The silence in Viper's private study was a rarity—usually broken by barked orders, the scrape of steel, or the cries of disobedience. But tonight, it was a silence that weighed heavily with revelation.
A file lay open before him, its contents undeniable.
Ayla.
His daughter.
His breath caught in his throat as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the name printed neatly at the top of the birth certificate. His fingers, hardened by years of violence and command, trembled slightly as he reached for the photo beneath—Elara holding a baby, her smile radiant, soft, untouched by the world's cruelty.
Elara.
A name that had carved scars across his soul. She was the only one he had ever loved—and the only one he had lost not to war, but to betrayal. He'd searched for her once, raged at her disappearance, until time buried his fury under the mountain of blood he'd shed.
And now… this girl, this fierce, defiant woman who had walked into his estate with fire in her eyes, was hers. The daughter Elara bore in silence, in hiding, away from him.
He swallowed hard.
"I have a daughter," he whispered to no one. A half-smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Elara, you always knew how to surprise me."
There was pride in his chest, swelling like a storm. Ayla—his blood—carried strength, a fire not even captivity could douse. He had watched her since she arrived, intrigued by her spirit, the way she commanded space without even trying. Now he understood why.
But he didn't tell her.
Not yet.
She didn't know. And Viper feared—truly feared for the first time in years—what her reaction might be. What if she hated him? What if she blamed him for her mother's death, or her suffering? What if she saw him only as the monster the world whispered about?
No. He had to do it carefully. He had to earn her trust first, her affection. He wouldn't lose another person he cared about.
The next morning, Ayla was surprised when he knocked on her door himself.
"Get dressed," he said, a rare softness in his voice. "We're going out. Just you and me."
Ayla blinked. "Out… where?"
He smirked. "Shopping. The city."
"Shopping?" she repeated, like he'd spoken in another language.
"I assume you'd prefer something more your style than the silk robes the maids keep throwing on you."
Suspicious, Ayla eyed him carefully. He didn't look dangerous today—no suit, no weapons visible. Just a man in dark jeans and a plain black shirt, looking… normal.
And maybe, a little lonely.
"Okay," she said slowly, still guarded.
They walked the bustling streets of the city hours later. Ayla's eyes were wide behind designer shades as she took in the bright windows, the sounds of honking cars and laughing vendors. Viper kept close but not overbearing, silently watching her with a tenderness that surprised even him.
She laughed once—really laughed—while trying on a ridiculous pair of heels that made her stumble.
He memorized the sound like a dying man gasping for air.
They stopped at a café for coffee. Ayla sat across from him, sipping slowly, studying him with a puzzled look.
"You're different today," she said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Good different or bad?"
"I don't know yet," she replied honestly. "But it's nice, I guess."
He smiled. A real one. It felt strange. But good.
If only he could keep the truth hidden just a little longer—just until he was sure she could love him not as a captor, or a buyer, but as a father.
But fate has never let Viper keep anything for long.