Fragments Beneath His Silence
Two years ago, Amaya Bennett witnessed a murder.
A powerful man was killed in cold blood, right in front of her. She should have died that night too.
Instead, she woke up in a hospital with no memory of what happened. No faces, no names and no clues. Just fragments, blurred images that slip through her fingers every time she tries to hold on.
Now, Amaya lives a quiet life, piecing herself back together. She works part-time, avoids trouble, and stays invisible. Until she lands a job at Twilight Global.
A company owned by Jake Anderson, the cold and untouchable CEO whose father was murdered the same night Aria lost her memory. Jake spent years searching for the only witness. But she vanished without any trace. Or so he thought.
But somehow, they cross path again, working under his roof, completely unaware of the truth she carries.
The killer is still out there.
And when Amaya starts getting flashes of blood, a voice, a ring glinting under the dim light, the hunt begins again.
But this time, she's not alone. Because even before he realizes who she is... Jake has already started protecting her. In the most relentless and dangerous way.
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Chapter 2
Morning came quietly.
Amaya stirred awoke before her alarm, eyes snapping open as if something had pulled her out of sleep. For a moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling. Her breathing uneven.
The dream lingered longer than necessary. But none of it was clear. Only the heavy and suffocating feeling. It felt like she had been running... or hiding.
Intuitively, she pressed her lips together. Turning onto her side, as she pulled the thin blanket closer around her.
"It's just a dream," she murmured, though her voice sounded unconvinced even to herself.
At that moment, the phone buzzed on the bedside table. 6:12 AM, the alarmed displayed.
It was too early, but she had to get her day going. With a small groan, Aria pushed herself upright, running a hand through her slightly tangled hair.
The room was still dim, the soft gray light of morning filtering through the curtains. She swung her legs off the bed, stretching slowly as she stood. Her body felt stiff, like she hadn't rested at all.
Her daily routine had always been her go to.
It never disappointments. Standing at the kitchen, the kettle whistled softly. Amaya leaned against the counter, scrolling through her phone.
Job listings displayed once again.
She had been doing this every morning for the past three weeks. It had become part of her routine. She had expenses to cover. And her part-time shift at the convenience store barely covered rent. She needed something stable-something better.
After a few minutes, her thumb paused mid-scroll.
Blooms Global – Administrative Assistant (Entry Level)
A slight frown swept her face. That name again.
It had shown up more than once throughout her search.
It was a big company, corporate and competitive. Definitely out of her league. But Amaya tapped on the listing anyway. The Requirements, Responsibilities, Long hours and High expectations came to view.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah... no." She exited the page once again, and set the phone down just as the kettle clicked off.
But as she poured the hot water into her cup, something nagged at her. That name, Blooms Global. It felt... familiar. Not in a clear way, nor something she could place her hand on.
It was just a faint tug at the back of her mind. Like a word on the tip of her tongue. Amaya shook her head, stirring her tea.
"You're imagining things," she muttered. Yet still, she picked up her phone again and saved the listing.
By 8:30 AM, the city was alive and buzzing with activities. Amaya stepped onto the bus, gripping the overhead rail as it lurched forward. The usual crowd filled the space. Students, office workers, and people half-awake and glued to their phones.
The ride roughly took twenty minutes. Just enough time for her to zone out. Watching buildings pass by the window in a blur.
As she got to her stop, she rang the bell and stepped off. Amaya walked the rest of the way to the convenience store. The moment she oushed the glass door opened, the bell chimed as she entered.
"You're early," the cashier from last night said, glancing up from behind the counter.
Amaya smiled. "Couldn't sleep."
He hummed. "Join the club."
He said, as Amaya moved behind the counter, tying her apron as she got to work. Restocking shelves, to organizing the drinks, and down to wiping down surfaces. It was a simple repetitive and grounding work.
For a while, the strange feeling from the morning had faded. Until the door chimed again. Instinctively, Amaya looked up.
Only to see a well dressed man, looking totally out of place as he stepped in. He sure wasn't here for snacks. That much was obvious.
His gaze slowly and deliberately swept the store and finally landed on her.
Amaya's fingers stilled on the shelf. She felt something tightened in her chest. The man smiled. But for some reason, it didn't reach his eyes.
"Good morning," he said casually, walking toward the counter.
"Morning," Amaya replied, forcing her voice steady.
He stopped in front of her, resting one hand lightly against the counter. "Do you work here every day?"
Amaya hesitated. "Most days."
His eyes flickered sharp, more like assessing. "Long shifts?" He asked.
" It depends." She muttered.
For the next two minutes, silence stretched between them. Then, he softly chuckled. "You must get tired."
"I manage." Amaya shrugged.
His gaze lingered on her face for a second longer than necessary. Then, just like that, he straightened. "I'll take a coffee."
Relief flickered briefly through her. "Sure."
She turned, focusing on the machine, as awareness of his presence hit from behind her. He was watching, and she knew that.
As she handed him the cup, their fingers brushed. Amaya flinched. The contact, somehow, spark something cold from within.
It came as a flash; a hand. A gold ring. Her breath hitched. And the cup slipped slightly in her grip.
"Careful," the man smoothly said, catching it before it fell.
In that moment, their eyes met. Just for a split second. And something dark flickered in his expression. Like recognition.
On an impulse, Amaya quickly pulled her hand back, her heart pounding heavily against her chest.
"Sorry," she murmured.
"No need." He paid, still watching her. Just like that, he turned and walked out.
He was gone in the next minute but the air he left behind felt... wrong.
"You okay?" her coworker asked.
Amaya blinked. "Yeah. Why?"
"You went pale."He explained.
"I'm fine," she quickly answered. But she clearly wasn't. The rest of her shift continued but she couldn't shake out the feeling that something had just changed.
Apart from that unusual encounter, the day dragged by with no special happening. That evening, Amaya retired home earlier than usual.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop open in front of her. The Blooms Global listing stared back at her. She had no reason to apply.
No qualifications that stood out. And no connections.
Yet, her fingers hovered over the keyboard. "Just give it a try," she whispered to herself. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Rejection was a normal thing to her. She exhaled slowly. Then, started typing.
·
.
.
~ ~ ~
The company had retired but Jake was still seated behind his desk. It was a sleek office bathed in cool light.
He flipped through a report. His expression unfazed. But the air around him felt heavy enough to suffocate.
"Run it again," he said.
His assistant stiffened. "Sir, we already-"
"I don't care." He cut him short, his voice still calm and controlled. "Run. It. Again."
There was a brief silence. "Yes, sir." He answered.
Jake leaned back in his chair. His gaze drifting briefly to the city beyond the glass. Something was off. He couldn't explain it, but he could sense it
And his instincts...were never wrong.
.
.
.
Meanwhole, the man from the convenience store stepped into a dimly lit office. He loosened his tie, his expression no longer pleasant. But cold and calculating.
He pulled out his phone. And a photo filled the screen. It was a blurry image from Two years ago. The girl looked young, frightened and covered in shadows. He stared at it. Then, a smile slowly spread through his face.
"I found you."
Amaya on the other hand, hit the submit button.
Sending out her application on an instant.
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9.3
Jessie's biological parents brought her back from a Rust Belt wasteland just to force her into marrying a paralyzed heir to save their bankrupt empire.
Three years later, when the global doomsday apocalypse hit, her own family shoved her into a swarm of infected corpses.
As she was being torn apart by mutated hounds, she was stunned by what she saw.
Her fake sister, Harley, was clutching the antique silver necklace she had stolen from Jessie—an heirloom that secretly contained a magical spatial dimension.
When the infected swarmed them, her biological mother didn't even look back.
"Jessie is just white trash, she is perfectly suited to buy us time to run!"
Harley used Jessie's stolen necklace to live in absolute safety and luxury, while Jessie's windpipe was ripped out in the rotting wasteland.
Until she died, Jessie didn't understand. She was their true flesh and blood.
Why did her parents hate her so much? Why was she sacrificed so easily while the fake daughter got everything?
Opening her eyes again, the blinding glare of a crystal chandelier stabbed into her retinas.
She was back in the Manhattan penthouse on the exact day they sold her off.
This time, Jessie calmly signed the marriage contract, demanded a one hundred million dollar buyout, and walked out to prepare for the apocalypse.
7.6
Jocelyn Yang lived in the grand Turner Mansion, not as a guest, but as a prisoner. Ever since her father's death, the ruthless billionaire Elam Turner forced her to atone for sins her father never committed.
On her nineteenth birthday, a male classmate secretly sent her a diamond necklace. Elam, who had flown back from London overnight, flew into a psychotic, jealous rage at the sight of another man's gift.
He mercilessly crushed the delicate necklace into the marble floor with his custom leather shoe.
"Did you forget what you are?" Elam hissed, dragging her into a pitch-black storage room. "You take gifts from other men behind my back?"
He pinned her to the dusty floorboards and violently assaulted her. The next morning, a wire transfer of $500,000 hit her bank account. He had humiliated her, broken her spirit, and was now casually trying to buy her silence. Later, when a broken bike left her walking miles through a freezing rainstorm, he just shoved scalding tea into her bleeding hands.
"Look at you," he sneered. "You look like a stray dog ruining my floors."
Jocelyn curled up in the cold, her lips bleeding and her heart shattered. She couldn't understand his terrifying obsession. If he hated her so much, why did he refuse to let her go? Why did he look at her with such manic hunger while systematically destroying her life?
Staring at the massive sum of hush money on her phone, a desperate spark of vengeance flared in her chest. Jocelyn wired every single cent back to Elam's account. She picked up her charcoal pencil, vowing to win the upcoming art competition and buy her escape from this monster forever.
9.5
Elsie was the Sutton family's perfect puppet, a sickly heiress locked away in a pristine manor and treated like fragile porcelain. Her only purpose was to be a pawn in her mother's corporate games.
Without warning, her mother ordered her to marry Duke Blake, a ruthless, cold-blooded billionaire known for destroying his rivals. Worse, her mother immediately handed over total control of Elsie's life to him, declaring she couldn't even step outside the gates without his explicit permission.
Desperate, Elsie met him and asked if she would be expected to perform wifely duties, praying for a marriage in name only.
"I have a very high sex drive."
He stated it bluntly, shattering her illusions. Yet, when he drove her into the city days later, a sudden swerve sent her tumbling directly into his lap. Instead of the desire he claimed to possess, his body went completely rigid. He violently shoved her away, slamming her hard against the passenger seat. His face was pale, his knuckles white, and he stared straight ahead with a look of absolute, terrifying revulsion.
Humiliation and sharp pain coiled in her chest. She couldn't understand. Why did he demand absolute control over her and boast about his desires, only to treat her accidental touch like a repulsive disease? Why did this all-powerful man secretly smell of hospital antiseptics? What exactly was the Sutton family forcing her to marry?
But she was no longer willing to be a lamb led to the slaughter. Thinking of the provocative black lace hidden behind her wardrobe's false wall, Elsie smiled coldly. She was going to find the fatal flaw in this ruthless billionaire's code, and use it to completely shatter her cage.
9.1
June woke up transmigrated into the body of a ruthless billionaire's toxic, disposable wife.
Before she could even process the massive Beverly Hills mansion, a cold system voice announced she had exactly five minutes of lifespan remaining.
To survive, she was forced to bind with the system and strictly maintain the original owner's "brainless, abusive drama queen" persona to earn hours to live.
She was forced to violently slap hot coffee out of a terrified maid's hands and physically spank her manipulative five-year-old stepson.
When she tried to escape this nightmare by throwing divorce papers at her terrifying husband, Isaac Walton, he simply ripped them to shreds.
Every time she tried to be reasonable or show a hint of kindness, the system tortured her with agonizing cardiac pain, cementing her status as the most hated monster in the family.
The most absurd part happened when she threw a hysterical, system-mandated tantrum over a gossip magazine, and Isaac's icy demeanor suddenly melted.
He gently touched her hair, offering the one thing she desperately needed.
"Stop crying. I'll handle it."
Just as a spark of hope ignited in her chest, the system's critical death warning exploded in her skull: accepting his sympathy would instantly deduct thirty days of her life.
To stay alive, June had no choice but to violently slap away the only hand reaching out to save her, forcing herself to play the greedy villain while her husband's gaze turned dangerously dark.
7.7
Alondra spent three hours making soup for her husband, only to find him at the hospital tenderly holding another woman's hand.
"I'm four weeks pregnant, Gerard," the woman said softly.
Gerard coldly handed Alondra a divorce agreement, claiming their three-year marriage was just a placeholder because this woman had once saved his life.
Heartbroken, Alondra fled in her car, only to realize her brakes had been completely disabled.
She spun out of control and crashed head-on into a massive delivery truck.
As she lay trapped in the mangled wreckage with her ribs crushed and blood filling her mouth, Gerard's black Maybach pulled up to the curb.
He stared at her dying body through the window with a completely blank expression.
He didn't call an ambulance or even open his door.
He simply rolled up his tinted window and drove away into the rain.
A raw, suffocating hatred burned in her chest, hotter than the pain in her shattered bones.
She couldn't understand how the man she had loved and served so devotedly could just coldly watch her die like a piece of trash.
Opening her eyes again, Alondra gasped for air.
She had returned to the exact morning two years ago, right before she was supposed to deliver that pathetic soup.
When Gerard walked in and threatened her with divorce, she didn't cry or beg.
"I agree. Let's divorce," she said calmly, packing her bags to reclaim her true identity as a billionaire heiress.
7.9
I woke up in a burning warehouse, twelve years after my supposed death. My body had been reset to its physical prime, the deep burn scar on my wrist completely gone.
Through the smoke, my eldest son, Kennard, rushed blindly into the flames. He was screaming the name of the very woman who had orchestrated this trap—Brittnie.
When I tackled him out of the way of a falling steel beam, he didn't recognize my youthful face. Instead, he pinned me to the concrete and nearly crushed my windpipe.
"How much did she pay you to carve up your face to look like a dead woman?"
He hissed the words at me, treating me like a sick corporate spy. For a decade, a bizarre narrative "script" had brainwashed my son, forcing him into pathetic devotion to Brittnie. She had drained his wealth, turned my daughter against him, and hollowed out our family empire.
Whenever Kennard tried to resist her, the mind control punished him with agonizing migraines, driving him to smash his own hands against the wall just to cope with the pain.
Hearing him quietly sobbing outside my locked door, my heart shattered. How could this invisible force torture my brilliant son and turn my family into puppets for a D-list actress?
I dragged him to the hospital for a DNA test.
When the results confirmed my maternity at 99.999%, the cold billionaire collapsed to the floor, weeping in my arms like a lost child.
I wiped his tears and smiled ruthlessly. It was time to take back my empire and burn Brittnie's life to the ground.