The snow fell harder that night, blanketing Manhattan in a cold, white silence. The city that never slept looked ghostly under the streetlights.
Roads buried, sidewalks deserted, even the usual hum of traffic drownedunder the storm’s hush. But through that eerie stillness, a single black car
cut through the snow with sharp speed, its tires hissing over the wet asphalt.
Inside the car, the man in the backseat sat rigid—his tall frame tense, his knuckles white around the cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily toward the car ceiling, mingling with the cold breath he exhaled. His
sharp jawline was framed by the rectangular black glasses perched on his face, adding to his dangerously magnetic presence.
Lucas Blackwell had faced boardrooms, enemies, and billion-dollar losses without flinching, but tonight his pulse raced like a man staring down the end of the world.
The low dashboard light fell across his face, highlighting the clean, dark lines of his profile. His black rectangular glasses sharpened the intensity of his piercing eyes. Even in the muted glow, his tailored suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders, and the high cheekbones and strong jaw gave him an effortless, cold handsomeness that demanded attention.
He took a deep drag from the cigarette between his fingers, his jaw tight. The smoke curled around his face before he leaned toward the half-open
window, tapping the ash outside with precise, shaky movements, trying to steady the torrent of anxiety boiling inside him.
“Did you find her yet?” His harsh voice cut through the silence, threaded with an urgency that made Allen, his secretary, flinch.
Allen’s hands tightened on the wheel. His gaze flicked nervously to the rearview mirror, landing on Lucas . “Not yet, Mr. Blackwell,” he answered.
“Miss Brooks ”
Lucas head snapped around, his piercing gaze locking on Allen and freezing him mid-word. Swallowing hard, Allen corrected himself
immediately. “Mrs. Blackwell … she was last seen at the train station by our men. But they lost her in the crowd. She got off first, and they lost track of
her. And then—she just disappeared.”
A muscle in Lucas jaw twitched. The air inside the car seemed to drop ten degrees. He took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing in the dim interior of the car. He inhaled sharply, exhaled through clenched teeth, then muttered coldly, “Fire them.”Allen’s pulse spiked.
“S-Sir?”
Lucas' voice was ice-coated steel. “Get more people. Replace everyone currently on the task. I don’t want to see them again.”
“Yes, Mr.Blackwell .” Allen fumbled with the car’s screen and pressed a number.
Allen, shorter than Lucas but wiry and quick, had sharp green eyes that flicked constantly over every detail. His light brown hair was slightly
tousled, and a faint shadow of stubble gave him a rugged edge. Calm in posture but alert, he moved with the precision of someone used to anticipating orders.
The call connected after two rings. “Replace the men searching for my wife ,” Allen instructed sharply. “Fire the ones currently on duty. Double
the team. I want updates every five minutes. The moment you spot her, report but maintain distance. Protect her, don’t crowd her.”
“Yes, sir,” the voice responded before hanging up.
Allen pressed harder on the accelerator, and the car surged forward through the snow. The engine hummed louder, but inside the car, Lucas Silence was heavier than noise. He took another drag, but halfway through, his fingers trembled.
A sharp ache pierced through his chest. The cigarette slipped slightly between his fingers as he clutched at his heart, a sudden panic rising like
fire in his lungs, breath hitching in short, panicked gasps.
“Mr. Blackwell?” Allen’s voice rose in alarm. “Are you—”
Lucas leaned forward slightly, his breath ragged. “Something’s wrong with Genevieve,” he muttered, his voice strained.
Allen glanced at him through the mirror, hesitation flashing across his face.
“Maybe it’s just the cold, sir. You haven’t eaten anything all day—”
Blackwell's glare froze him mid-sentence, a silent warning to keep his thoughts to himself.
Then, Lucas eyes caught something in the snow. He leaned forward,.his gaze fixed outside the window. “Stop the car,” he barked.What sir?”
“Stop the damn car!”
Allen slammed the brakes, tires screeching against ice. Both men lurched
forward. Lucas didn’t wait; he threw open the door and sprinted into the snow-covered street. His boots crunched sharply against the icy ground,
each step propelled by urgency.
The cold hit him like a slap, but he didn’t care. His eyes were locked on something near the corner of the street a single white sandal lying half-
buried in the snow.
Lucas strode toward it, his steps fast, almost frantic. Kneeling down, he.picked it up carefully, brushing the snow off the surface. It wasn’t broken. It had simply fallen off.
Allen hurried after him, breath puffing in the cold air. “Mr. Blackwell , what happened? Is something wrong?”
Lucas voice was tight, frayed with panic. “genevive was wearing this today.”
Allen’s brows knit in confusion. “Are you sure, sir?”
Lucas didn’t reply, his gaze snapping to his phone. He scrolled through the photos his men had sent. There it was Genevieve, this morning, the white sandal on her foot, perfectly matched to the day.
“She was wearing this today,” Lucas repeated, voice dropping to a growl. “Yesterday black sandals. The day before yellow ones at her
home. Today… this white one.”
His chest tightened further, anxiety clawing up his throat. He spun, scanning the silent streets with desperate, feverish eyes. Every shadow
seemed alive with possibilities, every corner a potential hiding place. His steps quickened, boots crunching over snow-packed asphalt.
And then—a faint rustle.
From under a makeshift tent by the alley, a figure emerged. A woman in torn clothes, her face shadowed by the hood of her coat, stepped toward him hesitantly.Sir…” her voice was trembling. “Are you looking for that injured woman?
A young lady…?”
Lucas blood ran cold.
“Are you her husband?” the stranger demanded, eyes scanning him from head to toe, then locking on his. Her voice was sharp, threaded with fury.
“Some goons just attacked her, and you refused to even send a few thousand dollars for her treatment? Are you out of your mind?!” She
snapped, her gaze drilling into his. “What are you looking for now?”
Lucas eyes went cold, dark, and blank. Every word from her mouth sent heat rushing to his ears, making his blood pound.
“The goons hurt your wife badly,” she continued, urgency cracking her voice. “There’s a wound on her head. You need to find her now!”
Terror and panic flared across Lucas face, twisting his usually controlled features into a mask of urgent fear. He stepped closer, his intensity forcing the woman to take a wary step back. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice low, almost strangled with panic. “Where did she go?”
Allen, quick on his feet, pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and thrust it into the woman’s hands. “Can you help us find her?”
The woman’s eyes widened as they fell on the money, her fingers curling around the paper. A spark of interest flashed across her gaze. “Yes, she’s very close. She was walking this way,” she said, indicating the road ahead.
“She’s injured. Hurry—you might find her just down this street. It hasn’t even been a few minutes.”
Before the woman could finish, Lucas was already sprinting, boots cutting through the snow with a force born of panic and desperation.
Allen quickly said to the woman, “Thank you!” before rushing back to the car. He slid behind the wheel and revved the engine, speeding off
to follow Lucas.
Within minutes, Lucas' eyes caught a figure in the distance—a lone shape stumbling through the snow. A coat barely covered her, her feet bare,
shivering with each step. Panic surged as he noticed her faltering, nearly falling. Lucas steps accelerated, adrenaline surging through him.She stumbled, teetering dangerously, and in that instant, time seemed to stretch. Lucas lunged, catching her mid-fall. Her body was feather-light
yet chilling against him, trembling from cold and shock. He held her close, securing her against his chest.
Allen skidded the car to the curb. Lucas didn’t wait—he stormed to the rear door, yanking it open. He lifted Genevieve into the car with practiced urgency, cradling her protectively as he settled into the backseat. Her head rested against his chest, limp and unconscious, and he pressed himself closer, shielding her from the cold. His heart ached as he felt how cold her hands
were, how fragile she felt in his arms.
“Home,” he muttered, voice taut with urgency. Allen’s hands moved with precision on the wheel, and the car roared off through the snowy streets.
Swiftly, he pulled the overcoat he had worn earlier and wrapped it around her, cocooning her against the chill. Only her face remained visible. One
hand cradled her head, the other rested over her ear, shielding her from the.wind.
Genevieve stirred slightly, tiny hands grasping at his coat, then clutching at his collar. Her lips quivered against his chest, a faint shiver running through her. Lucas bent down, his face dangerously close to hers, breath mingling,
and for a moment the world disappeared. Then, in a breathless, impulsive surge, he pressed his lips to hers.
Pulling back just slightly, he whispered, low and intense, Genevieve… you are mine now.” A dark, almost predatory smile tugged at his lips as he held her
closer.