Lucas refused every medic who reached for him.
Blood ran down his forearm, staining the floor, but he didn't care.
He just stood there—breathing hard, his eyes locked on the doors where Mel's father had been carried out—lifeless.
Meanwhile, Mel crumbled.
Her wails tore through the hall, raw and desperate, echoing off the walls like ghosts refusing to be silenced. Years of pain—suppressed, ignored, dismissed—rushed out of her all at once.
Her tears came hot and heavy…
then, strangely, a broken laugh slipped out of her lips.
A laugh with no joy—only exhaustion.
The kind of laugh a person makes when life has already taken everything it could.
Everyone watched in stunned silence as she wiped her face with shaking hands, turned away from the crowd, and walked out of the hall without another word.
Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor, each step sounding like goodbye.
She reached her car, slammed the door shut, and drove back to her hidden mansion—her only sanctuary. Inside those walls, she finally let herself fall apart, curling on the floor where no one could see her, no one could judge her grief.
By dawn, the world had already changed.
News of her father's death spread everywhere—headlines flashing across every screen.
Some people rejoiced, relieved at the fall of a powerful man.
Others cried, fearing what his absence would mean for their future.
The city buzzed with opinions, theories, judgment…
but only the family felt the true weight of loss.
The funeral was grand…and cold.
Broadcast live for the world to see.
Every powerful figure in the region attended, dressed in black, whispering condolences laced with secrets.
Lucas was there too—but only from afar.
He sat in his car outside the cemetery, watching through the glass.
He couldn't bring himself to stand beside the family.
Not with Mel gone.
Not with blood still dried on his skin.
She did not arrive until it was over.
Only after the last handful of soil covered the coffin did her car appear.
She stepped out…
dressed in white.
A haunting contrast to the sea of black.
Gasps rippled through the crowd—
but she didn't look at anyone.
White—the color of mourning in her heart.
Of cleansing…
or maybe surrender.
She stood at the grave alone, silent.
No tears left to shed.
Only grief sitting quietly in her bones.
Then, without speaking a word, she turned away, got into her car, and left.
She drove straight to the airport.
No luggage—just her passport and a mind desperate for escape.
At the counter, she whispered,
"Book me a flight… the furthest place from here."
The clerk blinked, startled, then replied,
"That would be Brazil."
Mel nodded, voice barely holding together.
"Book it."
And just like that, she left—fleeing not just her home,but the ghosts that lived there with her
---
Mel's arrival in Brazil wasn't as terrifying as she expected.
The humid night air greeted her as she stepped out of the airport, carrying nothing but a passport and a heart full of bruises.
She stared up at the foreign sky and whispered to herself,
"So… this is where I start over."
She dragged herself into a taxi.
The driver glanced at her through the mirror.
"Hotel?" he asked in accented English.
Mel nodded. "Anywhere safe… and quiet."
Brazil was loud—colorful lights, warm streets, strangers laughing in the night.
A world that didn't know her.
A world that didn't ask her to pretend.
At the hotel, she checked in with tired hands.
The receptionist offered a gentle smile.
"Long flight?"
Mel exhaled. "Long year."
She collapsed onto the bed but her chest felt too tight to rest.
So she forced herself out again—
walking into the mall across the street to buy clothes, shoes, anything to replace the empty suitcase she never brought.
As she held a white summer dress against her body, she murmured,
"Maybe… I can forget here. Even for a moment."
But the truth clung to her like a shadow.
Every time she blinked, she saw their face—
her mother on the floor, Lucas bleeding, her father lifeless beneath a sheet.
She swallowed hard.
"This won't be easy… will it?"
A bitter smile curved her lips.
Brazil wasn't an escape.
It was simply the furthest place she could hide from her ghosts.
–––
Meanwhile, back at Lucas's mansion…
The storm inside him had only just begun.
Damian rushed into the room, panic etched on his face.
"Lucas—Mel's gone. No trace. She left the country."
Lucas froze.
Blood still stained his shirt, dried and dark.
For a moment, he didn't breathe.
"What… did you just say?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"She's gone," Damian repeated. "Her phone was tracked to the airport, but the signal ended there. We… we can't find her."
Lucas's chair slammed backward as he stood up so fast it hit the wall.
"NO!"
His roar echoed through the marble halls.
He dragged both hands through his hair, pacing in wild strides.
"After everything—she just disappeared?!"
Damian flinched. "We're still searching—"
"SEARCH HARDER!" Lucas snapped, his voice cracking.
"I lost her once. I am not losing her again."
He punched the wall—blood smearing into the paint as his knuckles split open again.
His breath came in jagged bursts.
His thoughts spun.
Her voice.
Her tears.
Her pain.
He remembered how she looked when he held her—fragile, trembling, fading right in his arms.
His back slid down the wall as he sank to the floor, shaking.
"She was right there…" his voice broke.
"And I let her walk away."
He pressed a trembling hand over his face.
"I should've stopped her. I should've protected her."
Damian knelt beside him.
"We'll find her, Lucas. No matter where she ran."
Lucas lifted his head, eyes burning with terrifying resolve.
"Then start with every airport. Every flight. Every country.
If she's breathing somewhere on this planet—
I will find her."
He stood, blood dripping down his fingers, and whispered to the empty room:
"Mel… you can run as far as the world stretches…"
His eyes darkened.
"Just know—I'm coming."
---
While the rest of the family remained unaware that Mel had left the country, Luke felt his chest tighten with unease.
He dialed Lucas again… and again… but the call only rang into silence.
"Pick up, man… where are you?" he muttered, pacing his room.
A cold shiver traveled down his spine as the call failed once more.
Something was off—terribly off.
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Brazil's sun filtered through the hotel curtains and warmed Mel's face.
She hadn't slept much.
Her body rested, but her mind never did.
She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, her voice barely a whisper.
"Just one day… I just want one day without them."
She forced herself up and reached for her phone, scrolling to the one contact she trusted.
Alfred.
The line clicked after two rings.
"Mistress?" Alfred's voice came quiet, cautious.
He sounded like he had been waiting for her call.
"Alfred," she breathed. "I need you to do something for me. And it must stay between us."
There was a beat of silence before he answered.
"Yes, milady. Tell me."
"I need all my school documents transferred to me here. Discreetly. No one can know—especially my family. Or Lucas." Her tone trembled, but she held herself together.
Alfred hesitated.
"Mistress… what are you planning to do where you are?"
Mel closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool hotel window.
Her heart clenched at the thought of answering honestly.
She wasn't even sure herself—she only knew she needed distance… breathing space… silence.
"Nothing you should bother yourself about," she replied quietly. "Just get it done… and send it to me as fast as you can."
Her voice broke—only slightly—but Alfred heard it.
"Yes, mistress," he responded.
His tone softened.
"I'll take care of it."
Before she could hang up, there came a soft knock on her door.
Mel stiffened.
A woman's accented voice filtered through the wood.
"Room service, miss."
Mel's grip tightened around the phone.
Her heart raced.
She hadn't ordered anything.
"Hold on," she whispered into the receiver, then raised her voice.
"One second," she called to the door, cautious.
"Should I stay on the line?" Alfred asked, worry creeping into his tone.
Mel swallowed.
"No… it's fine. I'll call you later."
She ended the call and approached the door slowly.
The voice came again—gentle, patient.
"Senhorita? Room service."
Mel hesitated.
Her fingers hovered over the handle as her pulse thundered in her ears.
"…I didn't order room service," she murmured under her breath.
She steadied her breathing, then unlocked the door—just slightly—peeking through the gap.
A woman in uniform stood politely, holding a cart.
Her smile was warm and harmless.
Relief washed over Mel's shoulders.
"Oh," she sighed. "Sorry. I… wasn't expecting anyone."
"No problem, miss," the woman replied with a laugh. "Breakfast. Courtesy of hotel."
Mel nodded slowly and opened the door wider.
"Thank you…"
As the woman rolled the tray in, Mel couldn't shake the sensation that the world she fled from was still chasing her.
Even here, in a country oceans away…
she couldn't outrun her ghosts.