I boarded the plane with a semblance of confidence, convinced that I was managing just fine. But now, as I paced through the sterile halls of the hospital, the veneer was crumbling fast. The reality was brutal. They had found the blood-stained baby clothes belonging to my little sister, evidence of a tragedy I wished I could erase. And Bellamy’s father? They believed he was too volatile, too confused to navigate this world without sedation. He had lashed out at his aides and the nurse, a terrifying reminder of the chaos unraveling around us. I begged them not to share that with Bellamy. The last thing she needed was the weight of blame on her shoulders for not being there. I had to shield her from additional heartache, especially when the threat was her own father—it was a bitter irony to protect her from the very man who should offer her comfort. “Does he need anything?” I asked, offering my handkerchief for her tears, those silent waterfalls trickling down her cheeks. “He's comfortable,” she replied, mustering a smile that didn’t quite reach her sapphire eyes. It pained me to see her so brave and fiercely independent, an unrecognized strength that only deepened my admiration for her. She was a breathtaking sight, even amidst the turmoil, and it tugged at my insides, a bittersweet ache I couldn’t shake. My desire to protect her blazed like wildfire. She was mine to safeguard and cherish—more than just my queen; she was my home, my heart, my very essence. Yet, with the specter of my past encroaching like a sudden chill, I felt myself slipping back into the shadows of my former self. “My sweetness, tell me what I can do,” I pleaded, desperation creeping into my tone. I craved a task—a strong, physical exertion to burn off this overwhelming dread. I thought of going for a run, a futile attempt to outrun my demons, or perhaps indulging in the raw passion we shared. The thought of binding her to me in the most primal way sent shivers down my spine, but I forced the imagery away, knowing it was inappropriate in this moment. In stark contrast to my turmoil, my office awaited me filled with remnants of my grief: images I feared I’d find. The haunting memory of my sister’s tiny, bloodied clothes felt like acid in my veins. I recalled the warmth of our nanny cradling her in that innocent onesie, the blanket that once symbolized familial love now tainted by horror. The sound of chaos still rang in my ears—the cries, the screams, the paralyzing fear that gripped me as I discovered our father, lifeless by her crib. She was stolen from us, and the abyss of uncertainty gnawed at my heart, rippling with the horrific possibility that her fate mirrored our father's tragic end. “Nothing beyond what you've already done for me,” Bellamy said, her voice firm yet tender, as though she sensed my turmoil and was determined to quell it. “This was inevitable, and as you said, he’s in capable hands.” Sitting up straighter, she cleared her throat. “He needs rest, and they say he likely won’t awaken until tomorrow. Tonight, I want to be with our children. We’ll make junk food and watch a movie.” A flicker of amusement crossed my face, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Junk food?” “Chicken fingers, mac and cheese, and cookies. It’s become Zayer’s new favorite,” she beamed with that touch of mischief. “Even Sabrina is joining in without a fuss.” I chuckled softly, unable to stifle the delight radiating from her. “Are you planning to make all this?” “I am,” she replied with unwavering determination. “Cooking and baking will soothe my soul, and I need to keep my mind busy. I can’t save my father. I can’t heal him or bring my sister home, but I can create a special night with our children.” Once more, she donned her brave face, seemingly unaware that her blue eyes betrayed her sorrow. Bellamy thrived on optimism, a vital currency in our turbulent world, and all I could do was nurture that light. I extended my hand, helping her to her feet. “Let’s do it then. Phaedra has been clamoring to watch that ogre movie again.” She snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Of course she is. It’s only seen a dozen times by now.” Leaning down toward her father’s sleeping form, she whispered, “Good night, Dad. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.” She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead before reclaiming my hand. “How can life be so beautiful and yet so unbearable?” “I’ve pondered that same contradiction ourselves.” The only light in my otherwise muddled existence had come from her—a brightness that shined through the tempest of my doubts. I remembered the horror I had felt when I first fell for her, the panic that came with the realization of her importance in my life. I loved her deeply, but that love came with a burden. Binding her to me felt like sealing her fate—a fate that echoed the tragic loss of my baby sister. Admittedly, her father had struggled long before I entered their lives, but the strings of misfortune twisted agonizingly after our wedding. Bellamy’s father fell, breaking his wrist, and soon after, the mystery of my sister’s disappearance reopened like a festering wound. In our naivety, we had believed our love could shatter the curse that haunted our family. I would have staked my life on it. Now, barely two months after feeling its clasp loosen around my throat, the burden was heavier than ever. For the first time, I sensed that Rowan shared my growing anxiety. Maybe there was no escaping this curse. But if that were true, what awaited us? What future loomed for our children amid this dark reality? A creeping dread poured over me like ink staining a once pristine page—it gnawed at my bones and suffocated my spirit. Yet I held my silence, unwilling to burden Bellamy with my darkening thoughts. Perhaps I would be wrong, and fate would be kinder than we imagined. As Bellamy and I wove through the palace toward the kitchen, we stumbled upon my three little mischief-makers, their grubby hands plunging greedily into a large bag of chocolate chips. I cursed softly under my breath in Latin, then cleared my throat, feeling the weight of my earlier weariness. The prospect of scolding them felt insurmountable; after all, safety surrounded us here, and my heart yearned to witness their laughter and joy, especially following today’s grim events. Their wide eyes met mine, hands freezing in mid-motion. Sabrina, ever the bold one, quickly stuffed the last chip into her mouth. “They were out,” Phaedra offered innocently. “The bag was already open. We didn’t do it.” “Hmm…” I feigned contemplation, wiping my mouth to hide the grin breaking through. “And do you believe that’s a satisfactory explanation for indulging in chocolate before dinner?” She slumped her shoulders, her little face forming an adorable pout. “No, Papa.” But Zayer and Sabrina shouted a resounding “Yes!” in unison, breaking through my facade of authority, and I could no longer contain my laughter. “Zayer, you can’t possibly be as troublesome as Sabrina!” His curious look seemed to suggest otherwise as he traipsed over to Bellamy, arms lifted in silent demand for her embrace. To my amusement, she swung him up effortlessly, and his cheeky grin proclaimed victory. “I’m not trouble, Papa,” he assured me. “And you, my little princess?” I strolled toward Sabrina, crouching to her level. “I’m not trouble!” she declared, puffing up adorably. “Sabrina, my dear, you are indeed trouble. But that only means you possess a wild spirit destined to challenge not just me and your mother—but the world. And while you may give me gray hairs and sleepless nights, I wouldn’t trade you for anything. I hope that fiery spirit leads you to accomplish great things.” I pressed my lips to the tip of her nose, and the tension that had coiled in my chest began to dissolve as her face lit up with joy. “Now…” I hesitated, glancing curiously at Bellamy. We had yet to decide what the children would call her. “Mama” felt too intimate for now, a title that demanded time and comfort to reflect their bond. So instead, I waved it away and refocused on my little rascals. “Let’s prepare dinner and dessert. I’m certain Uncle Rowan is looking forward to your favorite.” I showered each child with kisses, my heart swelling with warmth before departing to attend to Rowan and Javier waiting in my office. Bellamy knew of the bloodied onesie, but she was still in the dark about much of the horrid truth weighing heavily on her thoughts tonight, and I had no desire to add any burdens until it was absolutely necessary. As I stepped into my office, Rowan paced anxiously while Javier sat behind my desk, an ominous presence overwhelming the room. It resonated eerily with that fateful time when Samil took Bellamy. “What is it?” I inquired, my heart pounding in sync with Rowan’s frantic footsteps. “A diamond,” he barked, barely pausing his pace. “One of the diamonds from her royal tiara—it’s been found.” I rubbed my forehead as bewilderment set in. “Her what?” Rowan halted, his agitation palpable. It was Javier who took the reins of explanation. “Her royal tiara. It was never reported missing after the kidnapping, although the blanket was. Each diamond was certified and registered, and now—” “And when we cornered our mother about why she never reported it missing,” Rowan interjected, “her response was that it wasn’t pertinent information. Like, are you kidding me?!” “I swear, she’s lost her mind,” I snapped, anger boiling in my veins. She had been absent from my wedding and insulted Bellamy with accusations of greed when I called to share my happiness. Ever since our father’s demise and Desta’s abduction, her grief had grown insurmountable—or so we believed. Yet now, her careless dismissal raised red flags I couldn’t ignore. “Do we have documented proof of each stone in that tiara and its registration?” “Yes,” Javier confirmed. “They are part of the royal jewels. Nothing was done with them after Desta’s tiara, except for what you designed for Bellamy on your wedding day. Brea never received one; our mother whisked her away shortly after her birth.” The sting of memory gnawed at me. Brea had been born while Desta was taken from us—a reminder of the complicated web of sorrow and secrecy surrounding our family. My father had never tasted the joy of being an uncle, nor had Rowan or I ever met her. “Did only our mother know of this?” I pressed again, unease creeping into my mind. “So it seems,” Rowan muttered, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Why was her tiara even there that night by her crib? It seems oddly convenient.” Rowan met my gaze, concern tracing his features. “No idea. It doesn’t make sense at all.” Determination rushed through me as clarity settled in—this wasn’t just speculation; it was a lead. “I want to inspect the cottage personally. And then we’ll dive into the royal jewels. I need to confront our mother and uncover whatever she’s concealed.” “I agree on the cottage visit,” Rowan replied slowly, still paced with skepticism. “But do you genuinely believe she holds any knowledge?” “Yes,” I stated firmly. “I have questions—too many questions—about what she knows and what she has kept from us.” Rowan’s movements ceased, evidence of contemplation flickering in his eyes. “You think she’s the puppet master behind it all?” His disbelief was palpable, but I shrugged, uncertain yet firm. “Why wouldn’t she report the tiara? And why was it there?” He pressed his hands against his temples, staring blankly into the ground as silence enveloped us. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “If it were one of your children…” His voice trailed off, illustrating the heart-wrenching possibility. “If it had been one of my children,” I echoed, “I would have offered a reward for that tiara—after all, its value is incalculable. I would have moved mountains, unleashed hell, anything to find them. Do you recollect any mountains moved?” “No.” Rowan shook his head, his jaw set tightly. “All I remember is a brisk search followed by your coronation. Then…” “Desta vanished,” I finished, realization crashing down upon us like a wave, cold and unforgiving. Because the more I reflected on it, the clearer it became. Our mother shifted from the image of a complete family to one entwined in despair: your father is dead, Desta is missing, Brea is sick, and we are cursed. For a fleeting moment, I recalled the panic, the hunt for a child who had been taken so swiftly, and the emptiness that followed when it was all over in mere weeks. Afterward, my mother had vanished too, cradling Brea in an isolation that had spiraled from the chaos surrounding Desta’s abduction. It had never occurred to me to question this until now, and resurging uncertainty clawed at my resolve. I remembered little about the search and now felt an insatiable curiosity in my gut. Why was there no major manhunt for Desta? That question lingered like a dark cloud over my already tumultuous heart, demanding an answer.