Billionaire Redemption

Chapter 21

Leon POV

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A searing bolt of pain sliced through my skull, sharp and sudden. I gritted my teeth, my eyes squeezing shut. My fingers dug slightly into her shoulder as the pressure became unbearable, memories slamming in like waves—screams, hands grabbing me, a blade glinting in the dark, blood.

My breath hitched.

Ezran noticed.

"Out," he said sharply to the maid.

She looked confused, glancing between us, but she obeyed and quickly stepped out.

I stumbled back a step and exhaled slowly. My hands trembled faintly, so I clenched them into fists.

Ezran’s voice was quiet now. "You still haven’t healed, Kael. But that girl… something about her bypasses your trauma."

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because deep down, I was thinking the same thing.

And it kind of terrified me.

Ezran leaned against the mahogany desk, his arms crossed, voice laced with sarcasm. “Oh, so you did touch that little girl and nothing happened. But the moment you touched this maid, boom—you nearly passed out.” He gave a slow clap. “This is superb.”

I shot him a glare, my temples already pounding from the aftershock of that brief contact. Without a word, I moved to the minibar, poured out an aspirin, then chased it down with a cold shot of bourbon. The burn gave me something to focus on.

“Who is she? Any idea?” He asked.

“It’s the same girl,” I muttered.

His brow furrowed. “Who?”

“The one who was talking to you that morning—outside the fashion hub in Phoenicia. Remember?”

Ezran froze. His eyes widened in recognition. “Her?” he whispered. “What the hell was she doing out that late?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because the moment he asked, the memories came flooding back—her bloodied body lying in the floor after I hit her, the bruises, the starvation, the half-conscious pleas in the bed.

I clenched my jaw, anger prickling beneath my skin like electricity.

Just then, a knock interrupted the tension. I pressed the panel on the desk, and the door clicked open.

A man stepped in—grey top, black pants, a folder in hand.

“Sir,” he greeted with a bow of his head.

I nodded. “What do you have?”

“She’s Ayra Kessler. Twenty years old. Recently completed high school, though she was supposed to graduate three years ago.” He placed the folder on the table and flipped it open. “Her father’s name is Gregory Kessler. Her mother is unknown. The woman currently living with him—Marla Fletchers—is his mistress.”

Ezran raised a brow. “Go on.”

The man continued, flipping through the file. “Gregory Kessler was once married to the heiress of the Vangard Group—Juliana Vangard. When it was discovered that he seduced her for wealth, she filed for a secret annulment. He fled, taking their daughter—Ayra—with him. Since then, the girl has faced years of abuse—both at home and in school. Records show multiple complaints that were swept under the rug.”

My jaw tightened.

“Recently,” the man went on, “he sold Ayra to former associates of his—human traffickers planning to auction her. The rest is in the file.”

He stepped back. Ezran reached out, flipping through the documents quickly. Photos slipped out. One showed Ayra unconscious in a hospital bed, a thick bandage across her head. Another showed her leg in a cast, bruised and elevated.

Ezran's expression darkened. “Son of a bitch.”

Without saying a word, I pulled a remote and hit play. A screen lowered from the far end of the room. A video flickered to life—grainy but clear.

Ayra, younger, cornered in a hallway by three girls. Pushed. Slapped. Her books torn apart.

Ezran stiffened. “How did you get this?”

The man replied, “We pulled it from the school’s internal archive. Her case files had been buried.”

Another video came on.

This one was darker—Ayra, bleeding and unconscious, lying in a house storeroom. A woman in her fourty burst in, screaming her name. The woman turned to the door, shouting for help. Some gathered. A few helped, the rest watching and filming. Then the video cut.

I looked at the man. “This?”

“Recorded by a neighbor who heard the woman yelling. He uploaded it to a private channel. We traced it.”

I dismissed him with a nod.

As the door closed, Ezran looked over at me. “What are you planning to do to her father? Because this bastard can’t walk free after this.”

I stared at the empty screen.

My lips curled. “Finally found a new plaything.”

Ezran narrowed his eyes. “You now see him as one of them, don’t you?”

I gave a lazy shrug. “I never stop playing with monsters, Ezran. I just wait for the right one to bleed.”

Ezran nod and continue flipping through the folder, his fingers pausing on a particular document—an old photo of Juliana Vangard, taken before she vanished from the media. His eyes narrowed.

“I know the Vangard Group,” he said, tone suddenly colder. “My father once did business with them. Big-time real estate, pharmaceutical branches, a hand in fashion and politics. Ruthless powerhouses.”

He glanced up at me, shaking his head slowly. “But I never connected Ayra to them. I remember the scandal, Juliana suddenly disappeared, no trace, the media said she went insane. But insiders whispered her husband had dirtier hands than anyone thought.”

His gaze dropped back to the image. “I just didn’t know this Ayra girl was her missing daughter.”

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe too loudly. Just watched the smoke swirl from the ashtray like ghosts rising.

Ezran closed the folder softly and leaned back in the chair across from me, watching my every move.

“So,” he said eventually, “Are you going to tell them?”

I exhaled, leaning my elbow on the armrest, running my thumb across my lower lip.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

And that was the truth.

What was I supposed to do? Return a broken girl to a family she doesn’t even know existed? To a name that was taken away from her before she could speak it?

My fingers drummed slowly on the leather arm of the chair.

Ezran didn’t push. He just gave a quiet nod and looked back down at the folder.

I leaned forward, eyes still fixed on the fading image of Ayra’s unconscious body.

**

Ayra’s POV

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Cold.

That was the first thing I felt. A chill that crawled up my spine and wrapped around my ribs like a shackle. My breath hitched, my eyes fluttered open, and the white ceiling greeted me again. Too white. Too clean. Too unfamiliar.

Where was I?

My fingers trembled slightly as they gripped the edge of the blanket. It felt like I was stuck in a loop — fainting and waking, again and again. The same ceiling. The same hollow silence.

I swallowed, throat dry like I hadn’t drunk in days. My lips cracked when I tried to speak.

Everything felt… wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to be anywhere. Wasn’t I—

My chest tightened.

The trunk. The cold. The suffocating dark.

A violent shiver rolled through me. I curled into myself, pulling the blanket over my body like it could protect me. Tears pricked the corner of my eyes before I could stop them.

I whispered, barely audible, “Dad... please… it wasn’t me… it was Marla… I didn’t bring the—” My voice cracked. “Don’t sell me…”

Another sob ripped through me. My leg throbbed in protest as I shifted slightly, and I whimpered. It still hurt. Everything still hurt.

Then a memory slammed into me.

The car. Crawling from the trunk. My knees scraping against gravel. The river. The headlights. A voice. A face. Leon Kael.

I blinked, and suddenly… I saw him again in my memory. Clearer this time. The same sharp jaw, the storm in his eyes.

And then… his voice. That mocking, familiar voice.

“Took you long enough to wake up from being a lazy witch.”

I didn’t say it out loud, but in my head — I knew it was him. Leon Kael. The man on the magazine covers. The one whose audition I missed. The one everyone talked about… and the one who, somehow, found me.

Why?

Why did he save me?

And how did he even know me?

Did I got hit by his car?

I bit down hard on my lip, trying to keep the panic from consuming me. My body trembled again, and I gripped the blanket tighter.

Another memory came crashing in — my dad breaking into my room, me jumping out of the window, falling, breaking my leg, trying to run — but they caught me.

And then it was endless.

The beatings. The insults. Being locked away. The cold floor. The blood. The silence. The fear.

I shook violently, unable to stop the memories from flooding me.

I wasn't safe. Not yet. Maybe never.

Then I heard the door creak.

I flinched hard.

No. Not again.

Not—

But it was just a nurse, eyes wide as she saw me curled up and shaking. She rushed out, and moments later, returned with a doctor.

They checked me, spoke softly, asked questions. I nodded, mumbled “water,” and they brought it quickly. I drank like my life depended on it.

They smiled gently and left the room.

And I was alone again.

Alone with the silence. Alone with the ghosts.

But deep in my soul… I knew this wasn’t over.

Not until I remembered everything.

Not until I faced him.

Leon Kael.

And maybe, just maybe, he was the only one who could help me.