Please Save Me Daddy

Chapter 2

Ashbourne Estate

Damien Cross drove the Imperial Sovereign straight toward the towering gates of Ashbourne Estate. The massive stone walls rose like an ancient fortress, cold and unwelcoming, their surfaces bathed in harsh white floodlights. At the entrance, thick iron gates stood firmly shut, guarded by several armed men whose presence made it clear—this was not a place for the uninvited.

The car slowed.

Then came to a complete stop.

A tall guard stepped forward, twirling a reinforced baton lazily in his hand as if he had all the time in the world. His name tag glinted under the light—Ronan Drake.

“Hold it,” Ronan said flatly, raising his hand. “Access clearance. Now.”

Damien lowered the window halfway, his expression sharpening instantly, his gaze cutting like a blade.

“Do you have any idea who you are addressing?” he asked, his tone icy. “You’re demanding identification from someone you are not qualified to question.”

Ronan let out a short laugh, clearly amused.

“This is Ashbourne Estate,” he said, his voice thick with arrogance. “The most powerful household in all of Valemont. Not some street corner you can intimidate your way through.”

His eyes drifted over the car slowly, deliberately, before a mocking smirk curled at the corner of his lips.

“And judging by this ride,” he added, tapping his baton against the vehicle’s body, “you’re not exactly escorting royalty. Tell me… what kind of ‘important figure’ still travels in something this outdated?”

The guards behind him burst into laughter, their voices echoing against the gates.

Damien’s patience thinned instantly, his voice dropping into something far more dangerous.

“We are not here for your opinion,” he said. “Move aside. The man inside does not wait.”

Ronan’s expression darkened, irritation flashing across his face.

“How bold,” he sneered. “A mere driver speaking like he owns the road.”

He stepped closer, his tone dripping with disdain.

“Listen carefully. Tonight is the engagement ceremony of the Ashbourne patriarch’s youngest daughter. Every influential figure in this city is inside. Ministers, business tycoons, military elites. People far above your reach.”

His gaze flicked toward the back seat, where the tinted glass concealed its occupant.

“And you?” he continued mockingly. “You don’t belong anywhere near them. You’re just opportunists trying to brush shoulders with people who would never acknowledge your existence.”

Then—

The atmosphere shifted.

A voice emerged from within the car.

Calm.

Deep.

Carrying an authority that did not need to be announced.

“So nothing has changed.”

The laughter died instantly.

Ronan frowned, his grip tightening on his baton. “Who said that?”

“The Ashbourne family,” the voice continued evenly, “still measuring worth by wealth. Still trampling on those they deem beneath them.”

Even through the closed window, the pressure of that voice was suffocating.

“What a disgrace,” it went on, colder now. “Hosting a celebration… after poisoning a child and tormenting her mother.”

Ronan’s expression snapped.

“Watch your mouth!” he barked. “No clearance, no entry. Turn this car around immediately.”

Inside the vehicle, Kael Varric’s eyes turned glacial.

“Damien.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Drive.”

No hesitation.

The engine roared to life.

The Imperial Sovereign surged forward with violent force.

Ronan barely managed to leap aside in time, stumbling backward as the car blasted past the gates like a unleashed predator. Chaos erupted instantly behind them.

“Stop that vehicle!”

“Unauthorized entry!”

“Alert inner security—now!”

Guards rushed into motion, shouting into their communicators as they scrambled to pursue.

“Suspicious vehicle heading toward the main hall!”

The car tore across the estate grounds, gravel scattering beneath its tires. Damien maneuvered flawlessly, his movements precise and relentless.

Within seconds, the vehicle screeched to a halt in front of the grand hall.

Before the engine had even died, security forces poured in from every direction.

They surrounded the car completely.

Weapons raised.

Eyes sharp.

“Step out!”

“Hands where we can see them!”

The rear door opened.

Kael stepped out.

The cool night air brushed against him, but it did nothing to extinguish the storm burning in his eyes. Damien exited immediately after, positioning himself just behind Kael—close enough to act, far enough to show restraint.

The guards tightened their formation.

One of them stepped forward, voice loud and aggressive.

“Who do you think you are, barging in here like this?”

Kael did not even spare him a glance.

His voice came out calm, almost indifferent.

“I’m here for my daughter.”

A pause.

“Tell me where she is… and I will leave.”

Confusion spread through the guards like a ripple.

“Daughter?” one of them repeated under his breath.

They scanned him from head to toe. His appearance was simple, composed, nothing extravagant. No visible sign of wealth. No mark of influence.

Certainly nothing that tied him to this estate.

“You?” another guard scoffed. “Have a daughter here? You must be delusional.”

Before the murmurs could grow louder, hurried footsteps broke through the tension.

Ronan Drake pushed his way into the circle, breathing heavily, anger burning across his face. His eyes locked onto Damien first.

“Why didn’t you stop the car?” he snapped, then turned toward Kael. “And you—who exactly do you think you are?”

Kael remained silent.

Ronan’s temper flared instantly.

“When someone asks you a question, you answer!” he barked, stepping closer, invading Kael’s space.

In an instant, Damien moved.

He stepped forward, placing himself between them like an unmovable wall.

“Step back,” Damien warned, his voice low and sharp.

Kael’s voice followed, quiet yet absolute.

“Damien.”

The single word was enough.

Damien paused, then stepped aside without hesitation.

Now, Ronan stood face to face with Kael.

He forced himself to hold the gaze.

That was his mistake.

Kael’s eyes were not normal.

They were dark—too dark.

Empty of hesitation.

Empty of warmth.

Filled only with something cold… something endless.

For the first time, Ronan felt fear coil around his spine.

It crept upward, slow and suffocating.

But pride forced him to stand his ground.

“You think you can scare me?” he scoffed, reaching out to shove Kael aside.

That moment sealed his fate.

Smack!

Damien’s hand moved like lightning.

Crack!

The sound split the air—sharp, violent, unmistakable.

“AAAAARGH—!”

Ronan Drake’s scream tore through the courtyard as his wrist twisted at an unnatural angle. The c***k had been clean, decisive, and merciless. His body collapsed instantly, slamming against the cold stone as he writhed on the ground, clutching his shattered arm.

Agony consumed him.

His cries echoed across the estate, raw and desperate.

The surrounding guards staggered backward, their confidence crumbling in an instant.

“What… what kind of people are these?” one of them whispered, his voice trembling despite himself.

Damien Cross stepped forward slightly, his expression as cold as steel, his voice cutting through the silence without mercy.

“Anyone who dares show disrespect to Major General Kael Varric,” he said evenly, “should consider it the final mistake of their life.”

The words landed heavily.

Watching Ronan roll helplessly on the ground, begging and screaming, the remaining guards felt their legs weaken. The arrogance they carried moments ago had completely vanished, replaced by something far more primal.

Fear.

Kael spoke again.

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“I’m not here for blood tonight,” he said, almost casually. “Especially not the blood of men who are merely doing their jobs.”

His gaze swept across them slowly, deliberately, pressing down like an invisible weight.

“I only want my daughter.”

A pause.

“Bring her to me… and I leave.”

No threats.

No raised voice.

Yet the meaning was unmistakable.

He turned his attention toward the grand hall, its lights glowing brightly in the distance, laughter faintly echoing from within.

For a brief second, the guards hesitated.

Then instinct overrode reason.

Two of them rushed forward, batons raised, shouting as they charged.

They never made it.

Bang!

Damien moved like a flash of lightning.

His fist collided with the first guard’s chest, sending the man flying backward as if struck by a speeding vehicle. The body slammed into a stone pillar before collapsing to the ground.

The second guard barely had time to react before Damien turned, his movement fluid and brutal.

Another strike.

Another body dropped.

More guards surged forward, shouting, trying to overwhelm him with numbers.

It didn’t matter.

Within seconds, Damien dismantled them one after another—precise, efficient, unstoppable.

Bones cracked.

Bodies fell.

Voices turned from aggression to pain.

In less than two minutes, over ten men lay scattered across the courtyard, groaning, clutching broken ribs, twisted arms, and shattered pride.

Silence followed.

Heavy.

Oppressive.

Damien calmly adjusted his cuffs, as though he had merely brushed dust off his sleeves rather than dismantled an entire security unit.

“This way, sir,” he said, his tone respectful as he gestured toward the grand hall.

Kael gave a small nod and stepped forward, not sparing a single glance for the fallen men behind him.

—

Inside the grand hall of Ashbourne Estate, the atmosphere was the complete opposite.

Warm light bathed the polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting reflections that danced across the room. Soft music filled the air as elegantly dressed guests moved in clusters, their laughter rising and falling like waves.

Servants glided through the crowd with trays of wine, their movements smooth and practiced.

The city’s most powerful figures had gathered.

Among them, five dominant families stood out clearly, their influence impossible to ignore.

From the Harrenfall family, Gregory Harrenfall—the chairman of the region’s largest shipping empire—stood with his wife, speaking in low, measured tones.

Nearby, Lady Vivienne Drax of the Drax lineage carried herself with regal composure, her presence commanding quiet respect wherever she stood.

The Calderon family was represented by Lionel Calderon, a man known for his political cunning and deep-rooted connections.

Across the hall, Julian Voss, the media magnate behind the Voss Network, laughed softly as he exchanged calculated pleasantries.

And at the very center of it all stood the Ashbourne family.

The old patriarch, Reginald Ashbourne, stood proudly among them, his cane resting lightly in his hand as he accepted congratulations with a satisfied smile.

Lionel Calderon raised his glass slightly, his lips curving.

“Reginald seems particularly pleased tonight,” he remarked. “Securing an alliance with the mayor’s extended family is no small feat.”

Gregory Harrenfall smirked.

“I’ve heard his eldest son intends to run for mayor once the current administration steps down. Fifteen years in power is more than enough time to prepare the stage.”

Lionel chuckled under his breath.

“Always positioning himself where influence flows strongest. A clever man… if nothing else.”

Gregory laughed quietly, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Speaking of influence,” he added, leaning in slightly, “have you heard about the figure who returned to the city today? The one everyone’s whispering about?”

Lionel raised an eyebrow.

“You mean the so-called legend?”

“Exactly,” Gregory replied. “They say he holds power far beyond his years. Every major household is trying to get on his good side.”

“You would do well to choose your words carefully.”

The voice that cut in was cool, composed, and carried a quiet authority.

Both men turned.

Lady Vivienne Drax had stepped closer.

Lionel gave a faint smile. “And what prompted that warning?”

Vivienne’s lips curved slightly.

“I’ve heard what happened at the airport today,” she said. “Generals, commanders… even the mayor himself, all standing beneath the sun, waiting.”

Gregory leaned forward, interest sharpening in his eyes.

“And where did you hear that?”

Vivienne’s smile deepened just a fraction.

“Let’s just say… information has a way of finding me.”

Lionel’s expression grew thoughtful.

“Then the rumors are true,” he murmured. “The Iron Viper has returned.”

Gregory nodded slowly.

“The strange part is that no one knows what he looks like. Some claim he’s barely out of his twenties. Others insist he’s an older man who simply refuses to age. His identity is sealed… his face unknown.”

Before Vivienne could respond, another voice joined them.

“That mystery,” Reginald Ashbourne said as he approached, “is precisely what makes tonight so… interesting.”

The trio turned toward him.

“I’ve extended an invitation to him personally,” Reginald continued, his tone calm but filled with pride. “If the world is eager to meet him, then why shouldn’t it happen here, under my roof?”

A ripple of surprise spread among the nearby guests.

Vivienne frowned slightly.

“You truly believe he would attend? A man who kept the mayor waiting without concern?”

Lionel shook his head.

“If anything, that sounds like the kind of man who punishes perceived disrespect.”

Murmurs of agreement followed.

What none of them knew—

Was that twelve hours earlier, as Kael prepared to return, a message had reached him through Director Victor Hale.

An invitation.

Sealed with the Ashbourne crest.

A calculated move to gain favor.

What Reginald never imagined…

Was that the man he invited—

Was the very slave he had once owned.

The boy he had believed long gone.

Forgotten.

Erased.

—

BOOM!

The grand doors slammed open with explosive force.

A body flew across the polished floor, crashing heavily against the marble as gasps erupted across the hall.

Every conversation died instantly.

Silence fell.

Then—

Two figures stepped inside.

One walked ahead.

The other followed half a step behind.

The atmosphere shifted completely.

The man in front carried no visible weapon, yet his presence alone felt heavier than an armed battalion. His gaze swept across the hall slowly, cold and suffocating, as if measuring every life in the room.

Behind him, Damien Cross moved like a shadow sharpened into a blade, his aura restrained yet lethal.

An invisible pressure spread outward.

And in that moment—

The entire grand hall felt it.

Something had arrived.

Not a guest.

Not an ally.

But a storm.