The Past that made him

The Aldridge estate stood like a fortress against the night, its towering silhouette barely visible beneath the heavy downpour. Rafael stepped out of the car, the rain drumming against the pavement as he moved towards the grand entrance.

The moment he crossed the threshold, warmth enveloped him—the scent of polished wood, aged books, and something faintly spiced lingering in the air. A stark contrast to the cold, unforgiving world outside.

A figure was already waiting for him in the dimly lit foyer.

"Welcome home, Mr. Rafael."

The maid bowed her head slightly, hands folded neatly in front of her. She was one of the few who had been around since his childhood, someone who had learned early on that silence was the best way to survive in the Aldridge household.

Rafael shrugged off his coat, handing it to her without a word. The rain had soaked through the fabric, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—still lingering in the dim glow of the bookstore, still replaying the look in Amara's eyes when he had whispered those words to her.

A slow smirk curled at the edges of his lips. She was beginning to understand.

But there was still more to teach her.

The library was dimly lit, the heavy scent of whiskey and old parchment filling the air. Rafael didn't need to step inside to know what he would find.

His father sat in his usual chair, a crystal glass dangling lazily from his fingers, amber liquid swirling within. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows against the towering bookshelves lined with leather-bound history and power.

On the table beside him, an open book lay forgotten, its pages yellowed with age.

Victor Aldridge barely lifted his gaze as Rafael entered, though a knowing smirk tugged at his lips. "You're late."

Rafael said nothing, stepping closer, his expression carefully blank.

Victor exhaled, tilting the glass in his hand. "Busy with the girl, I assume?"

Rafael's fingers twitched at his side, but he didn't react. He knew better.

His father let out a low chuckle. "She reminds me of her father, you know. Foolish. Defiant. And like him, she doesn't understand the way the world works." He turned slightly, his sharp gaze meeting Rafael's. "But you do, don't you?"

A pause.

Then, Rafael gave the expected answer. "Yes."

Victor leaned back, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Good."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and charged.

"I hope you're not letting her soften you." His father's voice was edged with something dangerous, a warning laced beneath casual words. "You're meant for more than entertaining a broken girl."

Rafael's jaw tightened, but he merely nodded.

Victor smirked. "You'll learn, Rafael. Power isn't given—it's taken. And when you take it, you don't apologize. You don't hesitate. You don't blink." He tapped a finger against the glass. "You break them before they break you."

He set his drink down, fingers skimming the worn pages of the book beside him. "I built this empire, and you—" His gaze flickered back to Rafael. "You will be greater."

Expectation. Weight. The burden of a name that demanded nothing less than dominance.

Rafael remained still. Unflinching. Just as he had been taught.

His father studied him for a moment longer before exhaling, as if satisfied. He leaned back, dismissing him with nothing more than a flick of his fingers.

Rafael turned without a word, stepping back into the quiet corridors of the house.

But something lingered in his mind.

His father spoke of breaking. Of control. Of power.

But power, Rafael had learned, came in many forms.

And right now, he had something far more intoxicating than mere dominance.

He had a game.

And Amara?

She was the perfect piece to play with.

Rafael Aldridge was born into power, privilege, and cruelty.

His father, Victor Aldridge, didn't raise him to be a boy—he raised him to be a ruler. A conqueror. A man who knew that power didn't belong to those who deserved it, but to those ruthless enough to take it.

From the time Rafael could walk, his father drilled lessons into his mind. Obedience. Control. The hunger for dominance.

At the age of five, he was told to never cry—because emotions were weaknesses.

At eight, he was taught to break people without touching them—a sharp word, a cold gaze, the right amount of pressure applied at the perfect moment.

At twelve, he was given his first real test—to humiliate and control another boy. A boy who had looked at him the wrong way.

Victor had watched him closely that day, arms crossed, eyes expectant.

"Show him what it means to be beneath you, Rafael."

The boy had been small, weak. Rafael could have broken him with his hands, but his father had trained him better than that.

Power was best used like a noose—tightening slowly, never loosening.

Rafael had cornered the boy in the academy's courtyard, surrounded by others who watched in silence, afraid to interfere. He had forced the boy to kneel, whispering cruel words in his ear, breaking him without ever throwing a punch.

When the boy finally ran away, humiliated, destroyed, Victor had given Rafael his first nod of approval.

"Good. Now he'll never forget who holds the leash."

But Rafael hadn't cared about that boy.

His true hatred had always belonged to someone else.

Even as a child, he had hated Amara Lenz.

Hated how she laughed, how her parents adored her.

Hated the way her father looked at her like she was the brightest thing in the world—while his own father only ever looked at him with cold expectation.

Hated how her mother's hands were soft, warm, full of love—while his mother trembled in silence, obeying Victor's every word, afraid to breathe too loudly in his presence.

Amara had everything he never had.

Love. Warmth. A home that wasn't built on fear and control.

And Rafael hated her for it.

But he had never been allowed to touch her.

"Not yet," his father had always said. "Patience, Rafael. Even the most delicate creatures will come crawling to you in time."

So he had waited.

Watched.

Until the night that changed everything.

It had been a quiet night. Too quiet.

Rafael remembered how the air had felt—thick, heavy, like something dark was lurking beneath it.

He had been sixteen, sitting in the grand Aldridge estate, reading in the library when he heard the scream.

A sound so raw, so horrified, that it had cut through the silence like a knife.

He had frozen, heart hammering.

And then—his mother had run past him, her face pale as death.

"Mother?" he had called out, but she didn't stop.

Didn't look at him.

Instead, she locked herself in her bedroom, refusing to come out.

That was when Rafael knew—something had happened. Something terrible.

His father returned home later that night, smelling of blood and whiskey, his suit pristine except for a single dark stain on his cuff.

"Go to bed, Rafael."

His voice had been calm. Too calm.

But Rafael didn't listen.

He stayed awake, waiting, watching.

And the next morning—he heard the news.

Amara Lenz's mother was dead.

Raped. Murdered. Left as nothing more than a discarded thing.

And Victor Aldridge had been the last person seen near their home.

Rafael had confronted his mother first.

"You saw something."

She had flinched, gripping the pearls around her neck like they could protect her from the truth.

"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to, Rafael."

"Was it Father?"

Her lips quivered—but she said nothing.

That was when he knew.

Knew that Victor had destroyed another family.

Knew that his mother had stood by and watched, too afraid to stop him.

And something inside Rafael broke.

That was the night he stopped wanting to be his father's heir.

He didn't want to control the world the way Victor did.

He wanted to burn it all down.

But he couldn't. Not yet.

So he played along.

Nodded when his father spoke.

Obeyed when he was ordered.

Learned the lessons of control, power, and dominance—while hiding the part of himself that still wanted to break free.

And now, years later, when he looked at Amara—he knew she didn't remember.

She didn't know that his mother had been the silent witness to her mother's death.

She didn't know that he had spent years watching her suffer, knowing the truth, and saying nothing.

She didn't know that the hatred he had once felt had changed into something far more dangerous.

Something dark.

Something hungry.

Something that made him want to play with her, break her, keep her.

"You should have never come back, Amara."

As Rafael stood by the window of his estate that night, watching the rain lash against the glass, he smirked.

"Let's see how long you last."

Because now, the game had truly begun.

And Amara Lenz had no idea that she was the only piece left that could still ruin him.