Zara’s Afterlife

Divorce Under Cristal Light

Zara sat in the back seat of the sleek black sedan, her body curled inward as though she were trying to fold herself into nothingness. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her torso, her knees drawn to her chest beneath layers of silk and tulle. The once-elegant sapphire gown she wore—custom-made for the most important night of her life—now felt unbearably heavy, like a cruel reminder of everything she had lost within a single night.

The fabric pooled around her like a shroud.

Her shoulders trembled as quiet, broken sobs escaped her chest. Tears slid freely down her cheeks, dripping onto her lap and soaking into the expensive material she no longer cared about. The pain inside her was too vast, too overwhelming to contain.

She pressed her palm against her mouth, trying to silence herself, trying not to let the driver hear her fall apart.

But the grief refused to be caged.

“How could I be so foolish?” she whispered brokenly, her voice barely more than breath.

“Daddy… I failed you.”

Her father’s face flashed through her mind—his warm smile, his proud eyes, the way he had once placed his hands on her shoulders and told her she was strong enough to carry the Morgan legacy.

I destroyed everything you built, she thought bitterly.

I handed it to a monster.

Outside the tinted windows, the city lights blurred into streaks of gold, white, and red as the car sped through the streets. Neon signs smeared into colorless ribbons. Every red light felt too long. Every intersection felt dangerous. Every unfamiliar turn felt like a step into the unknown.

Zara’s mind replayed Kelvin’s words again and again, like a cursed echo she couldn’t escape.

I never loved you.

I was only with you because of your wealth.

You don’t even need to be alive anymore.

Her chest tightened violently.

Her lungs struggled to draw in air.

She felt like she was suffocating.

A fresh wave of sobs tore out of her.

In the front seat, the driver—an older man in his late fifties who had served the Morgan family faithfully for over two decades—tightened his grip on the steering wheel. His name was Bernard. He had driven Zara to school as a child. He had driven her to her father’s funeral. He had watched her grow from a shy girl into a formidable businesswoman.

He glanced into the rearview mirror.

His brows furrowed deeply.

Something wasn’t right.

He adjusted the mirror slightly, angling it to get a clearer view of the road behind them.

The same black car.

It had been there for several minutes now.

Too close.

Too consistent.

Too deliberate.

Bernard’s jaw clenched.

His heartbeat quickened.

He pressed gently on the accelerator.

The car picked up speed.

Zara barely noticed at first. Her mind was drowning in grief, her heart still shattered from humiliation, betrayal, and heartbreak. But when the car suddenly swerved slightly to overtake another vehicle, she looked up, startled.

“Why… why are you driving like this?” Zara asked weakly, her voice trembling.

Bernard didn’t answer immediately.

His eyes remained locked on the road ahead.

He sped up again.

“Sir?” Zara said again, fear creeping into her voice now.

“Why are you driving rough?”

Bernard exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Madam,” he said carefully, choosing his words, “there is a black car behind us.”

Zara’s heart skipped violently.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

“What do you mean… behind us?” she asked in a fragile whisper.

Bernard glanced into the mirror again.

“It has been following us since we left the event hall.”

Zara’s breath hitched painfully.

Slowly—hesitantly—she turned her head and peered through the back window.

Her heart nearly stopped.

The black car was there.

Close enough that she could clearly make out its headlights, its tinted windshield, the dark silhouette of someone sitting behind the wheel.

When their car changed lanes, the black one followed.

When Bernard sped up slightly, it did the same.

Fear rushed through Zara’s veins like ice water.

“Oh my God…” she whispered.

Her thoughts instantly leaped to Kelvin.

To Rosalie.

To the cold calculation in Kelvin’s eyes when he said she didn’t need to be alive.

Her hands began to tremble violently.

“I hope…” she said shakily, “I hope Kelvin did not send these people after me.”

Bernard said nothing.

But his silence was answer enough.

Zara’s breathing turned shallow and frantic.

“No… no, no,” she whispered.

“He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t go that far.”

But even as she said it, deep down, she knew better.

Kelvin had already destroyed her life.

Why wouldn’t he erase her completely?

Her fingers fumbled desperately for her phone.

She needed help.

She needed someone who knew the truth.

Someone her father had trusted more than anyone else.

Mr. Lukas.

Her father’s personal lawyer.

The man who had protected the Morgan family’s legal empire for decades.

Her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone.

She dialed his number.

The ringing felt endless.

“Please pick up… please pick up,” she murmured desperately.

Finally—

“Hello?” came a familiar, calm voice.

“Zara?”

Tears burst from her eyes anew.

“Mr. Lukas,” she sobbed.

“I need your help.”

The urgency in her voice instantly put him on alert.

“Zara, slow down,” Mr. Lukas said firmly.

“What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Someone is following me,” she cried.

“I think Kelvin sent them. I think he wants to kill me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

“Zara,” Mr. Lukas said, his voice now serious and controlled,

“I need you to calm down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

Her words spilled out in broken fragments.

How Kelvin had tricked her.

How she signed everything.

How he humiliated her publicly.

How Rosalie revealed their affair.

How Kelvin said she didn’t need to be alive.

“And now,” Zara continued, her voice cracking,

“there’s a black car following us. Please… please help me.”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Where are you right now?” Mr. Lukas asked.

Zara glanced at the road signs flashing past.

“We’re on Kingsway Road… approaching the East Bridge,” she said quickly.

“I’m coming,” Mr. Lukas said without hesitation.

“I’m leaving my house right now.”

“Please hurry,” Zara begged.

“I’m scared.”

“Listen to me,” Mr. Lukas said firmly.

“Stay on the line if you can. Tell your driver to keep moving. Do not stop. Do not engage anyone.”

He ended the call abruptly.

At that same moment, Mr. Lukas grabbed his keys, rushed out of his house, and climbed into his car. His heart pounded as he started the engine.

Henry trusted me to protect her, he thought grimly.

And I will not fail him.

Back in Zara’s car, her grip tightened around her phone.

“Drive faster,” she pleaded.

“I’m already doing that, madam,” Bernard replied, pressing harder on the accelerator.

The engine roared.

The speedometer climbed.

Zara’s heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst.

The black car sped up too.

“They’re still there,” Zara whispered.

Bernard made a sharp turn.

So did the black car.

Zara let out a sob.

“Oh God… Daddy,” she cried.

“Please don’t let me die like this.”

Back at the Event Hall

While Zara fought for her life on the darkening roads, the grand event hall glittered with artificial joy.

Kelvin stood near the bar, champagne glass in hand, his posture relaxed, his expression victorious.

Rosalie stood beside him, her hand possessively wrapped around his arm.

Kelvin leaned close to her ear.

“She won’t be a problem for much longer,” he murmured.

Rosalie’s lips curved into a delighted smile.

“So she’s really going to die tonight?”

Kelvin nodded calmly.

“By morning, the news will say Zara Morgan died from depression and stress. A tragic accident.”

Rosalie sighed contentedly.

“Perfect.”

She glanced around.

“You know what you should do now?”

Kelvin raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Announce our wedding date,” Rosalie said confidently.

“Tonight.”

Kelvin smiled slowly.

“You’re right.”

He drained his glass and handed it to a waiter.

“Let’s finish this night properly.”

Kelvin climbed back onto the stage and tapped the microphone.

“May I have your attention, please?”

The music stopped.

All eyes turned toward him.

Rosalie joined him on stage.

“I have one more announcement to make,” Kelvin said proudly.

He took Rosalie’s hand.

“This woman,” he said loudly,

“is the love of my life. She always has been.”

Gasps rippled through the hall.

“And we will be getting married soon,” he added.

Murmurs exploded.

“Didn’t he just divorce Zara tonight?”

“This isn’t even twenty-four hours later.”

“How heartless.”

“He’s wicked.”

Rosalie lifted her chin proudly.

Kelvin ignored the whispers.

“Our wedding date will be announced shortly,” he said confidently.

Forced applause followed.

Kelvin smiled.

He did not know—

At that very moment—

Zara Morgan was fighting to stay alive.

The Night Zara Morgan Was Meant to Die

Mr. Lukas had never driven this fast in his entire life.

The powerful engine of his black sedan roared as he tore through the city streets, ignoring speed limits, ignoring red lights, ignoring the startled horns of other drivers forced to swerve out of his way. Neon lights from storefronts and traffic signals blurred into streaks of red, yellow, and white across his windshield. The world outside had become nothing more than rushing shadows.

His hands were clenched so tightly around the steering wheel that his knuckles had turned bone-white.

His heart slammed violently against his ribs—not from the speed, but from terror.

Pure, suffocating terror.

Protect Zara. No matter what.

The words echoed again and again in his head, as loud as thunder.

He could still hear her voice.

Thin.

Trembling.

Breaking.

Someone is following me. I think Kelvin wants to kill me.

Mr. Lukas swallowed hard, his throat dry, his jaw locked tight.

“Henry,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes burning, “I won’t fail you. I swear I won’t.”

The promise he had made years ago—standing beside Henry Morgan’s hospital bed as life slipped from the powerful man’s body—now felt heavier than ever.

Take care of Zara. Protect her like she’s your own.

He had nodded then, believing danger would come from business rivals or corporate wars.

He had never imagined it would come from her own husband.

His phone lay on the passenger seat beside him, the screen still faintly glowing from the call he had ended minutes ago. His hands trembled every time he thought about how close he might already be to being too late.

He scanned the road desperately.

Then—

His breath hitched.

There.

Up ahead.

A silver luxury sedan swerving slightly in its lane, its taillights blinking erratically.

“That’s her,” he whispered hoarsely.

Hope and dread slammed into him at the same time.

He pressed the accelerator to the floor.

Zara

Zara’s entire body was rigid with terror in the back seat.

Her fingers clawed into the leather upholstery beside her, her nails digging painfully into the material as though she could anchor herself to the car. Her chest rose and fell in short, shallow gasps, each breath barely enough to keep her from screaming.

Her heart was pounding so violently it felt as though it might tear itself out of her chest.

“They’re still there,” the driver said grimly, his eyes darting between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. “Hold on, madam.”

Zara twisted in her seat and looked through the back window.

The black car was there.

Too close.

Too steady.

Its headlights glared like predatory eyes in the darkness.

A sob tore from her throat.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Daddy… please…”

Her thoughts shattered into fragments.

Her father’s smile.

The Morgan mansion.

Her wedding vows.

Kelvin’s cold eyes.

Rosalie’s cruel smile.

The divorce papers shaking in her hands.

I’m not ready to die.

I don’t want to die like this.

The black car surged forward.

Too fast.

Too close.

Suddenly—

BANG!

The impact exploded through the car.

Metal shrieked.

Glass shattered.

Zara was thrown violently forward, her head slamming into the seat in front of her with a sickening crack.

Stars burst behind her eyes.

Pain detonated through her skull.

The driver shouted her name—

Then the car spun wildly.

The world turned upside down.

Tires screamed.

Another impact.

Then another.

The final crash came with a thunderous boom as the car slammed into the concrete barrier.

Everything went dark.

Smoke and Fire

Silence followed the chaos.

A horrible, unnatural silence.

Smoke poured from the crumpled wreckage, thick and choking, curling into the air like a living thing. The acrid smell of burning rubber and leaking gasoline spread rapidly.

Zara lay motionless in the back seat.

Her head lolled to one side.

Blood trickled slowly from her temple, tracing a thin, dark line down her pale cheek.

Her breathing was so faint it was barely visible.

The driver slumped forward in the front seat.

Still.

Dead.

From a distance, headlights appeared.

They grew closer.

Faster.

Mr. Lukas.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw the wreckage.

“Oh God… Zara!” he cried, slamming on his brakes and leaping out of his car.

He ran toward the twisted metal, coughing violently as smoke burned his lungs.

“Zara! Can you hear me?” he shouted desperately.

No answer.

He yanked at the back door.

It wouldn’t budge.

He slammed his shoulder against it again.

And again.

The door finally creaked open.

Zara’s limp body slumped toward him.

He caught her just in time.

“She’s alive,” he whispered frantically, pressing trembling fingers to her neck.

A pulse.

Weak.

But there.

Relief surged through him like lightning.

Then reality hit.

The driver.

Mr. Lukas stumbled toward the front seat.

He pressed two fingers to the man’s neck.

Nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You did your best.”

Footsteps echoed faintly.

Voices.

The thugs.

“They’ll be here any second,” he muttered.

With a surge of adrenaline, he lifted Zara into his arms.

She was terrifyingly light.

He staggered toward his car, his chest burning, his legs shaking.

Just as he gently laid her in the back seat of his own vehicle—

Headlights flared behind the wreck.

Two men stepped out.

Caps pulled low.

Faces cold.

Mr. Lukas ducked behind his car, holding his breath.

“Is she dead?” one of them asked.

The other shrugged.

“The car’s wrecked. No one survives that.”

They pulled out fuel containers and splashed gasoline over Zara’s wrecked car.

Mr. Lukas’ blood froze.

A lighter flicked.

Flames erupted instantly.

The wreck was swallowed in fire.

The heat blasted against his face.

The men stepped back.

“Job done,” one said.

They drove away.

Mr. Lukas collapsed against his car, shaking.

“She’s alive,” he whispered. “You’re alive.”

He sped away into the darkness.

The Call

Kelvin’s phone vibrated.

“It’s done,” came the voice. “Accident. Car burned. No survivors.”

Kelvin smiled slowly.

“Good,” he said. “You’ll get your balance soon.”

He ended the call and turned to Rosalie.

“It’s done,” he said calmly. “She’s dead.”

Rosalie smiled.

“Finally.”

They walked away laughing.

Epilogue of the Night

Behind them, the city slept.

And somewhere far from their celebration—

Zara Morgan still breathed.

Unseen.

Uncounted.

Alive.

The black luxury sedan rolled slowly through the massive iron gates, its headlights slicing through the quiet night like blades. The guards on duty barely glanced at the vehicle before signaling for the gates to open wider. The heavy metal doors slid apart smoothly, silently, as though the mansion itself were bowing in submission.

This was the Morgan estate.

Once, those gates had opened proudly for Zara Morgan—the rightful heiress, the daughter of its founder, the woman whose name alone commanded respect in every boardroom in the country.

Tonight, they opened for Kelvin Collins and Rosalie Martins.

The car glided along the long, curved driveway, passing sculpted hedges, glowing lanterns, and marble fountains that shimmered under soft golden lights. Everything looked exactly as it had when Zara lived here.

Except now, she was gone.

The car came to a slow stop beneath the grand stone archway at the front entrance.

Kelvin stepped out first.

The night air brushed against his face as he straightened his jacket and adjusted his cuffs with deliberate care. He lifted his chin slightly and inhaled deeply, as if he were breathing in triumph itself. The mansion stood tall and imposing before him—white walls glowing softly under the floodlights, towering columns framing the entrance, glass doors reflecting his own image back at him.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, staring at the house.

This was the house he had once entered as a nervous guest.

Then as Zara’s devoted husband.

And now—he believed—as its rightful master.

A slow, satisfied smile curved his lips.

Rosalie stepped out next.

Her heels clicked sharply against the polished stone driveway as she straightened her designer coat and slowly turned in a full circle, taking in every detail. Her eyes lingered greedily on the grand façade, the marble pillars, the wide balconies above, the warm lights glowing behind the glass doors.

She exhaled in awe.

“So…” she said softly, stretching her arms slightly as though embracing the entire estate, “this house is finally ours.”

Kelvin slipped his hands into his pockets, nodding with quiet confidence.

“Yes,” he said simply. “Ours.”

Rosalie turned toward him, delight and disbelief dancing in her eyes.

“I still can’t believe it,” she murmured. “Zara Morgan—the great, untouchable heiress—trusted a man like you.”

Kelvin smirked.

“She wasn’t just trusting,” he replied coolly. “She was desperate to believe in love.”

Rosalie let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

“She really must have been a fool.”

Kelvin stepped toward the front doors and pushed one open.

“No,” he said calmly. “She was human. That was her mistake.”

They walked inside.

The interior of the mansion glowed warmly, untouched and elegant, just as Zara had left it. Soft lighting illuminated polished marble floors and cream-colored walls adorned with priceless art. Every piece of furniture had been chosen with care—tasteful, modern, and timeless.

Rosalie wandered forward slowly, trailing her fingers across a polished console table. Her touch lingered on a crystal vase, then on a framed family photo of Zara and her late father.

She turned the frame face-down without hesitation.

“This place…” she murmured. “It’s breathtaking.”

Kelvin nodded.

“And now it belongs to us.”

Rosalie turned toward him slowly, her smile turning sly.

“You really are a devil, Kelvin Collins.”

He laughed quietly.

“And you love it.”

She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“I love how smart you are,” she said softly. “How patient. How perfectly you played your game.”

Kelvin’s eyes darkened with satisfaction.

“I had to,” he replied. “I waited years for this kind of life. I wasn’t going to let emotions ruin everything.”

They kissed—slow, deliberate, victorious.

When they pulled apart, Rosalie exhaled.

“So,” she said lightly, “we’re officially billionaires now.”

Kelvin grinned.

“Yes. And in five years, when every remaining asset is fully transferred and the legal dust settles—”

“We’ll be even richer,” Rosalie finished.

They both smiled.

Rosalie walked deeper into the living room, turning slowly in a full circle.

“I still can’t believe you convinced her to transfer everything into your personal bank accounts,” she said, half laughing. “Just like that.”

Kelvin leaned casually against a marble pillar.

“Zara loved me,” he said plainly. “And when someone loves you, they stop questioning.”

Rosalie raised an eyebrow.

“What exactly did you tell her?”

Kelvin chuckled softly.

“I told her the money would be safer in my accounts. That it would protect the Morgan assets while she took time to rest and recover.”

Rosalie shook her head in disbelief.

“And she believed you.”

“She trusted me,” Kelvin corrected. “Completely.”

Rosalie folded her arms.

“I had to wait six whole months for you to break her down,” she said. “Six months of pretending. Smiling. Watching her trust you more every day.”

Kelvin stepped closer to her.

“And it worked.”

Rosalie smiled slowly.

“She fell straight into our trap.”

She took his hand.

“Now we can finally be together in peace.”

Kelvin squeezed her hand.

“No more pretending,” he said. “No more waiting.”

They kissed again, longer this time.

Kelvin suddenly bent and lifted Rosalie into his arms. She laughed softly, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

“Upstairs,” she whispered playfully.

He carried her toward the grand staircase, passing framed Morgan family portraits—faces that once symbolized honor, legacy, and power.

Rosalie glanced briefly at one portrait of Zara.

“She won’t be missed,” she said casually.

Kelvin didn’t look back.

They disappeared upstairs, their laughter echoing faintly before the mansion fell into silence.

Its walls bore witness to a victory built entirely on betrayal.

Elsewhere — A Quiet Fight for Life

Far from that mansion, hidden from public attention, another story was unfolding.

In a private hospital located on the outskirts of the city, guarded by strict confidentiality agreements and discreet security, Mr. Lukas stood outside an operating room.

His hands were clasped tightly in front of him.

His usually composed face was pale.

The lines of worry carved deep into his features.

The red light above the operating room door finally switched off.

The doors opened.

A surgeon stepped out, removing his gloves.

Mr. Lukas rushed forward.

“How is she?” he asked urgently.

“She’s alive,” the doctor said. “Weak, but stable.”

Mr. Lukas exhaled sharply, his knees nearly giving way.

“Thank God,” he whispered.

The doctor lowered his voice.

“She suffered a concussion, internal bruising, and severe emotional shock. But she survived.”

Mr. Lukas nodded, swallowing hard.

“Doctor,” he said firmly, “no one must know she is here.”

The doctor studied him carefully.

“You’re asking for complete confidentiality.”

“Yes,” Mr. Lukas replied. “For her safety.”

The doctor hesitated briefly… then nodded.

“Understood. Her records will be sealed. Only my most trusted staff will know.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Lukas said sincerely.

He walked into Zara’s private room.

She lay unconscious on the bed, her face pale and bandaged, her breathing soft but steady. Machines beeped quietly beside her.

Mr. Lukas pulled a chair close and sat down.

“You’re safe now, child,” he whispered gently. “They think you’re gone.”

He reached out and held her hand.

“But one day,” he added quietly, “they will learn the truth.”

Outside, the world believed Zara Morgan was dead.

Inside that silent hospital room, her heart still beat.

And the story—far from ending—was only beginning.

The Morning the World Buried Zara Morgan

Morning arrived quietly, almost tenderly, as if the world itself were unaware that a life had been erased overnight.

The sun rose over the city in soft shades of gold and pale pink, spilling gentle light through glass windows and open curtains. In countless homes, alarms chimed. Coffee machines hissed and gurgled. People stretched, yawned, and reached for their phones. Cars rolled out of driveways. Elevators hummed. Another ordinary day began.

Nothing in the sky hinted at tragedy.

Nothing in the breeze carried grief.

And yet, for one powerful family name, the morning carried death.

The television screen glowed softly in the expansive living room of the Wilson estate.

The room itself was a reflection of its owner—modern, elegant, restrained. Everything was deliberate. The walls were a calm slate gray. The furniture was minimalist, imported, expensive but not ostentatious. No family portraits. No sentimental ornaments. No unnecessary warmth.

Everything spoke of control.

Of discipline.

Of power.

The muted hum of a 24-hour news channel filled the air.

A composed female anchor appeared on screen, her hair perfectly styled, her expression solemn but professionally detached.

“…breaking news this morning,” she said evenly. “Businesswoman and Morgan heiress, Zara Morgan, has reportedly lost her life in a tragic car accident late last night.”

The image shifted.

Zara’s face filled the screen.

Beautiful.

Poised.

Smiling.

A photograph taken at a charity gala months earlier—her hair styled in loose waves, her eyes bright, her lips curved into a soft, confident smile.

The anchor continued, “Sources confirm that just hours before the accident, Zara Morgan transferred half of the Morgan Group properties to her husband, Kelvin Collins, who immediately filed for divorce. Mr. Collins is now the acting CEO of the Morgan Group.”

The screen cut to footage from the previous night.

Kelvin on stage.

Rosalie standing beside him.

Cameras flashing.

The crowd frozen in shock.

“In what many are calling a shocking turn of events,” the anchor added, “this tragedy has left the business world stunned. Zara Morgan was only twenty-five years old.”

The broadcast returned to Zara’s smiling image.

Beneath it, bold red letters flashed:

TRAGIC DEATH OF MORGAN HEIRESS

On the leather sofa sat Leo Wilson.

He watched the screen in silence.

His posture was relaxed, almost casual—one arm draped over the back of the couch, one leg crossed over the other. He wore a simple black shirt and tailored trousers, his dark hair neatly combed, his jaw clean-shaven.

His face revealed nothing.

No shock.

No sorrow.

No anger.

Only cold, quiet focus.

Beside him stood his elder sister, Celin Wilson.

She held a cup of coffee in both hands, but she hadn’t taken a single sip. The steam rose and faded unnoticed. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, her brows drawn together in distress.

The anchor’s voice continued in the background.

“Authorities believe the accident was caused by emotional distress following the public divorce…”

Celin inhaled sharply.

She turned toward her brother.

“Leo…”

He didn’t look at her.

She tried again, her voice quieter.

“Leo, did you hear that?”

“Yes,” he replied flatly. “I heard.”

Celin shook her head slowly, disbelief and sadness mixing in her eyes.

“She’s gone,” she said softly. “Zara Morgan is dead.”

Leo’s jaw tightened slightly.

That was all.

“I don’t feel pity for her,” he said coldly.

Celin froze.

“What?” she asked quietly, certain she had misheard him.

Leo finally turned his head.

His gaze was sharp.

Unwavering.

“I said I don’t feel pity.”

Celin set her coffee down slowly on the glass table, afraid her hands might tremble too much to hold it.

“How can you say that?” she asked. “She was humiliated, betrayed… and then she died.”

Leo scoffed lightly.

“She made her choices.”

Celin stepped closer to him.

“She was tricked, Leo. She trusted the wrong man.”

“That’s not my problem,” Leo replied.

Celin’s voice rose slightly.

“She didn’t deserve this.”

Leo leaned back against the couch, crossing his arms.

“You’re forgetting something,” he said calmly.

Celin frowned.

“Forgetting what?”

“The Morgan family,” Leo replied, his tone sharpening. “They destroyed ours.”

Celin’s expression softened.

“Leo… that was her father. Not her.”

Leo’s eyes darkened.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped. “You think I don’t remember every detail?”

He stood up slowly and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window.

“My parents are dead because of the Morgan empire,” he said quietly. “Their greed. Their corruption.”

Celin followed him.

“And Zara was a child then,” she said gently. “She didn’t offend us. She didn’t take anything from us.”

Leo clenched his fists.

“She carries their name.”

“That doesn’t make her guilty,” Celin argued.

Leo turned sharply.

“Everything that concerns the Morgan family, I hate it.”

The room fell silent.

Celin stared at him, sadness filling her eyes.

“I don’t understand you sometimes,” she said quietly. “You fight for justice. You help people recover stolen properties. You defend the weak.”

She gestured toward the television.

“But when it’s Zara… you feel nothing.”

Leo’s voice dropped.