"The Price of Victory"

Maria and Lucas's Celebration

The air inside the lavish penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive whiskey and aged cigars. Golden chandeliers draped the room in a warm, deceptive glow, casting long, flickering shadows along the marble floors.

Lucas sat in an oversized leather chair, his fingers drumming against the crystal tumbler in his hand. The whiskey burned his throat, but not enough to drown out the thoughts gnawing at the edges of his mind. Across from him, Maria reclined on the velvet sofa, her posture relaxed, but her eyes sharp—watching.

"To victory," she murmured, raising her glass.

Lucas smirked, clinking his tumbler against hers before downing the rest of the whiskey in one swallow. He let the warmth spread through his chest, reveling in the power coursing through his veins. Smith Co. Limited was his. The empire he had been denied for years now bent to his will.

And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing.

Maria seemed to sense it. She placed her glass down and leaned forward, her nails tapping against the glass table between them.

"You should be celebrating, Lucas. You won," she said smoothly, but there was an edge to her voice.

Lucas let out a dry chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face. "And yet, I don't feel like I did." His fingers tightened around the empty glass. "Smith Jr. is dead. His family is gone. So why does it still feel like he's watching me?"

Maria's lips curled into something between amusement and exasperation. "Because you haven't fully erased him."

Lucas frowned. "What do you mean?"

Maria stood, moving toward the bar, pouring another drink—this time, she took her time. She let the silence stretch, let the weight of her unspoken words settle over him before finally turning back.

"Diane and Dalian," she said, voice light but laced with warning. "They're still alive."

Lucas stiffened. The names tasted bitter in his mind.

"They're just children," he muttered.

Maria arched a brow, sipping her drink. "Children grow."

Lucas looked away, his jaw tightening. He had been so focused on taking the company, on proving himself the true heir, that he had barely spared a thought for Smith Jr.'s daughters. But Maria was right. They still carried the Smith name, and as long as they existed, a part of his brother's legacy remained.

Maria walked over, perching on the arm of his chair. Her fingers trailed lightly over his shoulder, voice dipping into something almost soothing.

"You think you've won, but the past has a way of clawing back when you least expect it," she whispered. "Diane and Dalian—they'll grow up hating you. Mark my words, Lucas. The day will come when they seek vengeance. And when they do, you better hope they don't inherit their father's strength."

Lucas exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the glass until his knuckles turned white.

He had erased Smith Jr. from the company.

Now, he would have to erase him from history.

Meanwhile, Diane and Dalian were taken far away to live with their aunt, Beatrice.

The car ride had been long, stretching into an unbearable silence. Rain pattered against the window, blurring the outside world into streaks of gray as the vehicle rumbled through unfamiliar streets. Diane barely noticed when the city lights faded, replaced by smaller buildings and quieter roads.

Dalian sat curled beside her, her head resting against Diane's arm, but she wasn't asleep. Diane could feel the tension in her sister's small frame, the way her fingers clutched at the hem of Diane's sleeve like an anchor.

No one spoke.

Not Diane. Not Dalian. Not the relatives who had taken them in.

By the time they arrived, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The woman—Aunt Beatrice—stepped out first, tightening her coat around her plump frame. Her husband, a tall, wiry man with graying hair, grabbed their suitcases from the trunk.

Diane didn't move right away.

She looked up at the house before them—small, unremarkable, its white paint faded with age. A single porch light flickered above the doorway, casting a dim, yellow glow. It wasn't unwelcoming, but it wasn't home.

It would never be home.

"Come on, then," Aunt Beatrice said, her voice firm but not unkind.

Diane swallowed hard and reached for Dalian's hand. It was ice-cold.

They stepped out into the night, the damp air clinging to their skin as they walked up the narrow pathway.

Inside, the house smelled of old wood and something faintly floral. The furniture was mismatched, the wallpaper slightly peeling in places. It was lived-in. Worn.

A stark contrast to the world they had left behind.

Aunt Beatrice led them to a small bedroom at the end of the hall. It was just big enough for a single bed, a wooden dresser, and a tiny window overlooking the backyard. The walls were bare, the air slightly stale, as if the room hadn't been used in years.

"This will be yours," Beatrice said, her tone brisk.

Diane stood in the doorway, taking in the cramped space—the bed with its plain, faded sheets, the dresser with its chipped edges. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting weak light against the pale walls.

Dalian didn't say anything. She hadn't spoken since they left.

Aunt Beatrice sighed, rubbing her temples as if already exhausted by their presence. "Bathroom's down the hall. We eat at seven sharp. If you need anything, ask before bedtime."

With that, she left, closing the door behind her.

Silence settled over them.

Diane placed their bags by the dresser, her movements slow and deliberate. She could hear the faint murmur of voices from the other side of the door—their relatives speaking in hushed tones, as if their mere existence was a disruption.

She turned to Dalian, who stood unmoving in the middle of the room.

Diane forced a smile. "Let's unpack?"

Dalian didn't respond.

Instead, she sat on the edge of the bed, curling into herself, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The dim light made her look smaller than she was, more fragile.

Diane swallowed hard and sat beside her. "Dalian?"

A beat of silence.

Then, finally, a whisper.

"I don't like it here."

Diane's heart clenched.

Neither did she.

But what choice did they have?

She reached out, smoothing a hand over Dalian's tangled hair. "I know," she murmured. "I don't like it either."

Dalian didn't move, didn't relax. Her voice was so small it barely reached Diane's ears.

"I want to go home."

Diane's throat tightened.

Home was gone. It had been swallowed by blood and smoke and the echoes of gunfire.

She couldn't tell Dalian that.

Instead, she whispered, "Me too," and held her closer.

The First Night

They didn't eat dinner.

When their aunt knocked on the door, calling them to the table, neither of them moved.

Diane sat with her arms wrapped around Dalian, staring blankly at the window. Outside, the rain had started again, soft and relentless, pattering against the glass like a quiet, sorrowful melody.

She could hear the faint clatter of dishes, the muffled scrape of chairs, the occasional murmur of conversation. But it all felt distant, as if she were listening from the other side of a thick wall.

Eventually, footsteps stopped outside their door again. A pause. Then—

"I left plates in the kitchen if you change your mind," Aunt Beatrice said, her voice carefully neutral. "Don't make this a habit."

Diane didn't answer.

She waited until the footsteps faded before shifting slightly, glancing down at Dalian. Her sister's eyes were open but unfocused, her small fingers clutching the fabric of Diane's sweater.

Diane exhaled softly.

She wouldn't force her to eat. Not tonight.

Instead, she leaned back against the headboard, letting the silence stretch between them.

The First Morning

Diane woke to the sound of movement.

For a moment, disoriented, she thought she was back home. She half-expected to hear the rustling of the maids preparing breakfast, the scent of fresh coffee wafting through the halls, the gentle hum of their father's morning routine.

But when she opened her eyes, reality settled over her like a weight.

The small room. The thin blanket. The dull gray light seeping in through the cracked window.

Dalian was sitting up, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing.

Diane sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Did you sleep?"

Dalian didn't answer.

Diane reached for her sister's hand, squeezing lightly. "Come on," she said, voice steady. "Let's wash up."

Dalian followed, but she moved like a ghost—silent, detached.

At breakfast, they sat at the table while their relatives ate around them. Aunt Beatrice placed plates in front of them—scrambled eggs, toast, a single slice of fruit.

Dalian didn't touch hers.

Diane forced herself to eat, chewing slowly, methodically, even as every bite felt heavy on her tongue.

Aunt Beatrice noticed.

"Dalian," she said, setting her fork down. "Eat something dear."

Dalian kept her gaze lowered.

A tense silence followed.

Their uncle cleared his throat, pushing back his chair. "They'll adjust," he muttered. "Just give them time."

Diane wasn't sure they would.

But she had to try.

For Dalian's sake.

For her own.

For the promise she had made in the dark.

One day, they would have a home again.

And no one—no one—would ever take it from them.

Breakfast had been quiet. Too quiet.

Diane and Dalian barely touched their food, their hands resting idly on the wooden table as Aunt Beatrice moved around the kitchen, placing dishes away with quiet efficiency. The smell of scrambled eggs and buttered toast still lingered in the air, but neither of them had much appetite.

Uncle Gerald had already left for work, his presence in the house barely noticeable to begin with. Aunt Beatrice, for all her stiff formality, had at least tried. She had urged them to eat, setting down their plates with a firm but gentle hand.

"Food won't bring back the past, but starving yourselves won't change anything either," she had muttered before sighing and returning to her chores.

Diane had taken a few bites, if only to avoid more pitying looks. Dalian, however, merely pushed her food around her plate before excusing herself from the table.

Now, the day stretched ahead of them—silent, unfamiliar, heavy.

Diane found herself standing in the small living room, staring out the window. The street was quiet, lined with modest houses and small front yards. It was nothing like the grand estate they had once called home, where the world had been sprawling and full of endless possibilities. Here, everything felt... smaller. Caged.

Dalian sat on the couch, her legs pulled to her chest, eyes vacant as she watched the muted television. Some afternoon program played in the background, but she wasn't really watching.

Aunt Beatrice had given them a short list of household rules before retreating to the garden to tend to her plants, leaving them to navigate their new reality on their own.

Diane inhaled deeply, forcing herself to move. She walked toward the bookshelf in the corner, running her fingers along the spines of old novels, their covers worn and faded. Books had always been an escape, a way to drown out the world.

"Dalian," she called softly. "Do you want to read something?"

Her sister didn't respond, her fingers tightening around the sleeves of her sweater.

Diane hesitated before sitting beside her, close but not too close. She picked up a book, flipping through the pages mindlessly.

Minutes passed. An hour, maybe more.

Eventually, Dalian spoke.

"I don't like it here."

Her voice was small. Weak. It made Diane's chest ache.

"I know," she murmured. "But we have to stay."

Dalian looked at her then, eyes glassy. "For how long?"

Diane didn't have an answer.

Instead, she reached out, gently pulling her sister's head onto her shoulder. Dalian didn't resist. She simply curled into Diane's side, seeking warmth, seeking comfort.

And for the first time since arriving, Diane let her guard slip—just for a moment.

She closed her eyes and whispered, "We'll figure it out."

But deep down, she wasn't sure if she believed it.