Chapter 294
A scream ripped from Lara’s throat—raw, ragged, and filled with a terror so primal it barely sounded human.
The room fell deathly still.
Then came the gasping.
Her breaths turned frantic, each one sharper than the last. Her chest heaved violently, drawing in desperate gulps of air that never seemed enough. She clawed at her own throat as though invisible hands were strangling her.
Ares’ blood ran cold.
He recognized the signs immediately.
She was having a panic attack.
Her collarbones rose and fell like pistons, each breath forcing her body into painful spasms. Her lips trembled. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face as her eyes stared at something that wasn’t there—something only she could see.
“Lara.”
He knelt before her, forcing himself to remain calm despite the fear clawing at his own chest.
“Lara, look at me.”
She didn’t hear him.
She was trapped somewhere far away, imprisoned by a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake.
What happened?
What could possibly reduce a woman like Lara—a woman who faced death without flinching—to this?
His hands gently cupped her face, guiding her trembling gaze toward his.
“Lara.”
His voice softened but it became urgent.
“Listen to me.”
Their eyes met.
“Breathe with me.”
He exaggerated each breath.
“Inhale…”
She tried, but another broken gasp escaped her.
“That’s it. You are doing fine.”
“Now exhale…”
Again.
“Inhale…”
“Exhale…”
Again and again.
Gradually, the frantic rise and fall of her chest slowed. The terror in her eyes dulled, replaced by exhaustion. The trembling eased until all that remained were quiet, uneven breaths.
Without another word, Ares pulled her into his arms. He held her as though afraid she might shatter.
Only when he felt her breathing finally steady did he whisper,
“What just happened?”
His voice was barely above a breath. It carried worry, fear and helplessness.
Lara buried her face against his chest.
“I’m sorry…”
Her voice was hoarse.
“I lost control.”
She had lived twice. She had ruled as an empress in the past.
She had survived endless conspiracies, rivers of blood, and enough betrayal to harden any heart. In this life, she had been molded into an assassin—a weapon sharpened by relentless training.
She thought she had buried that frightened little girl long ago.
She was wrong. The memory had never disappeared.
It had merely sunk into the deepest corner of her mind, festering in silence… waiting for the perfect moment to resurface.
That man…
His face was blurred by time, but his voice remained painfully clear.
“Don’t blame yourself.”
“None of this is your fault.”
“The monster… is your father.”
Artemio Fuegerro.
The name echoed inside her mind like a curse.
After that night, she had burned with a fever for three days.
Her temperature climbed to nearly forty degrees. Every time she closed her eyes, nightmares dragged her back into that room, forcing her to relive the horror again and again until even Artemio finally summoned a doctor.
“She has suffered severe psychological trauma,” the doctor had said.
“Her mind is far too young to endure what she experienced.”
They thought she was asleep. She wasn’t. Every word had reached her.
There was a long silence before Artemio spoke.
“Perhaps I acted too rashly and pushed her too quickly.”
There was no remorse in his voice. There wasn’t even a trace of guilt, only cold calculation.
“I believed starting her training early would make her stronger… more formidable.”
“Give her whatever medicine is necessary to suppress the aftereffects.”
Suppress. Not heal. Not comfort. Not protect.
Even as a child, something inside Lara had broken. The words were like knives that plunged into her aching heart.
How could a father watch his own daughter suffer such torment… and speak of it as though discussing a failed experiment?
But it wasn’t the first time. There were many other incidents, she could no longer count.
Monster.
That stranger had called him one.
Back then, she hadn’t understood. Now…everything finally made sense.
Because Artemio Fuegerro had never been her father.
Not by blood. Not by heart.
…
Reluctantly, Ares loosened his embrace.
He reached into his pocket, unfolded a neatly pressed handkerchief, and gently dabbed the beads of sweat clinging to Lara’s forehead. His movements were slow and careful, as though she were made of fragile glass.
Lara managed a faint smile.
“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m alright now.”
The smile never reached her eyes.
Ares remained silent for a moment. He wanted to let the subject die, yet the image of her moments ago—gasping for air, trembling in absolute terror—refused to leave his mind.
Finally, he asked quietly,
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Lara looked down before lifting her gaze to meet his.
There was no fear in her eyes now.
Only weariness and quiet resignation.
“…I’m a bad person, Ares.”
Her words caught him completely off guard.
She slowly raised both hands before her face.
Gone were the bony, frail hands of the woman who had awakened from her coma. The harsh calluses earned through years of merciless training had long since faded. They looked soft now—delicate enough to belong to a pampered young lady.
But Lara stared at them as though they were drenched in crimson.
“These hands…” she murmured, her fingers trembling ever so slightly.
“They’re stained with blood.”
She swallowed.
“So much blood.”
Ares drew in a quiet breath. His chest tightened. It wasn’t the question itself that had shattered her.
It was what lay behind it.
Artemio Fuegerro.
Everything seemed to lead back to that man.
Ares resisted the urge to press further.
“If you’re not ready,” he said softly, “you don’t have to tell me.”
His voice was careful, almost cautious. He was terrified that one wrong word might send her spiraling back into that nightmare.
Lara let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
“I’m not that fragile, Ares.”
She held his gaze, her expression gentler now.
“But…”
She glanced toward the window, where the afternoon sunlight painted the room in muted gold.
“You’re right.”
Her voice grew distant.
“Now isn’t the right time.”