Sami’s POV

The black Rolls-Royce carved through the mountain turns like a silent predator.

I could feel it hum beneath my shoes—elegant, restrained, a low growl trapped under polished steel. Even the car had manners when it wanted to kill.

The number plate read simply: 6.

Not a number.

A sentence.

A quiet omen.

Outside, the road coiled through mist and pines. Clouds hung heavy, pregnant with snow. Below us, the cliffs plunged into fog so dense it could swallow sound.

The glass fogged faintly from our breath, though the air inside was already cold—colder than it should’ve been.

The pines stood tall and watchful, their arms shivering in the wind.

Silent witnesses.

Each mile peeled me further from the city—and from the scandal.

Each bend in the road dragged me deeper into exile.

I almost missed the city noise—even its cruel whispers.

Silence feels sharper when you have something to regret.

Inside the Rolls, it wasn’t peace.

It was pressure.

Only the turn signal blinked like a pulse—steady, accusing.

Daniel Akel, my father, drove without a word. His grip on the wheel was white-knuckled, veins raised, jaw locked.

His fury was a quiet thing—sharp, controlled, surgical. The kind of anger that doesn’t shout; it just waits to see if you’ll break first.

The leather creaked beneath his fingers as he inhaled.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked through me.

I sat beside him, pretending I didn’t care—chin propped on my hand, legs crossed like I was somewhere else entirely.

But my body was wired tight, tuned to every flicker of his movements.

My heartbeat matched the blink of the indicator—calm, measured, angry.

He didn’t ask if I’d slept.

Didn’t ask what it felt like to watch my name rot across headlines.

Didn’t ask how it feels to be dragged through every screen like public property.

Of course he didn’t.

Daniel Akel doesn’t ask.

He commands.

Twilight slanted across my reflection in the window—a slash of dying gold across pale skin and tired eyes.

My collar was still too tight.

My Lucien Vatudin coat heavier than I could stand.

My armor.

My disguise.

My punishment.

We hadn’t spoken since the city disappeared behind us.

Maybe that was mercy.

When the mansion finally appeared through the fog, it looked like something the world had forgotten—gray stone, black timber, windows sharp as knives.

Even the gates opened without a sound, as if they’d been expecting me.

My father leaned slightly toward the window.

His voice was calm—too calm.

“Just go inside.”

I didn’t move.

The last light of dusk cut across my face.

I stared at the mansion.

Then at him.

My fingers tightened on the seatbelt.

My voice came out steady.

Cold.

“Yes, Mr. Akel,” I said. “I’m done being your headline problem.”

I unbuckled slowly, the sound of metal clicking louder than it should’ve been.

“You branded me a sex addict,” I said. “Like I’m a broken cog in your perfect empire.”

His jaw flexed.

“You got expelled from King’s College, Sami,” he said. “I didn’t fabricate the complaints. You lit the match.”

I laughed.

A dry, brittle sound.

“And you let me burn.”

I turned to him.

“You didn’t call. You didn’t check. You just waited until the smoke cleared and the tabloids had their feast.”

“You chose your company over your son.”

Something flickered across his face—guilt, maybe.

Then it vanished.

The engine hummed where an apology should’ve been.

“When you stop dressing like a rebellious cliché,” he said, “when you cut that damn hair and understand consequence, maybe I’ll reconsider.”

He paused.

Then, colder:

“You think I overreacted? You humiliated our family name. You went through the staff like they were disposable—the driver, the cook, the housekeeper.”

“You set fire to the foundation.”

I met his stare.

“So you cleaned house,” I murmured.

“Neat.

Efficient.

PR-friendly.”

He didn’t blink.

“You’re lucky Mrs. Ziyan agreed to take you in. She still believes you’ll behave.”

The wind moaned faintly against the glass.

“Don’t embarrass me again,” he said.

“Not one whisper.”

That one landed harder than the rest.

I turned back to the window.

“You don’t want me to heal,” I said quietly.

“You want me to disappear.”

His silence was my answer.

“Enjoy Shimla University,” he said finally.

Not a wish.

A verdict.

I opened the door.

Cold air sliced through the car, cutting through my anger.

The wind hit my face—raw and clean—and for the first time in weeks, I could breathe.

I stepped out, dragging my suitcase behind me.

Gravel crunched like static under my shoes as the fog began to swallow the car.

He didn’t wait for me to reach the gate.

He never does.

The car rolled away—black, sleek, and silent—until it vanished into the gray.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the mansion ahead.

Its windows flickered faintly in the dark.

Like eyes that had already judged me guilty.

Do I regret my actions?

No.

I regret trusting that son of a leech.

He sucked me dry—drained everything, left me hollow, and let my name decay with my silence.

I hate my father for not saving me.

I hate that I’m here.

And I hate him most of all—the one who framed me, the one who made sure I’d rot for it.

The wind tugged at my coat, colder now.

I tightened my grip on the suitcase handle and took my first step toward the gates.

If this place is meant to bury me,

then it better remember my ghost.

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End of Episode 1