Even as Cassandra led us away, the questions gnawed at me.

And somewhere deep inside, I knew this wasn't the first time I'd seen him.

My mind replayed flashes of rain and golden chandeliers. A wedding. A face I couldn't forget.

That night.

The night I saw him for the first time.

When he still had a ring on his finger... and I still had no idea how he'd come to ruin my calm.

It's strange how memory works. One moment you're sipping overly sweet tea beside your mother's best friend, pretending to care about garden orchids, and the next—you're standing somewhere else entirely.

For me, it was a night wrapped in silk and rain.

( 5 years back)

The Kaines had been invited to a wedding—some business ally's daughter marrying some oil-money heir. I was twenty, bored, and aggressively single. The ballroom smelled like roses and champagne and old secrets.

I'd gone mostly for the dessert table. But then he walked in.

Even in a room of tailored suits and glittering jewelry, Aaran Russo didn't blend. He didn't even try. He was the kind of man the universe accidentally printed in bold.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Hair black enough to make midnight jealous. His suit looked sculpted onto him, every line precise, controlled. And those eyes—the same dark onyx I'd seen in Cassandra's portrait—cut through the golden haze of chandeliers like they'd found their target long before I found mine.

He wasn't looking at anyone in particular. Just existing, quietly bending gravity around him.

And I... stared. Like a fool. Like someone witnessing a tragedy in slow motion but too fascinated to look away.

"Who's that?" I whispered to the waiter passing by, hoping he'd have an answer.

"That's Mr. Russo," he said reverently, lowering his voice. "He owns half of Milan's sky-line."

"Must be nice," I muttered. "Owning gravity."

Then I saw the woman beside him. His wife.

She was soft where he was sharp—light to his darkness. Her gown was a whisper of ivory, her laugh quiet, her eyes too kind for the world they lived in. He had his hand at the small of her back, gentle but distant, as if duty, not devotion, guided it.

They were beautiful together. Tragic, even then.

I remember thinking, she doesn't know he's the kind of man people orbit. And maybe he didn't know either.

He turned slightly, speaking to someone nearby, and for a split second his gaze brushed mine.

Just one heartbeat.

But it was enough to make the noise around me dissolve—the music, the chatter, everything. The only thing left was the hum under my skin and those impossible eyes studying me like he'd caught me trespassing in his world.

He didn't smile. He didn't frown.

He just looked.

And I forgot how to breathe.

Then the moment was gone. His attention returned to his wife, to polite conversation, to champagne flutes clinking like glass hearts.

I remember gripping my glass so tightly that condensation trickled down my fingers like cold guilt. What kind of girl stared at another woman's husband and felt... that?

Obsessed wasn't the right word. Bewitched, maybe. Or cursed.

All I knew was that his face burned itself into memory, into every dream that followed.

When I asked my mother about him later that night, she said simply, "The Russos. Good family. Their son married a lovely girl."

Lovely girl.

The one who, years later, would end her life.

I didn't know that then. Back then, he was just a mystery in a tuxedo.

But looking back now, from Cassandra's polished dining room, I realized—

he already had that same sadness in his eyes.

Like the story had started dying before anyone noticed.

I could still hear the rain from that night tapping against the ballroom windows, the faint thunder that followed him as he left early, his wife clutching his arm. I watched them go, something in my chest twisting in a way I didn't have words for.

I told myself it was nothing. Just a fleeting attraction. Just curiosity.

But curiosity has teeth.

And even years later, sitting in his mother's mansion, staring at his photograph, I still felt them sink in.

(Present)

The tea, the polite chatter, the garden—it all blurred around me.

I needed air. Fresh air. Something that wasn't perfumed to the point of offense. Something that smelled like reality instead of expectations.

I wandered past manicured hedges and fountains that squeaked just enough to remind you of their meticulous owners. The mansion stretched endlessly, halls folding into rooms I didn't know existed. Every corner seemed to whisper, you don't belong here.

And maybe I didn't.

But then—there it was.

The pool.

Not just any pool. A shimmering stretch of impossibly blue water, reflecting the sky like liquid glass. It looked serene, untouchable... until I noticed movement.

Aaran Russo.

He stepped out of the pool, water cascading over him like a waterfall auditioning for a perfume commercial. His hair was damp, dark strands sticking to the strong planes of his face. The black onyx of his eyes glinted, catching the sunlight and somehow making it feel like it was bowing to him.

He was magnificent. Terrifying. Dangerous. And impossibly real.

I froze mid-step, my mind short-circuiting.

He's standing there, in all his perfect arrogance, dripping water, looking like a man who doesn't belong to any world but his own.

The faint breeze carried the scent of chlorine and something else I couldn't name—sharp, clean, and intoxicating. My pulse hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it from across the pool.

Then it happened.

Our eyes met.

Just for a heartbeat.

But that heartbeat stretched into a second, then a third, and I felt like I was staring into a universe I'd been orbiting without knowing it. His gaze—calm, piercing, and unreadable—traveled over me in a way that should have been invasive, but somehow felt... inevitable.

My lips parted, though no sound came out. I wanted to say something—anything—but my mouth had betrayed me with silence.

Every sassy, witty thought I had prepared over the years evaporated. Gone. Poof. Replaced by a chaotic mix of awe, panic, and that delicious sense of danger that only Aaran Russo could inspire.

And then—just as quickly as it began—he moved past me, dripping confidence, leaving ripples in the water and chaos in my chest.

I exhaled slowly, as if the world could start again. My hands were slightly trembling. My brain scrambled for words, but there were none. He didn't speak. He didn't even acknowledge me beyond that one electric glance.

But trust me, Sera Kaine did.

I stood there, frozen, heart hammering, feeling like I'd just survived a collision with fate and lived to tell the story. Every rational thought fled. I was a hurricane in silk, completely undone by the mere presence of a man I had seen once before—years ago, under golden lights, and whose life had been wrapped in tragedy even then.

I didn't move. I didn't breathe. I just watched him disappear into the mansion, water dripping, aura impossible to ignore, leaving me to wonder if any mortal—or billionaire—had ever been allowed to look like that without consequences.

And then, slowly, reluctantly, I took a step back.

This wasn't over.

Oh no.

Not by a long shot.

Because in that one silent glance, Aaran Russo had claimed a space in my mind—and I had a feeling he had no intention of ever letting it go.

I exhaled slowly, trying to convince myself I wasn't completely undone. My hands still trembled, my pulse still doing a reckless tango. He didn't speak, he didn't acknowledge me again—he just disappeared into the mansion, leaving ripples in the water and chaos in my chest.

And yet... I smirked.

Because if Aaran Russo thought he could just walk past me and leave me breathless without consequence, he had another thing coming.

Oh no.

He had no idea.

I wanted him. Not just as a fleeting thought, not just as a memory haunting my mind—I wanted him.

And if fate had brought him here, into my orbit, then I wasn't about to let him slip away again.

I straightened my shoulders, a spark of fire lighting in my chest. My lips curved into a mischievous, confident smile.

He'll be mine.

And somehow, I knew—I would make him mine.

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Author's Note:

Hey loves 😘 Okay, I know the last chapter was a little... teeny-tiny (blame my chaotic brain 🙈), so I thought, why not make it up to you all with a loooong, juicy Chapter 4? Consider this my "sorry for the short one" gift 🎁. I poured all the sass, drama, and secret obsession vibes into this one just for you. Now I have to ask—what did you think? Did it hit the way you wanted, or did Aaran's broody, perfect self steal your breath as much as he did mine? Drop your thoughts—I'm dying to know 😏💖

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