Page 125 of Possessive Billionaire's Twisted Hunt

Christian Evans was never the type of man to dwell on emotions.

He buried them deep, locked them away where they couldn’t touch him. But today was different. Today, his demons clawed their way to the surface, dragging him back to the memory that haunted him for decades.

The snow fell in thick, silent sheets, blanketing the city in an unforgiving white. The cold was biting, seeping through the thin fabric of his white button-down, numbing his skin until he could barely feel his own body.

His hands trembled slightly as he flicked open the empty pack of cigarettes. He scowled at it, crushing the carton in his fist before shoving it deep into his pocket. The nicotine haze had kept him company for most of the night, masking the suffocating weight of his thoughts. But now that the last cigarette was gone, his mind was loud—too loud.

His breath came out in short puffs of steam, his jaw clenched so tightly that it ached. He had spent the entire night wandering aimlessly, letting the frigid air bite into him, hoping it would freeze the memories out of his mind.

But nothing could erase that day.

A small boy, barely five, left alone in the middle of a crowded street, watching his mother walk away. His small, numb fingers clutching at the hem of her coat, his tiny voice calling out for her. She hadn’t turned back. Not once. She had just kept walking, disappearing into the faceless crowd, leaving him there—cold, hungry, abandoned.

A deep, sharp pang of something unnameable shot through his chest. Every year, on this exact day, it happened—an ache that never faded. He could still see it, still feel it, like a phantom pain that never quite healed.

His boots sank into the fresh layer of snow with every restless step, the crunching sound barely registering in his ears. He paced in front of a small café, his breath misting in the air, his pulse an erratic rhythm against his ribs. Inside, the world was warm—soft golden lights bathed the space in an inviting glow, the rich scent of coffee curled through the air, and the sound of clinking cups and murmured laughter wove together in a comforting hum.

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, his fingers stiff and aching from the cold, but the sting barely cut through the deeper emptiness lodged in his chest. The kind of cold that no amount of heat could chase away.

His gaze flicked across the street, drawn to the quiet movement of a woman and a child. The woman walked briskly, her coat flaring slightly as she moved, her focus elsewhere. Behind her, a small boy struggled to keep up, his tiny boots slipping slightly on the icy pavement.

Christian stopped breathing.

The boy’s breath came in rapid white puffs, his little legs moving as fast as they could, his arms reaching out desperately—trying to grasp something, someone. His mother. His safety.

Christian’s stomach twisted violently. His pulse slammed against his ribs, hard and fast, like a trapped bird beating against its cage.

The mother wasn’t abandoning him—she was just distracted, moving too fast. The child wasn’t crying, just trying to keep up. Trying to hold on.

But Christian wasn’t standing on this street anymore.

The present shattered, the world around him darkening at the edges as a memory, raw and vicious, pulled him under.

Snow-covered pavement blurred into something else—something harsher, colder, lonelier. A different street, a different winter. His small frame shivering violently, his breath coming in broken gasps, his heart pounding with the same desperate rhythm. His tiny fingers, numb from the cold, outstretched toward the fading figure ahead.

"Mom—"

His throat burned, but the word barely made a sound, swallowed by the unforgiving winter air. His legs ached, but he kept running, kept reaching, kept trying—until his little body couldn’t take it anymore, until his knees hit the frozen ground, until the cold seeped into his bones, stealing his breath, stealing everything.

The past and present bled together in a dizzying wave, crashing over him so forcefully that his vision wavered. His fingers twitched, curling into fists so tight that his nails dug into his palms, but he barely felt it. His breathing became shallow. His body locked up, stiff with anxiety. His fingers twitched, curling into tight fists as the air around him seemed to close in. His vision darkened at the edges. He had to fight to stay standing. His legs felt weak, his body unsteady, as if at any moment, he would collapse onto the frozen pavement.

Trapped.

Distantly, he heard a car door open. The woman across the street had stopped. She turned, noticing her child, and without hesitation, she reached for him. She lifted him into her arms, murmuring something softly before placing him in the backseat of a car, buckling him in, securing him.

Christian’s chest rose on a sharp inhale. The panic clawing at Christian’s throat loosened, but only slightly.

His gaze lingered on the mother and child as they drove away, their taillights disappearing down the snow-covered road.

The cold still bit at his skin. The ache in his chest hadn’t faded.

And yet, for a moment, he could breathe again.

He tore his gaze away, his entire body trembling from the effort of holding himself together. His breath was ragged, uneven. His fingers, ice-cold and rigid, pressed against his temples as he fought to steady himself.

And then, a soft gasp pulled him back to reality. His head snapped up.

A woman stood at the entrance of the café, her large, expressive eyes locked onto him. There was something delicate about her—something soft. Her features were gentle, her lips slightly parted, her brows knitted together in concern. The golden glow from inside the café framed her, casting her in a warm light, making her look almost unreal against the cold, stark backdrop of the street.

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