DYLAN
The jet hums softly beneath us, slicing through clouds like a knife through silk. Night stretches endlessly outside the windows—dark, still, unbothered. But inside me, everything is storming.
Hermione is asleep across from me, curled up under the soft cashmere throw I brought just for her. She always gets cold on flights, even when she won't admit it. Her lips are slightly parted, her cheek pressed into the pillow. Peaceful.
It's a kind of peace I haven't felt since that message.
That threat.
That... name.
Niah.
It loops through my mind like a haunting melody. I've had Adrian dig deep into every record, every alias, every life the girl may have lived since being adopted. And every trail circles back to a void—deliberately erased or expertly hidden. Either way, I know she's the one behind the venom. The voice in that message. The obsession. The jealousy. The hate.
Because someone doesn't send that kind of message unless they believe something was stolen from them. A life. A future. Love.
And now, I'm bringing Hermione straight into the storm.
Not because I want to.
But because the answers are there. In the soil of her beginnings. In the eyes of the people who raised her. And maybe, in the shadows of the one who never let go of the past.
I glance at her again.
She stirs, eyelashes fluttering as if chasing a dream. Or fleeing one. And then she opens her eyes.
"Are we there yet?" she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
"Not quite," I say, standing and moving to sit beside her. She leans into my shoulder without thinking. Like her body trusts me even when her mind is tired.
She yawns. "Was I drooling?"
"A little," I tease. "But it's cute."
She smacks my chest playfully, but the smile fades quickly. "Are you nervous?"
"Yes," I answer honestly. "But not for me. For you."
"I'm okay."
I lift her chin. "You don't have to be. Not with me."
She swallows. "What if going back only opens wounds that never healed?"
"Then we deal with them together."
Hermione looks out the window. "It's been so long. Since I heard the accent. Smelled the air. Saw the red earth. I wonder if I'll still feel like I belong."
"You belong wherever you want to," I say, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "And no matter what we find there—truth, pain, ghosts—I'm not letting you walk through it alone."
She leans her forehead against mine. "What if it changes everything?"
"Then we change together."
For a moment, silence returns. But it's not empty. It's warm. Solid.
She sighs. "I still can't believe you're flying to another continent with me."
"I'd fly to another galaxy if it meant protecting you."
She smiles then. Soft and full of something I can't name. Not yet. But I want to earn it. Every day. Every mile.
"Thank you," she whispers.
I kiss her temple. "Rest. We'll land in Lagos in five hours. Adrian has our cars ready and the hotel secured."
"And the security detail?"
"Already in place."
She relaxes into me again. "You really don't let anything slip, do you?"
"Only when it comes to you."
And as she drifts back to sleep, head resting on my shoulder, I stare out at the night beyond the glass—knowing that whatever waits for us in Nigeria, I'll burn it down before I let it touch her again.
Because this woman?
She's not just the center of my world.
She is my world.
And I'll fight whatever ghosts rise from the red earth to keep her safe.
The tires kiss the runway with a deep thrum. It's just past 6:00 a.m., and Lagos is already awake — chaotic and pulsing with life beneath a pale, rising sun.
Hermione tightens her grip on my hand as the private jet rolls to a smooth stop. I feel the slight tremor in her fingers. She hasn't said much since we began our descent. I don't push. This is her country, her history, and maybe — her reckoning. My job is to stand beside her, shield raised, blade drawn.
The stairs are lowered, and the blast of warm, humid air rushes into the cabin like a wall. She exhales slowly as we step out. The smell of burning charcoal, salt, dust, and something floral—hibiscus maybe—fills the air.
Adrian waits at the bottom of the stairs with two dark SUVs and four members of my private security detail, all in plain clothes but visibly alert.
"Welcome to Nigeria," he says as we descend.
Hermione offers a faint smile, her other hand shielding her eyes from the early sun. "It smells like my childhood."
"We have everything ready," Adrian continues, handing me a folder. "The hotel, backup phones, appointment with the orphanage matron scheduled for tomorrow morning. Surveillance has eyes on the hospital and Niah's last known residence, but it's still quiet."
"Let's keep it that way."
We slid into the SUV, and I let Hermione take the window seat. She watches the streets like she's trying to piece together a puzzle from memory.
Children with school bags walk barefoot across dirt roads. Women balance baskets and buckets on their heads. Street vendors shout over the sounds of honking cars and rattling motorcycles. It's not unfamiliar to me—I've done business here, built schools here, even donated to hospitals. But today it feels different. Personal. There's a tightness in her voice. Nostalgia, maybe. Or fear of what's coming next.
We arrive at the hotel—secluded, secure, beautiful in a quiet, understated way. The manager bows low when we enter, clearly briefed. We're escorted to the penthouse suite without delay.
Once we're inside, Hermione walks to the window, arms crossed.
"I thought I'd feel something more... I don't know. Explosive." Her voice is small. "But I just feel… numb."
"It might not hit all at once," I say, stepping behind her and wrapping my arms around her waist. "You're not here to perform your emotions. You're here to find the truth."
She nods slowly, resting her head back against my chest. "What if the truth makes everything worse?"
"Then we face it together."
A beat of silence. She exhales.
"I want to see the orphanage today. Not tomorrow."
I nod. "Then we'll go."
We spend an hour freshening up and changing. She wears a simple white blouse and dark jeans, her curls pulled back, lips bare. Still, she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Adrian meets us in the lobby with a second car and two security escorts.
The drive to the orphanage is slower. Rougher. The farther we go, the narrower the streets become. Fewer businesses. More rusted roofs. The air grows heavier with heat and memory.
The orphanage looks smaller than I imagined. Faded green paint. An old sign barely hanging. But the laughter of children echoes from the yard, carrying a kind of lightness that doesn't match the weight in my chest.
A woman in her sixties steps forward as we approach. She's regal in a quiet way, wrapped in a patterned wrapper and scarf. Her eyes light up when she sees Hermione.
"My God… is it really you?" she whispers. "Hermione?"
Hermione's mouth parts, but no words come out.
The woman steps forward and embraces her. "I held you the day you were born. You screamed louder than any child I've ever known."
Hermione lets out a laugh that breaks into a sob.
"I'm Matron Sharon," the woman says, holding her shoulders. "You look just like your mother."
Hermione flinches slightly.
Sharon notices, nods. "You have questions. And I have answers."
We're led inside to a small office, filled with old files, photographs, and dusty books. The windows are cracked open, and a ceiling fan stirs the hot air.
She gestures for us to sit. "The girl your adoptive parents planned to take—Niah—was… unusual."
"How so?" I ask.
"She was quiet. Observant. Angry, but she never acted out. But when she saw your parents leaving with Hermione instead of her… she changed."
Hermione shifts in her seat. "She saw them take me?"
"She did. She refused to speak to anyone for weeks. When a new couple came to adopt her, she lashed out at the wife. Scratched her face. Said she wouldn't go unless they promised to bring her back to America."
"And did they?" I ask.
"They did. We heard she moved to Atlanta. But after that…" She shrugs. "She disappeared. Even the government lost track of her."
I glance at Hermione. Her lips are tight. Her fists clenched.
"I need to find her," she whispers. "If she's behind this… if she thinks I took something from her… I need to understand why."
I slide my hand over hers.
"We will."
But even as I say the words, I feel it in my chest.
The next step of this journey won't just be about uncovering the past.
It will be about confronting it.
Face-to-face.