Billionaire Redemption

Chapter 32

Leon’s POV

•

•

•

She really meant it.

I stood there like an i***t, watching her run like her life depended on it—and maybe, in her mind, it did. Maybe being around me felt like slow death. That thought stung more than I’d ever admit.

She was actually going back. Back to the man who sold her. Back to that graveyard she called a home because she couldn’t take being invisible in my world.

I rubbed my temple, exhaling a long, frustrated breath. This wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t mean to break her. Hell, I didn’t think I could break someone like her.

But clearly, I did.

I looked back at the car—keys in the ignition, engine humming—and made a decision.

I followed her.

Silently. Years of combat training made it easy. My footsteps were soundless against the clean sidewalk leading out of my estate.

She didn’t even hear me trailing her. She just kept going—slower, then slower again. Wiping her face. Breathing unevenly. Thirty minutes passed. Still no cars. No people. Just the occasional gust of New York autumn wind whipping her hoodie.

Then a black sedan passed. She froze.

I saw the way she turned her head. Half expecting—maybe half hoping—it was me. But when I stepped out from the trees and walked toward her, that flicker in her eye changed.

And before she could bolt again, I moved.

Quick. Two fingers to the nerve behind her neck—light, not enough to hurt, just enough to knock her out. She collapsed into my arms like she belonged there. I caught her gently.

“Bring the car. Now.” I said through my watch.

Minutes later, a Audi rolled in. I slid into the back seat with her still unconscious in my arms. She felt light. Too light. And cold.

I let my head rest back against the seat as the car pulled off, and all the anger I’d buried started to crawl back in.

Jerald Kessler.

The bastard.

He made me left that day. The audacity of that punk showing up with his cronies, acting like he owned the building.

And then the words came out of his mouth like poison.

“Ever since this hub opened, my daughter’s been missing.”

The audacity. The same man who sold her tried to use her name to leverage power. Tried to make it look like I had something to do with her disappearance—like I kidnapped her.

It took every inch of control in me not to put his face through the damn glass table.

He sold his own daughter and now he wanted to use her to threaten my business?

I left thinking she’d be fine.

Only to see a guard pushed her. Pushed her so hard she hit the ground.

I fired the i***t, yeah, but I didn’t even help her up. Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t speak.

I just drove off like she didn’t matter. And now she’s here, passed out in my car, looking thinner, paler… like life inside my mansion was draining her just as much as her old one did.

How did I not see it?

She said she’d rather go back to her dad’s graveyard than sit in a room all day like a ghost.

A ghost?

That’s what I made her feel like.

I ran a hand through my hair and looked down at her resting against the leather seat. Her lips were slightly parted, her brows knit together even in sleep. She looked… broken. And it was my fault.

I thought I was giving her safety.

But what’s the use of safety if it feels like a cage?

And now, the girl I’ve been trying so damn hard to protect was sprinting away from me with tears in her eyes and nothing in her pockets.

What the hell am I doing?

And more importantly…

How do I fix it?

I’d talk to her—maybe not today, maybe not in the best way—but I had to start somewhere. This wasn’t me. I don’t do conversations, I don’t do comfort.

The way she looked at me?

Just couldn't ignore that. I caused this. I hit her with my car. I brought her here. She’s my responsibility. That’s all this is.

When the car rolled into the estate and stopped outside the mansion, I got out, ignoring the greetings of the maids like I always do. Their voices were white noise. My focus was on the unconscious girl in my arms. Ayra. Fragile. Thin .

I carried her up the stairs and into her room.

As I laid her down gently on the bed, she mumbled something under her breath—soft, broken. I leaned closer, trying to catch the words. Her lips moved again. My eyes involuntarily lingered there longer than they should have.

Soft.

The word crossed my mind like a whisper, and before I knew it, my hand had moved—almost touched her.

I snapped out of it and yanked my hand back, scowling at myself.

Get a grip, Leon.

I turned and walked out of her room. I had other things to do—things that were long overdue.

Once inside my room, I locked the door behind me. Everything in here was just how I needed it to be—black and grey. No distractions. Just calm and cold.

I unbuttoned my shirt and tossed it aside, walking straight to the coffee dispenser. A hit of black would keep me sharp.

Cup in hand, I moved to the back of the room and opened the hidden door—my security space. Ten screens lit the wall, all connected to the cameras I installed myself. No one knew about them. Not even Ezran.

I sat down, scrolling through the stored footage.

There was one particular day I couldn’t get out of my head—the day the maid came rushing to me, saying Ayra had locked herself in one of the rooms. She was dressed in that ridiculous attempt at seduction, and I didn’t question it then. I just reacted.

I thought Ayra was being difficult… until I entered the room and saw her unconscious on the floor.

Dark.

She was terrified of the dark. I remember her frozen expression that day when I lifted her. Now I knew why.

I glanced at my wristwatch, then back at the screen. My finger hovered over the timeline as I clicked back to that day.

And there it was.

The maid. Entering Ayra’s room uninvited. A heated exchange between them. Then the maid grabbed something—some chemical bottle—and aimed it at Ayra. The liquid nearly hit her skin.

I froze, my hand curling into a fist.

Ayra had fled the room in fear, running into the only place she thought was safe. That damn room.

My jaw clenched tight. My blood boiled.

I clicked again.

I had to see more. I needed to know how deep this went. And what I saw next? It only made it worse.

I kept rewinding.

I don’t know what I was expecting—maybe something to justify the unease I’d been feeling ever since I left that day. But what I found? It wasn’t just unease. It was something I couldn’t describedl.

I stopped at the footage from the day I drove off.

There she was… Ayra, still on the floor. Bruised ankle, bruised pride. Watching my car. Watching me leave.

She didn’t move for a while. Just stared after the tires like she was waiting for something.

For me?

Then she stood slowly, wincing from the pain, and faced one of the guards. I read her lips as she talked.

“Why did he leave like that?” Her voice must’ve been shaking. She looked so confused. So small.

I overreacted that day?

Then a maid walked in before the guard could reply. Saying some words the maid walked out.

I didn’t even need sound to know the venom in her words. I recognized her smugness. Her hate.

Ayra’s face fell.

And in that second, I felt it again—the same guilt that hit me when she said she’d rather live at her father's graveyard than be here.

I rubbed my temple, frustration pulsing in my veins.

What the hell had I created in this place?

I kept watching. Different days. Same patterns. They’d knock on her door with food. No words. No eye contact. Drop the tray and leave. Then return fifteen minutes later to take it away—untouched.

Every single day.

My jaw tightened. So this is what they called working? This is what I paid them for? To treat her like a fxcking prisoner?

Like a damn ghost?

My eyes burned.

I was wrong to leave her alone. I thought distance would akeep me sane. But I left her in a cage, surrounded by wolves dressed in uniforms I paid for.

Never again.

I made a mental note.

Every one of them—maids, guards, staff—they’d answer for this.

And Ayra? First thing tomorrow, I’d get her a phone. She needed connection. Freedom. Space to breathe. Then I’d take her out—just somewhere outside these four walls. Even if she didn’t want to talk to me, she needed to remember she’s human. Not furniture.

I stood, grabbed the empty coffee cup, and tossed it in the trash bin.

Then walked out of the security room and toward my washroom.

Stripping my clothes off one by one, I let the heat from the water pound against my skin. But not even scalding water could wash off the shame sitting on my shoulders.

I created this silence. I fed it.

Now I had to undo it. Somehow.