Chapter 414 Ms. Natasha
"Ms. Natasha, Mr. Borgia is here." A young man in a black suit materialized silently outside the gazebo, his features sharp and impassive.
Emily didn't look up. The garden shears in her hand went snip, severing an errant leaf. The black petals trembled at her fingertips like congealed blood.
"Send him in." Her voice was soft, carrying an odd raspy quality—nothing like the clear, bright tone of three years ago.
The young man bowed and withdrew. Moments later, a middle-aged man in a charcoal robe approached with unhurried steps. He appeared to be in his early fifties, with refined features, gentle eyes, and the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His bearing radiated quiet authority.
This was Sebastian Borgia, master of the estate—and the man who had snatched Emily from death's grasp at the crash site.
"Tending your flowers again?" Sebastian stopped at the edge of the gazebo, surveying the breathtaking blooms. Something complex flickered deep in his eyes.
The garden was beautiful. Devastatingly so.
But only a select few knew what lay buried beneath that rich soil.
This was a graveyard.
Over the past three years, assassins who'd infiltrated the grounds, hitmen sent by the Rivera family or rival factions, enemies defeated in shadow wars and corporate battles—they all ended up here.
Their flesh and blood had become fertilizer for these gorgeous blooms.
Emily straightened, setting her shears on the nearby table. She picked up a pristine silk cloth and wiped her fingers with deliberate care, her movements elegant and unhurried—as though she'd been performing some sacred ritual rather than pruning plants.
"The fertilizer quality is excellent this year. The blooms are better than last season." Her tone was as casual as discussing the weather.
Sebastian moved closer, studying the black tulip. He nodded. "Indeed. This 'Night Queen' especially—the color's deepened since I last saw it."
He paused, his voice softening. "Natasha, you're looking better lately."
Emily didn't respond. She folded the cloth neatly and returned it to the table, then walked to the gazebo's edge, gazing at the distant rolling hills and the faint line of ocean beyond.
Three years.
Three years since that blood-soaked twilight changed everything.
Over a thousand days and nights, each second saturated with hatred, agony, and blood.
She remembered her father's final look, remembered the shocking pool of crimson beneath Kate's body, remembered flames devouring everything, remembered waking to searing pain and that suffocating emptiness in her womb.
The baby was gone.
That tiny life—the one fragile comfort during her darkest hour—had never gotten to see the world. Gone, extinguished in the crash.
Did she hate?
Of course she hated.
She hated the Rivera family's cruelty. She hated the naive, helpless version of herself who could only be slaughtered.
So when Sebastian saved her and asked if she wanted to live differently, she'd agreed without hesitation.
Sebastian—her mother Scarlett's first love, a mysterious and formidable man. He'd built an empire overseas, his influence threading through both the underworld and legitimate corridors of power. At first, perhaps he'd saved her out of lingering affection for Scarlett. But eventually, he truly began raising her as his own daughter.
These past three years, she'd endured training most people couldn't imagine. Combat, firearms, assassination, intelligence analysis, corporate maneuvering, psychological warfare—Sebastian had taught her everything. She'd learned fast. Frighteningly fast, even to elite military instructors.
She was no longer the Emily who needed protection.
She'd become Natasha, the Borgia Group's sharpest blade—the "Black Tulip" that struck terror into enemies' hearts.
She'd personally dealt with traitors, designed traps that drove competitors to bankruptcy and suicide, slipped into heavily guarded mansions at midnight to ensure targets never woke.
Her hands had long been stained with blood.
Her heart had gradually hardened to steel.
Sebastian's voice pulled her from memory. "Natasha, there's something I'd like to discuss with you."
Emily turned. "Yes, Father?"
Sebastian considered his words carefully. "Do you want to see... Jasper, Ethan, and Emma?"
Three names. Three needles driving into her frozen heart without warning.
Her body went rigid—almost imperceptibly. The dead calm in her eyes finally rippled.
The children.
Her three children.
Jasper, the precocious eldest who acted like a little adult. Ethan, the cheerful second son who'd always clung to her. Emma, the sweet daughter with the warmest hugs.
Three years.
She didn't dare think of them.
Every time she did, her heart felt crushed by an invisible fist, the pain stealing her breath. She feared she'd shatter, that she'd run back recklessly, destroying all of Sebastian's carefully laid plans, putting them in danger all over again.
The Rivera family still stood. Enemies remained. The vengeance she carried hadn't been satisfied. What right did a "dead woman" have to disrupt her children's peaceful lives?
"I... don't." Emily's voice came out hoarse.
Sebastian studied her, his penetrating gaze seeming to pierce through every layer of armor. "You're sure? I've received word that Charles is protecting them well, but they... miss their mother terribly. Emma especially. She wakes crying at night, calling for you."
Emily's nails bit into her palms, the pain keeping her grounded. She turned toward the swaying flowers, as if drawing strength from their sinister beauty.
"Missing them changes nothing. What could I do if I went back? In what capacity? As a ghost? A blood-soaked avenger? Or... a failed mother who couldn't even protect her own child?"
She met Sebastian's eyes directly, her dark gaze burning with cold fire. "Father, you taught me that emotion is weakness, that attachments are burdens. I'm still not strong enough to eliminate all threats. If I appeared in Thalassia, if I went to the children, I'd only become a target—drawing danger straight to them. What happened to Father and Kate can never happen again."
Sebastian watched her in silence, a flicker of sympathy in his eyes—but mostly, approval.
Three years of tempering had truly transformed her. The girl who'd once crumbled over heartbreak was dead. What remained was a warrior—calculated, rational, focused, and patient.