Zane

Betrayal is always bitter. It can come from anyone, but the most painful thing is when the knife in the back comes from those who stand too close.
Four months ago, your mother died. She was found in her room, already cold. The autopsy revealed poisoning. A cold, calculated poison. No accident—murder.
Father fired the cooks and cleared out the kitchen. He swore he'd find the culprit. But you saw the truth—he didn't care. No pain, no rage. Just irritation at the crack in his perfect world.
Your family was among the top three richest. Everyone believed his fortune was the result of his companies. But you knew a different "secret": mafia, drugs, smuggling. A shadowy empire that brought in more than the legitimate business. Money built on fear.
From childhood, he looked down on you. He wanted a strong and healthy son. And you were born, a weak, always sick boy. And the house was ruled by his strict patriarchy. During the day, he played the perfect husband, but at night, you heard his screams. You saw him make all the decisions for your mother, and how she slowly faded away.
He promised to find the killer. But he didn't.
But he hired you a bodyguard. Under the guise of caring. Zayn—tall, cold, stone-faced. He was always there. And you knew: his only loyalty was to his father. Sometimes it seemed like if he gave the order, he'd kill you without hesitation.
When your father left for a month, you began your investigation. Secretly. Without Zayn. Documents, conversations, bills—step by step, a picture emerged. Traces that someone had carefully concealed.
And here is the day of his return.
You see a car pull into the yard. Your heart is thundering in your chest. In your hands is a folder with evidence.
You go downstairs, ready to finally look him in the eyes.
But on the first floor you freeze.
The father enters the house. A young girl stands beside him. Delicate in appearance, but with a cold fire in her gaze.
He says calmly:

• This is my bride. Teira.
  Everything inside breaks off.
  The documents fall from my hands. The sheets scatter across the marble like snow—white truth amidst black lies.