Six hours passed before Jason finally returned with the report. The thick scent of cigar smoke still clung to the air, mingling with the leather and mahogany of the office, as if time itself had become entangled with the luxurious decay of old money. The room, a cavern of polished wood and dim, amber light, seemed almost too still for comfort, its silence pressing on Hudson like an overlong pause in a conversation that had long since lost its purpose.
Jason, his face slick with sweat, stood rigidly before the desk. "The girl," he stammered, the words tumbling from his mouth, "she's a mixed-blood, Chinese-Japanese, named Emilia Zhu. Sixteen years old. Only daughter of a fallen family...her father was an ancient business magnate, the last of his line."
Hudson, leaning back in his chair, fixed Jason with a steady, unblinking gaze, his eyes dark like the space between stars. "Sixteen?" he murmured, his tone betraying nothing. He had seen enough to know that age was often nothing more than a number—youth was easily worn, like a fine, thin cloth fraying at the edges.
Jason nodded, almost apologetically. "Yes, sir. Sixteen. Her parents died in a car accident, and her guardian uncle, Jacob, lost their fortune in some...bad investments. He killed himself out of shame, leaving her a ward of the state. Only ten at the time, the Social Services sent her to foster homes."
Hudson's eyes narrowed slightly, though his voice remained even. "Foster homes. Bad ones, I presume."
Jason hesitated, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "The first family, they loved her. But within a month, they were all killed by robbers. The second family...they had to let her go after only three months because of some...financial collapse. And the third family..." He faltered, then continued, "The father fell ill, doctors said he had only six months to live. The rest of the family blamed her, treated her like a curse. She...she's been passed around like an unwanted thing, sir."
Hudson's gaze flickered, the faintest trace of something—pity, or perhaps recognition—appearing for a brief moment before it vanished behind the mask of his features. The girl, Emilia, was no stranger to hardship. Perhaps she had learned long ago how to blend into the shadows, a quiet survivor of a cruel world.
"Why was she starving?" Hudson's voice had a low, flat quality, as if the question itself was a mere formality, an irrelevant piece of a puzzle he was already piecing together in his mind.
Jason shifted uncomfortably. "The current foster parents, the Nicks...they thought she was some kind of omen, a bad luck charm. They kicked her out, not even caring if she had anything to eat. They believed...they believed their family was cursed by her presence. The man, Nick...he's famous for his charity work, but when it came to her..." He trailed off, knowing that Hudson wasn't interested in half-truths.
Hudson leaned forward, his voice dropping just slightly. "She has had a rough life."
"Yes, sir. The girl..." Jason's words faltered as he glanced at the floor, unwilling to meet Hudson's gaze.
In the dim, candlelit room, the weight of their conversation felt heavier than it should. Jason was a man used to the machinery of power, to bending facts and shaping stories. But this story, this one... it seemed to sit like a stone in his stomach.
Hudson's thoughts drifted for a moment, then returned to the present with a snap. He stood, his broad figure casting a long shadow over the room, and turned toward the door.
"Is she awake now?" Hudson asked, his voice oddly calm, as though he were discussing something as mundane as the weather. His question held no urgency, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity that didn't quite match his composed demeanor.
"Yes, sir. She woke up not long ago."
Hudson nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I think I'll pay her a visit."
Emilia stirred slowly, her senses clouded with the fog of an unsettling dream. Her mind, like a tangled mess of threads, tried to pull itself together. She felt soft, like the weightless sensation of floating on clouds, the gentle pressure of something—no, someone—against her skin. Her hand, almost instinctively, tightened around the object in her grasp, pulling it closer.
Her confusion deepened when a strange, salty taste filled her mouth, something not quite right. Was it food? Her head spun as she tried to focus, the blurry shapes around her coming into focus. A deep, low chuckle cut through the haze, and she blinked, her gaze meeting the glint of eyes that gleamed like polished stone. They were gray—no, violet, maybe, something between that and steel. Eyes that seemed to see straight through her.
"You done?" The voice was smooth, almost teasing, and for a moment, Emilia couldn't place it. Her senses, still fogged by the remnants of her dreams, scrambled for clarity.
She pulled her hand away, realizing only then that she had been gripping something with the intensity of hunger. His arm. She had been biting his arm.
Her heart stopped, her breath catching in her throat as she looked at the mark she had left behind. A small but unmistakable indent, a bite, drawing thin lines of blood.
"Oh!" she gasped, frantic, her face flushing with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean—"
Hudson's smile widened, unbothered by the situation. "It's alright," he said, voice low and amused. "You were hungry. I can't fault you for that."
Emilia, still in a daze, couldn't help but notice how much larger he seemed than any man she had known. His presence was overwhelming, like the looming peaks of a mountain—vast, unyielding, yet oddly...comforting.
"This is your room?" she asked, her words shaky as she looked around. The stark black and white design, the sharp, angular lines, screamed of a man who was deliberate in everything he did. It wasn't a room for comfort—it was a room for power.
Hudson laughed softly, as though the question were absurd. "No, my room's next door. But I think I'll keep you here for a while longer."
The way he said it made Emilia's heart race, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears. The very air between them felt charged, like a storm ready to break. She lowered her eyes, instinctively trying to distance herself from the electricity in the room.
But Hudson was already close, too close, his presence swallowing her whole. His hand, surprisingly gentle, tilted her chin up so she had no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Don't be so shy," he said with a smile that seemed to mock her innocence. "You'll get used to me."
She wanted to say something, to argue, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she just blinked, feeling the heat of her cheeks as she realized how powerless she truly was in this strange man's world.
The air in the room was thick with an uneasy stillness, broken only by the faint sound of Emilia's stomach protesting against the emptiness within it. Her head was spinning, a fog of dizziness clouding her senses. She felt like she was adrift on a sea of confusion, her body too weak to fight the hunger gnawing at her insides. And then, like a sudden, cruel reminder of her frailty, the grumbling growl of her stomach echoed in the silence, a sound so loud and insistent that it seemed to fill every corner of the room.
Emilia's face flushed with embarrassment, her limbs moving on instinct as she burrowed deep under the blankets, hoping to hide from the world—and, more importantly, from him. The warmth of the covers pressed against her skin, offering a small comfort, but it was no match for the prickling discomfort that coursed through her veins.
Hudson, standing at the foot of the bed, couldn't help but let out a laugh—rich and deep, as though he found some peculiar delight in her discomfort. The sight of her, this fragile creature, wrapped in blankets like a small, frightened animal, was enough to pull a smile from him. He was struck by a thought—yesterday, she had clung to his leg, begging for food. Had hunger truly driven her to such madness? Was that the cause of her audacity? He found himself inexplicably amused by the thought.
He clapped his hands together in mock seriousness. "You have one minute," he said, his voice filled with an unsettling warmth, "to come out of that bed, or the chicken porridge and milk on the table will be gone before you can even blink."
The words, though spoken with the authority of a man who had known power for as long as he could remember, carried with them an odd tenderness, almost as though he were humoring a child.
The table in the corner of the room was laid out with a feast—a spread of rich, steaming porridge, its surface glistening with the sheen of freshly boiled broth. There was the luxurious bird's nest and red date porridge, a bowl of dried scallop and pork rib porridge, a creamy chicken and ham congee, ginseng and longan porridge, all accompanied by a warm pitcher of fresh milk. The sight alone was enough to make Emilia's stomach growl louder, but the smell—rich and comforting—was the true temptation.
Hudson's face softened just a little, as though the sight of her hiding under the blankets had stirred something unfamiliar in him. He was not the type to show kindness, certainly not to someone like her—but something about her vulnerability, her innocence, seemed to disarm him. He caught himself for a fleeting moment, his usually impassive expression slipping, revealing a side of him even he might have been surprised to see. But his thick beard hid most of the change, and the mask of stern authority quickly fell back into place.
He watched, with something close to affection, as Emilia sat up and slowly, cautiously, began to eat. She took small spoonfuls of scallop porridge, then nibbled on thin slices of Yunnan ham, her delicate hands shaking slightly as she brought the food to her lips. She looked so small, so fragile—like a little bird unsure of its own wings.
Emilia licked her lips with a little pink tongue, tasting the remnants of rice gruel clinging to the corner of her mouth. She turned to him, her eyes wide and curious, and asked, "You don't want to eat?"
Hudson, his fingers entwined in front of him as he leaned back slightly, shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm watching you eat," he said, his voice carrying an undertone of something less stern and more... intrigued.
Her brow furrowed. "You... just watching me eat?"
A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but it was as if he were a wolf content with watching its prey, knowing it was helpless and unaware of the danger. "I don't need to eat," he replied. "Seeing you enjoy it is enough for me."
Her brows knitted in confusion, but before she could say more, she was distracted by the rich, comforting taste of the porridge filling her mouth. The warmth spread through her, soothing her body from the inside out. "It's delicious," she murmured, her voice soft with genuine appreciation. "I haven't had porridge in ages." She paused for a moment, eyeing the ham slices with curiosity. "Your chef… he's not Chinese, is he? How did he get such fine Jinhua ham?"
Hudson's gaze softened, though his tone remained casual. "If I want something, I get it. No matter what it takes."
The words lingered in the air like an unspoken promise, and for a moment, Emilia wondered just how much power he wielded, and how far he was willing to go to get what he wanted.
"You're very impressive," she said, sipping her milk, trying to ignore the slight tremor in her hands. She wasn't sure what kind of man he was, but she couldn't deny the strange pull he had.
Hudson, his gaze flickering just slightly, lowered his lashes as though pondering her words. "I can decide who lives and who dies, who suffers and who thrives." His voice was quiet but heavy, as though the weight of those words had long since lost its meaning to him.
A chill ran down her spine. Was he speaking literally? Was he the devil, or some kind of executioner? Or perhaps a ruler of men? She didn't know, and the thought terrified her, but she couldn't quite turn away. Her mind drifted back to the snow, to when she had clung to his leg in desperation, her body trembling with cold and fear. If he had wanted to, he could have kicked her away, trampled her underfoot, or worse, ended her life in a heartbeat. She shuddered at the thought, a wave of nausea rising in her stomach.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she instinctively pressed a hand to her neck, as though trying to calm the wild, panicked pulse that had suddenly begun racing there.
Hudson watched her, amusement flickering in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, still holding her gaze as though she were the most interesting thing in the world. There was something in the way he looked at her—half curiosity, half predatory—something that made Emilia's heart beat erratically in her chest.
She glanced down, suddenly aware of the way her body felt so small under his intense scrutiny. His eyes were like a sharp knife, cutting through her thoughts, stripping her bare.
But before she could react, her feet were moving on their own, her legs carrying her to the door, away from his burning gaze. "I'm full," she whispered, almost as an afterthought, her voice shaking slightly as she scrambled to leave the room. "I need to rest. Uh… good night."
But just as she turned, she slammed right into him—he was there, standing in her path like a wall of muscle, blocking her escape. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, and a fresh wave of panic surged through her.
His voice was low, commanding, but without a trace of anger. "Lift your head."
Fear gripped her, and she did the only thing she could—she obeyed, slowly lifting her chin to meet his gaze. Her shoulders trembled as she stood before him, a tiny, fragile thing dwarfed by his towering height. She had known he was tall, but now, standing so close, the realization hit her with the force of a thunderclap. He could crush her with a single motion.
He bent down slightly, his face coming dangerously close to hers. Emilia's pulse raced, her breath caught in her throat. Was he going to kiss her? Was that what this was all about?
She could feel the heat of his breath against her skin, the space between them so small, so intimate, it made her dizzy.
But then, before she could even begin to react, he did something she never could have expected. His hand reached up, not to pull her into an embrace, but to gently wipe the milk from the corner of her mouth, a surprisingly tender gesture.
"Open your eyes," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost teasing. "You've got a little something on your lips."
Emilia blinked, her eyes flying open as she realized the truth—he hadn't been planning to kiss her at all. It had all been her imagination, her nerves getting the better of her. The heat that had filled her cheeks flared even brighter with embarrassment, and she turned away quickly, retreating toward her room as fast as her legs would carry her.
She slammed the door behind her, locking it for good measure, and collapsed onto the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She could still hear his laughter echoing through the walls, deep and amused, as though he had just witnessed some grand comedy.
And all she could do was hide beneath the covers, her heart pounding in her chest, mortified by her own foolishness.
The morning light crept through the curtains, casting a pale, golden hue across the room. Emilia stood frozen at the threshold of her door, her heart hammering in her chest like a bird trapped in a cage. She had steeled herself, had whispered silent words of encouragement to summon whatever courage she could find, but now that she was face to face with the prospect of facing him again, her resolve faltered. There he was, standing just a few paces away, his sharp gaze lifting from the newspaper in his hands as if he had been waiting for her to emerge. The moment their eyes met, a shiver ran down her spine, and the instinct to retreat surged through her. Her legs felt weak, her mind clouded, and she almost turned back before he saw the weakness in her.
But before she could even move, he was there, a blur of motion, and in an instant, his hand was gripping her shoulders with an ease that reminded her just how small and fragile she was in comparison. The pressure of his fingers on her skin was cold—his touch was not the warmth she had imagined but the grasp of something far more imposing.
"Scared of me, little girl?" His voice was smooth, but it carried an edge, an unsettling undertone of something darker.
Her breath caught in her throat. "No... no, I'm not," she stammered, her voice small and trembling. How could she be scared of him? He had saved her, taken her in when no one else had. He had given her shelter and food, and yet, the mere presence of him made her feel as if her heart would pound right out of her chest.
She wasn't scared—no, she wasn't afraid. Just... intimidated. His sheer size, his overpowering presence, the way he seemed to command every room he walked into—it made her feel small, insignificant. But she dared not admit that to him, not now, not in this moment.
Hudson's sharp eyes swept over her, and though his smile remained faint, there was a glimmer of something in them—amusement or perhaps something colder, something almost predatory. "Don't lie. I can see it. You're so frightened you can hardly breathe," he said, his voice thick with a quiet but undeniable power.
Emilia flushed, her hands twisting together in a nervous knot at her waist. Was it that obvious? Was she that transparent? The truth was, when he looked at her like that—piercing, intense—her entire body seemed to rebel against her will. Her muscles went slack, and her mind was a tangle of confusion and fear. She had tried, tried so hard to stand tall, to look him in the eye, but it was impossible to maintain the illusion of composure.
Her heart raced, each beat a reminder of how vulnerable she truly was. She opened her mouth to protest, but her words died in her throat, unable to break free from the invisible weight of his gaze.
Hudson didn't press her further, but there was something in the way he looked at her—like a predator watching a rabbit caught in a snare. His expression softened just slightly, but the tension in the air remained thick, palpable. "What do you usually eat for breakfast?" His question was simple, casual, but beneath it, she sensed the sharpness of his scrutiny.
She hesitated. Breakfast. She hadn't really thought about it. He lived on black coffee, from what she had seen, but she had no such habits, no such consistency. "Anything," she said quickly, her voice more meek than she intended. She wished she could sound confident, but all she felt was the overwhelming sense of her own inadequacy.
Hudson's eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before it was quickly masked. He swept his gaze over her once more, as though he were taking stock of something far beyond her words. His expression grew harder, colder, and for a moment, Emilia wondered if she had said something wrong. Had she? She hadn't meant to disappoint him, hadn't meant to show how lost she truly felt. But the subtle shift in his demeanor made her wonder if he was angry, if her lack of preference, her indifference to food, made her appear weak, submissive—like a servant rather than a guest.
Her stomach clenched as she stood under his watchful eye. She couldn't bring herself to look up at him, not now.
He didn't scold her, but his voice, when it came, was sharp and direct. "Did you sleep well last night?"
Emilia's heart dropped into her stomach. She knew what he meant. She had hardly slept a wink, her mind a swirling mess of thoughts, replaying over and over the absurdity of her own actions. How foolish she had been, thinking he might kiss her, imagining things that weren't there. But she couldn't admit that. Not to him. Not when she had already made such a fool of herself the day before.
"It was... fine," she said, her voice quiet, but she couldn't hide the exhaustion in her eyes. "The bed was comfortable. The mattress was like silk." She forced herself to speak, to make it sound convincing, but the weight of her sleeplessness hung on her like a cloak.
Hudson's eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, his expression seemed to soften, though not by much. "You didn't sleep well," he corrected, his tone brokering no argument. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned her face. "Your eyes are red. You look like a little rabbit caught in the headlights."
Emilia's heart sank. She had tried to mask the signs, but he had seen through her. She didn't know how he did it, but Hudson seemed to know everything. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, her nerves jangling as she stood before him, helpless and exposed.
"Go wash up," he said abruptly, his voice carrying the same detached command he had used earlier. "You look like a little kitten. Go clean yourself up."
She opened her mouth to protest, but the words caught in her throat. She had no other choice but to comply. "I... I don't have anything to wear," she mumbled, feeling her face flush even deeper with embarrassment.
Hudson didn't flinch. "There's clothing in the wardrobe," he said, dismissing her excuse with a wave of his hand. "My shirts and robes. They'll do."
It wasn't an offer; it was a directive, a simple instruction that left no room for debate. She nodded meekly, not daring to argue, and without another word, she turned toward the door. Her movements were quick, almost too quick, as though she feared he might change his mind, might call her back, might remind her of just how insignificant she was.
As she hurried to her room, she couldn't help but feel the weight of his presence pressing down on her, the sharp, commanding force of his gaze following her every step. She couldn't escape it, not now, not with him watching her every move.
The door clicked shut behind her with a finality that made her chest tighten. She had no choice but to obey, to do what he told her, even if it made her feel like a child once more—small, insignificant, and utterly at his mercy.