Defrosting Her Cold Heart

Outside the Old Building, Lucas paused outside the aging structure, his sharp gaze sweeping over its crumbling facade. The wood of the door was splintered, and the windows, clouded with grime, cast a faint, eerie reflection in the late afternoon light. Behind him, Director Steve shifted nervously, his hands wringing together. "This building," he began, his voice a touch too quick, "was constructed fifty years ago, back when the orphanage was first established. It's long past its prime. The children who lived here were moved to the newer facility years ago. Hardly anyone comes here anymore." Lucas didn't respond, his attention fixed on the moss creeping over the narrow stone path leading to the door. Its green fingers blanketed the ground as though nature itself had claimed the area-yet he noticed the abrupt break in the pattern. The section nearest to the main road was suspiciously bare, its stone surface worn smooth by the unmistakable rhythm of regular footsteps. "Hardly anyone," Lucas murmured, his tone laced with skepticism. Steve's heart pounded in his chest, his palms growing slick with sweat. Had he noticed? Lucas's eyes, cold and calculating, lingered on the door for a beat longer before shifting away, but the slight furrow in his brow suggested he'd made a mental note. He turned, striding back toward the main orphanage building without another word. Steve followed, forcing himself to suppress his panic. His smile was brittle, his attempts at casual conversation clumsy and strained. Inside, his thoughts raced. What did he see? Did he suspect something? For the first time since accepting Casey Angeles into the orphanage, regret clawed at him like a beast. If she had simply stayed out of sight, kept her head down, and caused no trouble, everything would have been fine. But Casey wasn't one to blend quietly into the background. Her sharp eyes and unyielding attitude made her impossible to ignore. And worse, Steve had assured Lucas that all the children were present for the selection today. If Lucas found out he'd been deliberately hiding someone... Steve shuddered. The Blackwood heir wasn't known for his patience-or forgiveness. Lucas approached the door with slow, deliberate steps, his polished shoes clicking softly against the mossy path. The air seemed heavier around him, each step amplifying the tension for the onlookers. His face remained impassive, but his very presence bore down on the surroundings, an invisible force that pressed uncomfortably on those behind him. Inside the building, Casey stood just beyond the threshold, her back to the cold wall. Her breathing was steady, but her ears were trained on the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. The rhythm was unhurried and calculated. She knew instinctively that whoever was outside wasn't just passing by. The footsteps halted, and there was silence for a moment, save for the faint rustle of wind slipping through the cracks in the old structure. Outside, Lucas bent slightly, his sharp gaze inspecting the bare, well-trodden path leading to the door. His finger brushed the faint scuff marks on the ground, and his lips curved downward ever so slightly in disdain. Straightening, he spoke, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "This path... looks regularly used," he said coldly, his tone devoid of any discernible emotion. "So much for 'abandoned.'" He gestured faintly toward the door, his eyes narrowing. "You say it's just for clutter? A perfect breeding ground for insects and ants- which could lead to disease outbreaks in the orphanage. And what if someone unknown happens to be hiding in there?" His gaze flicked briefly toward the instructors standing stiffly behind him. "I doubt scaring the children is part of your program." His words, though calm, carried an unmistakable edge that made the instructors stiffen. Steve scrambled forward, forcing a laugh that rang hollow. "Oh, no, Mr. Blackwood, you misunderstand. The cleaners do go in occasionally to tidy up. The place is mostly empty, though we don't use it anymore." His hands fluttered nervously as he gestured toward the building. "It's not as bad as it looks. The dust is minimal. No one's living there, I assure you." Lucas didn't acknowledge the explanation. His eyes remained fixed on the door, as though he could see straight through it. Inside, Casey's fingers curled into fists at her sides. The cold wood of the door pressed against her back as she held her breath, her mind racing. Who is this man? And why is he here now? Lucas lingered a moment longer, the silence stretching unbearably. Then, with a faint scoff, he straightened and turned, his expression unreadable. "Make sure your words hold true, Director," he said over his shoulder. "I don't tolerate negligence." Steve bowed quickly, his face pale. "Of course, Mr. Blackwood." As Lucas walked away, his pace measured and unhurried, Casey exhaled quietly. For now, the storm had passed, but something told her it wouldn't be the last time she faced Lucas Blackwood. Casey sat on the edge of the worn mattress, her thoughts unsettled. The encounter with Lucas had left her on edge-not because of his words or demeanor, but because of the sharp awareness he'd stirred within her. She'd lived among gangsters as a child, her gender a trivial detail in a life dominated by survival. But now, she felt a keen vulnerability she hadn't experienced before. The room was dimly lit, the light seeping through the cracked wooden shutters casting long, fractured shadows on the walls. Casey stood abruptly and began rummaging through the piles of old clothes scattered in the corner. Her fingers found a soft, unused fabric buried beneath the mess. She pulled it out, running her hands over its worn surface, and set it aside. Crossing to the bed, she reached under the thin mattress and retrieved the dagger she'd hidden long ago. Its blade gleamed faintly in the sparse light, sharp and unyielding-a reflection of the resolve hardening in her eyes. With careful precision, she cut the fabric into three long strips, the sound of the blade slicing through cloth filling the silent room. She stripped off her shirt, her eyes catching her reflection in the cracked mirror hanging lopsidedly on the wall. Her shoulders were lean but strong, her form deceptively wiry. Casey stared at her reflection for a moment, her lips tightening. Then, she wrapped the first strip around her chest, flattening the curve of her breasts. The pressure was firm but reassuring like armor being fitted in place. She wound the second strip, then the third, each layer tightening until her chest appeared flat, her figure stripped of its softness. She pulled her shirt back on, rolling her shoulders to adjust to the constriction. The binding altered her silhouette, making her appear more muscular, more boyish. She scrutinized herself in the mirror, tilting her head slightly. But her gaze caught on the faint bruises on her collarbone-remnants of a struggle from the night before. Her hand brushed over them briefly, and her expression darkened. The memory of the encounter burned in her mind, anger flickering in her eyes like embers stirred by the wind. Casey turned from the mirror, slipping the dagger into the folds of her shirt. It nestled securely against her side, its weight a silent reassurance. Moving to the window, she peered out at the overcast sky, her lips curling into a cold, determined smirk.