From the very beginning, I knew. Aisha's eyes had the intense brightness of Louis, and her face was an unmistakable reflection of Zaira. She was my blood—my daughter. But she hadn't grown up with me; she'd been raised by Falco Valuare, a pure-blood hunter. Though he always kept a cold distance from me, Falco loved Aisha as if she were his own. I knew he would protect her from any threat… even from me.
"Go play for a while, Aisha," Falco said with a warm smile. "In a moment, we'll go out for those ice creams I promised."
Once she left, he shut the door carefully and looked me straight in the eye, his expression turning grave.
"That girl… is she your daughter?" he asked, staring into his coffee cup.
I took a deep breath before answering.
"She's the child I entrusted to you years ago, yes. I plan to take her back now."
Falco frowned, pulling a crumpled photo of Zaira from his pocket.
"I always thought Aisha looked like my sister, but now I see she also has a lot of her mother."
His words struck me like a blow. The photo was a painful reminder of how Zaira and Aisha's lives were intertwined—and how far apart their worlds had grown. I knew that despite his distrust, Falco had raised Aisha with love and dedication. But the time had come.
"You know I can't delay this any longer. She needs to come back with me. She's my daughter."
After a long silence, Falco nodded with resignation and called out.
"Aisha, come here."
She came running back in, her smile lighting up the room. Falco gave me a slight nod.
"Aisha, this man... he's who you think he is."
Aisha's eyes filled with pure, unfiltered joy. Without hesitation, she ran into my arms and hugged me tightly, as if afraid I might vanish.
"I always knew you'd come back for me, Dad."
That embrace shattered every barrier I had built around myself. The warmth of that moment was like a rush of fresh air through a withered soul. With a trembling voice, I whispered:
"Yes, Aisha. I am your father."
Aisha adapted quickly to her new environment, while I tried to adjust to the role of a father, though my focus was already drifting elsewhere.
A few days later, while reviewing the blueprints of my estate, I discovered something unexpected in the basement. Driven by curiosity, I broke the lock and stepped inside.
There, sealed inside a crystal, was Zaira. The woman I once loved. Aisha's mother. Preserved like a specimen.
"Zaira…" I whispered, approaching in disbelief.
From that day on, the basement became my sanctuary. I spent hours there, watching her, speaking to her about our daughter—telling stories of Aisha's growth with a blend of hope and guilt. Aisha would visit too, but her feelings were complex: a blend of fascination and quiet resentment.
"How long until Mom wakes up?" she once asked, eyes full of emotion as she gazed into the crystal.
"I don't know. But one day, we'll be together again. As a family," I replied, lifting her into my arms.
Over time, my obsession with Zaira began to drive a wedge between Aisha and me. Though I tried to be present, she felt my absence on a deep, emotional level. And as she grew—watching her mother suspended in youth behind the glass—her resentment festered.
Shortly after turning five, I found her in the middle of a furious outburst.
"Wake up, Mom!" she screamed, pounding the glass with tiny fists. "Dad ignores me because of you! I don't want you to take the little I have left!"
I held her arms to stop her, but she turned toward me with tearful eyes.
"Don't ever act like that again, Aisha. She's your mother. Never forget what that means."
Her pain cut through me like a blade. Aisha sobbed as Mary, her nanny, pulled her gently away. From that moment on, I felt something break between us. She began to withdraw into herself.
One day, while walking in the garden, a gust of wind carried her hat away. A young man with platinum hair caught it and returned it with a soft smile.
"Is this yours?"
"Thank you, sir," Aisha murmured, avoiding his gaze.
The man, who introduced himself as Ibrahim, began to visit the mansion frequently, slowly earning Aisha's trust. His kindness felt unsettling, and Mary noticed it too.
Ibrahim appeared with the ease of someone who had never truly been a stranger. His smile was warm, but something colder danced in his eyes—calculated.
"Do you know anything about your mother, Aisha?" he once whispered. "I've heard she's very special. That she holds secrets many would kill for."
His words struck a raw nerve in Aisha's heart—reopening the wound of abandonment and the constant ache of my neglect.
"I don't care what you say, Ibrahim. Leave me alone," she said firmly, hiding the confusion swelling inside her.
Ibrahim smiled with unnerving calm.
"Sooner or later, you'll have to face it."
That night, Aisha could no longer hold in her emotions. Desperate, she crept into the basement and stood before the crystal. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pressed her palms to the glass.
"Why, Mom?" she whispered through sobs. "Why do you always leave me alone? I don't want you to take away what little I have left…"
Mary found her curled up by the crystal, clutching the image of her mother. The nanny knelt beside her and held her in silence, offering the comfort she so desperately needed.
That night, as Aisha returned to her room, she was no longer the same. Ibrahim's words, and my distance, had changed her.
In time, she began asking questions she didn't dare share with me. But one thing was certain—Aisha had made a silent vow to uncover the truth about her family. Even if the answers frightened her, she was ready to face them—whether that meant challenging me… or the shadows that haunted us.
And I, her father, who had once promised to protect her, had become the very source of the wound in her heart—one that healed only to break open again, leaving a scar. And so I drove her further from me.Maybe I was no different than the ones I always blamed.
One thing was clear: Aisha was no longer the same. And in the icy reflection of the crystal, where her mother lay sleeping, a silent promise was born—one that would shatter everything.