Breath Taking
Ronny's Pov
The screen burned against my palm, the words still carved into my mind.
‘I know about your parents.’
My heart slammed against my chest so hard I thought it might break bone. Nobody knew. Not even the people I trusted most—the ones I’d bled beside, the ones who owed me their lives. Nobody. Because I’d made sure of it.
That search, that obsession, was mine and mine alone.
So who the hell had the audacity to send me that message?
I swallowed hard, my throat dry despite the whiskey still clawing at the edges of my tongue. My first instinct was to call, and I did, thumb pressing down on the dial icon before I could stop myself.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then nothing.
The line cut.
Disconnected.
My knuckles whitened as I stared at the dead call screen. I hit redial. Again. And again. Each time it failed. Not even a voicemail to curse at, just silence.
“What the fuck?” I muttered under my breath, shoving the phone down onto the passenger seat like it had personally insulted me. My jaw ached from how tightly I was grinding it.
A city this big had ghosts in every corner, whispers that could vanish as quickly as they appeared. But this wasn’t random. This wasn’t coincidence. Whoever it was, they knew.
And that knowledge cut deeper than any bullet ever could.
Because it wasn’t just the fact that they knew my parents existed. No—this was about my obsession. The one thing I’d locked so tightly inside me it was suffocating. The one thing that, if exposed, would strip me bare.
Nobody knew how badly I needed answers about the people who had abandoned me. Why they had done it. Whether they were still out there. Whether they were even alive.
Nobody knew.
And yet someone did.
I started the car, the engine roaring to life beneath me. My hands tightened on the wheel until the leather bit into my palms. The streets blurred as I drove, headlights carving through the darkness, but my mind wasn’t on the road.
***
By the time I pulled into the underground garage beneath my building, my pulse was still a relentless drum. I parked too sharply, tires squealing against the concrete, and climbed out with more force than necessary.
I needed answers. Now.
The moment I stepped into my house, I didn’t bother with the lights. I went straight to my office, phone already in hand. My desk lit up in the glow of my monitors as I connected the device, pulling up every tracing tool I had.
Numbers, codes, algorithms. I’d hunted criminals across borders, unraveled syndicates with less than a phone number. But this?
Nothing.
The number didn’t exist. Not in any database, not in any log, not in any shadow-net I had access to. It was like chasing smoke.
“Fuck,” I growled, slamming my fist against the desk. The monitors rattled, but the hollow sound in my chest was louder.
I was a private investigator who could crack anyone else’s case. I could unravel other people’s lives like yarn, tugging until every secret lay exposed.
But my own?
Useless.
My parents. My blood. The reason I carried a hole inside me big enough to swallow everything else.
And still, nothing.
I pushed away from the desk so violently the chair skidded back. My body buzzed with rage I couldn’t bleed out. I stormed upstairs, climbing two steps at a time, my mind a chaos of curses and questions with no answers.
In my room, I sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. For a moment, I didn’t breathe. I didn’t think.
I just was.
Empty.
The shower was a blur. I couldn’t tell you if the water was hot or cold. Couldn’t tell you how long I stood there, motionless, letting it hit my skin like punishment. When I finally stepped out, the mirror was fogged, and I didn’t bother wiping it clear.
I dried off mechanically, pulled on a pair of shorts, and collapsed into bed. The mattress dipped beneath me, the sheets cool against my skin, but I felt nothing.
Not the comfort of home. Not the exhaustion of a long day.
Just nothing.
Until my phone vibrated against the nightstand.
I ignored it.
One buzz. Two. Then three.
Persistent.
I dragged the blanket higher, forcing myself to tune it out. Whoever it was, whatever it was, it could wait. I was too drained to care.
But then the vibrations didn’t stop. One after another, rapid fire, like whoever was on the other end refused to let me rest.
With a curse, I grabbed the phone, thumb ready to shut it off completely. But when the screen lit up, my chest stilled.
It was her.
Liliana.
My brows furrowed as I opened the messages.
Her first text was simple, almost casual:
‘There’s a family dinner tomorrow. You'll need to be there.’
Another came right after, like she hadn’t even paused:
‘Went to try out some new dresses today. Which one do you think I should wear?’
And then—pictures.
I froze.
The first one was her in a deep emerald dress, the fabric clinging to her like it had been designed with only her in mind. She stood before a mirror, her phone angled just enough to capture not only the dress but the curve of her lips, the tilt of her chin.
The next was a red one—bold, sharp, commanding attention. The kind of dress that could silence a room.
Then a silver one, shimmering, soft, almost fragile in the way it caught the light.
Each one different. Each one breathtaking.
And each one made something in my chest twist.
I shouldn’t have looked. Should’ve reminded myself that whatever was between us was professional. Strictly professional.
But damn it, she looked like fire and silk wrapped into one, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure.
Finally, I typed:
‘Wear whatever you want.’
Cold. Detached. Safe.
Her reply came back instantly, the typing dots appearing before I even set my phone down.
‘Even if you’re acting as my fake boyfriend, there’s nothing wrong with helping me pick a dress.’
I stared at that message longer than I should’ve. My teeth sank into my lower lip.
She wasn’t wrong. But she wasn’t right either.
Still, my hand moved before my brain caught up. I scrolled back through the pictures, forcing myself to study them clinically, like I was analyzing evidence.
But there was no denying it.
The black one.
Sleek. Elegant. Dangerous. It didn’t just make her look beautiful—it made her look untouchable.
So I typed:
The black one.
Her reply was immediate.
‘Thank you.’
Relief settled in me for half a second. But then another message popped up.
‘There’s one more thing.’
I frowned, confusion knotting in my stomach.
The next notification flashed on the screen—another set of pictures loading.
And when I opened them, my breath caught in my lungs, my pulse stuttering.
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