In an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city, Helena was thrown hard onto the concrete floor. Pain shot through her limbs as four or five men closed in, smirking.
The one with yellow-dyed hair licked his lips.
"Pretty little thing," he sneered. "Boss is gonna like you."
Helena's face drained of color. She clutched her torn collar and backed away, trembling.
"Get away from me!"
Her fear only fed their excitement.
"Feisty, huh?" one of them jeered. "Makes it more fun."
A filthy hand shot out, grabbing her wrist, another tearing at her blouse—
Rip!
The sound of fabric tearing echoed through the empty space. Cold air hit her exposed skin, and a dozen camera flashes followed.
"Stop! Please—let me go!" Helena screamed, thrashing helplessly as tears streamed down her face.
But her struggle was useless against their brute strength.
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed.
A dark figure exploded through the shadows, his kick landing squarely on the leader's chest. The man slammed into the wall and collapsed with a groan.
Before the others could react, they were struck down one by one—heavy blows, quick and merciless. Their cries filled the warehouse, then faded into silence.
Helena looked up, shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
Jackson stood amid the wreckage, his face cold, his entire body radiating murderous rage.
He shrugged off his blood-spattered suit jacket and strode toward her.
Without a word, he wrapped the jacket around her trembling body—still warm from his skin.
Helena's whole frame quivered as he pulled her into his arms.
For a moment, she wanted to resist. But her strength was gone. All she could do was let him hold her—just this once.
When they returned to the villa, Jackson carried Helena into the guest room and gently set her down on the bed.
But that gentleness cut deeper than a knife.
Helena lay there motionless, staring blankly at the ceiling—like a puppet whose strings had been severed.
Jackson didn't leave. He stood by the window, his tall figure bathed in silver moonlight, the shadow he cast stretching across the room until it swallowed her whole.
"Helena," he finally said, his tone calm but distant. "What happened back then was your fault. You should take care of yourself now and stop causing trouble."
Her lashes fluttered, but she said nothing.
How ironic. After lying for so long, had Jackson started believing his own lies?