Samantha’s POV

I pushed the door open and froze, staring at him in shock. My chest tightened, pulse hammering like a drum, as I took in the scene. He held a photograph of Bella in one hand, as if it were a priceless artifact. His other hand… my stomach turned.

Gods.

There was no attempt to hide himself. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. His movements were smooth, controlled, as though what he was doing required no shame, no secrecy. He slipped the photo behind his back, straightened, and turned to me with that same unreadable, professional expression he always wore.

As if I hadn’t just caught him lost in fantasies of her.

My first instinct was fury, the kind that would make me tear him apart where he stood. But I didn’t. I smiled instead—sharp, icy, and venom-laced.

“Do you want some help with that?” I asked sweetly, my voice a poisoned melody.

His eyes didn’t waver. No guilt. No fear. Nothing. “No, thank you, Miss Montclair. This is… personal.”

Of course. Personal.

He still called me “Miss Montclair,” as if we hadn’t shared a home, as if I hadn’t trusted him with everything—my heart, my secrets, my ambitions. And yet, the moment Bella appeared, with her perfume of sugar and charm, he had forgotten all of it.

I turned sharply and walked away, every step radiating the anger I’d bottled for years. I had grown tired of seeking approval. Tired of waiting to be chosen.

Let Bella play the innocent ingénue. I would be the storm beneath the calm.

---

The next evening, I saw him waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase. Black tailored suit, silver cufflinks catching the light, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

For the first time in years, I walked past him without a word. He betrayed a twitch of surprise—but I noticed. I always notice.

The car ride was suffocatingly silent. The city lights streaked past, but all I could feel was the fury coiling inside me. I remained statuesque, perfectly composed, outwardly unshaken.

Tonight, I wasn’t just Samantha Montclair, heiress to the Montclair fortune—I was the future Mrs. Nathaniel Sterling. Even if he remained in that coma, I would carry myself like his equal, like the woman who would command his name in society.

The Limited Edition Fashion Gala awaited, and I arrived with purpose. Eyes turned the moment I entered the room, whispers chasing me as if I were a storm passing through their delicate world. And then, of course… she arrived.

Bella. Draped in a gown that made the moon jealous, crimson lips curved in a perfect, poisonous smile. Her eyes glimmered with that practiced sweetness, lashes fluttering, voice sugar-coated. “Sister,” she purred.

I let a frigid smile cut through the air. “Don’t.”

Ashford, just behind me, stiffened. The corner of his mouth twitched when she caught his gaze. Always her. Always.

And then I noticed the gown. Midnight blue fading into silver at the hem like liquid starlight, bodice encrusted with tiny crystals, neckline delicate but daring. Every seam whispered perfection.

I had come here to find the dress that would mark my entrance into the Sterling world, to announce myself as his future partner. Every detail mattered. The Sterling family might be centuries-old, their traditions rigid, but I would walk into their halls as their equal.

And I found it.

“I’ll take it,” I told the designer firmly.

Her smile was indulgent. “It’s a one-of-a-kind piece. Many have tried—gold, diamonds, even blood-oaths offered.”

“I’ll pay double,” I said, unflinching.

Then came Bella’s voice. Sweet, mocking, deliberate. “Oh, I like this one too,” she said, brushing a sleeve with perfect grace.

I squared my shoulders. “I already claimed it.”

Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes sharpened. “I’m sure a designer like this wouldn’t mind a little competition.”

Before I could respond, a tall man stepped forward—charcoal suit, commanding aura, every inch the type of power that required no announcement. He glanced at Ashford briefly before speaking.

“I’ll take the dress,” he said. “Name your price.”

The designer blinked. “And you are…?”

“Julian,” he said smoothly. “Representing the Silvana Corporation. Our principal has instructed that anything Miss Bella Montclair desires tonight shall be hers, at any cost.”

Gasps ran through the room.

“The Silvana Corporation?”

“Why her?”

“Wait… their CEO is taking a personal interest in Bella Montclair?”

Bella blinked, feigning innocence. “I’ve never met him,” she said sweetly.

Her voice dripped with mockery as she looked at me. “Still want to fight for this, sister? Wouldn’t want you to bankrupt yourself.”

My fists clenched.

Ashford didn’t look at me once. His gaze was glued to her, unwavering, devoted.

The evening continued as a parade of excess. Dresses, jewelry, sparkling rings that could rival the stars. Each time, Julian was there, ready to buy it all for her.

Finally, I confronted him. “Does your boss plan to leave anything for the rest of us?”

He shot Ashford a quick look. “The principal only cares that Miss Bella is satisfied. The rest… inconsequential.”

It was a wound that burned deeper than it should.

Ashford smiled at her, eyes soft, reverent, worshipful. And I reminded myself not to break, not to show what this betrayal did to me.

By the night’s end, Bella was surrounded by stylists, elite socialites, and flashing cameras. And me? I slipped out unnoticed, vanishing into the quiet anonymity of the city.

I slid into the car. “Bloodmoon Club. Now.” I needed heat, noise, anything to make me feel alive again.

Before we moved, Bella flung open the passenger door and jumped in beside me. “Sister, come on! Let’s go together!”

I clenched my teeth, ready to shove her out. Ashford’s hand stayed me.

“Drive,” he ordered, calm as ever.

Bella babbled the whole way. “Isn’t it crazy? The Silvana CEO is so generous to me! They say he’s the most handsome man in the city!”

Ashford chuckled. “Because he likes you,” he admitted. “You’re… special.”

Then she asked the question that made my blood boil.

“Do you like me too, Ashford?”

I didn’t let him answer. “If you two want to flirt, leave. This is my car.”

Bella pouted, soft and false. “Sorry…”

I stared out the window. In the reflection, I saw him. Warmth for her. Cold, disdainful emptiness for me.

And I realized, bitterly: this is what men love—sweet smiles, soft voices, practiced fragility.

Not someone like me.

Samantha’s POV

The Bloodmoon Club throbbed like a living thing—bass reverberating through bone, heat clinging to skin, sweat and perfume tangled thick in the air. The lights bled red and silver across moving bodies, and every breath I took felt heavier than the last. Whiskey burned down my throat, but it didn’t even come close to dulling the ache tearing through my chest.

The room spun. Music roared. Laughter echoed.

And yet all I could see was them.

In the elevated VIP lounge, framed by velvet seating and glass railings, Ashford stood beside Bella like he belonged there—like he had always belonged at her side. She leaned close, whispering something meant only for him, her manicured fingers brushing his jaw as if she had every right to touch him.

And he reacted.

Just slightly—but enough.

His jaw tightened. His posture shifted. Color crept faintly across his cheekbones.

A blush.

Something inside me cracked.

My fingers curled around the glass until I felt it give, a sharp fissure running through the crystal. Whiskey sloshed over my hand, but I didn’t care. I tipped it back and swallowed what remained, then shoved my way toward the dance floor, letting the noise swallow me whole.

The red dress I wore clung to my body like a challenge—bold, unforgiving, unmistakable. It wasn’t meant to invite softness. It dared people to test me.

And they did.

Three men—young, wealthy, reckless—closed in too quickly. One of them laughed too loudly. Another stepped far too close. A hand slid along my waist, slow and entitled.

“Touch me again,” I said flatly, “and you’ll regret it.”

They laughed.

One leaned closer.

I snapped.

“Ashford!” I shouted, sharp and furious.

The response was immediate.

The crowd shifted instinctively, bodies pulling back as Ashford cut through them with purpose. He didn’t run—but his presence was enough. The men paled, stumbling backward, muttering apologies as they scattered.

I turned on him, anger blazing.

“Wow,” I sneered. “I didn’t think you’d notice. You seemed preoccupied.”

His gaze darkened. “I didn’t see them—”

“No,” I interrupted, stepping into his space. “You didn’t want to. You were watching her.”

His jaw tightened. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

I laughed—a bitter, broken sound. “Good. At least then I won’t remember how invisible you make me feel.”

Before he could respond, a scream sliced through the music.

Everything exploded into chaos.

Glass shattered. Someone fell. Panic tore through the club like wildfire. People screamed, shoved, scrambled. Security rushed in, but it was too late—masked intruders were already inside, moving fast, violent, coordinated.

I turned sharply—

And saw Ashford.

He was already moving.

Not toward me.

Toward her.

He slammed into one of the attackers, dragging Bella behind him, shielding her with his body. Again.

My chest constricted.

I barely had time to react before someone was in front of me—a man moving too fast, eyes wild, blade flashing. I fought back instinctively, striking, clawing, desperate. I managed to land a hit, but it wasn’t enough.

Pain tore through my shoulder.

White‑hot. Explosive.

I screamed as something burned through my veins, fire spreading fast, brutal, merciless. The man pulled away just as suddenly, disappearing into the chaos.

My legs gave out.

The club had become a battlefield—blood streaking marble floors, people screaming, security shouting orders. Through the haze, I saw Ashford again—still beside Bella, fighting anyone who came close to her.

Something surged inside me.

Not strength.

Something else.

And then everything went black.

---

I woke to sterile light and the faint hum of machines.

The smell of antiseptic filled my nose. My shoulder throbbed viciously, wrapped tight in bandages, every movement sending pain ricocheting through my body.

I blinked.

I was awake.

That didn’t make sense.

The attack—whatever they used—it was meant to put people under. Permanent. That same method had left Nathaniel Sterling unconscious for years.

So why was I still here?

Before I could sit up, voices reached me—muffled, emotional. I turned my head slowly toward the glass wall separating my room from the corridor.

And there they were.

Bella, crying into Ashford’s chest.

He held her carefully, one hand smoothing her hair, his voice low and gentle.

“I shouldn’t have gone,” she sobbed. “If I hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have been hurt.”

“No,” he murmured. “You didn’t know. I failed both of you.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes shimmering. “Then why did you protect me first?”

His voice broke. “Because I—”

I grabbed the vase beside my bed and hurled it.

It shattered loudly against the floor.

Both of them froze.

Bella rushed into the room, eyes wide. “Samantha! You’re awake—thank God! I was so scared—”

“Leave,” I said coldly. “Your presence is doing me no favors.”

Her face crumpled. She fled in tears.

Ashford stayed.

“I didn’t have a choice—” he began.

“You always do,” I snapped. “And you always choose her.”

---

The day I was discharged, I went straight to the study.

Pain still lingered in my shoulder. Rage burned hotter.

Ashford stood when I entered.

“Kneel,” I said.

He stiffened—but complied.

“You broke your oath,” I said evenly. “You know the consequences.”

He swallowed. “I accept them.”

I laughed bitterly. “You’d rather lose your dignity than walk away from her.”

“If that’s the price,” he muttered.

I lifted my hand—

The door burst open.

“Stop!” Bella cried, throwing herself between us. “Punish me instead!”

“Move,” I warned.

She didn’t.

Something inside me snapped.

I struck.

Blood sprayed.

She screamed.

Ashford caught her instantly, fury blazing in his eyes as he looked at me—not with guilt. Not regret.

With hatred.

Then he carried her out.

The door slammed shut.

And I stood alone, hands shaking, heart torn open—realizing that no wound I carried would ever hurt as much as this.

Samantha’s POV

Three days had passed.

Three long, suffocating days since Bella had stepped into the punishment that should have belonged to Ashford—punishment I had delivered with my own hands. Somehow, impossibly, she had taken his place. And since then, nothing felt right.

The injury to my shoulder—the one left by that attacker at the club—had healed far too quickly. Not normally. Not naturally. The bruising faded in hours. The torn flesh sealed itself overnight. Doctors called it “remarkable recovery.” I called it wrong.

I told no one.

Not my father. Not the doctors. Not the people who pretended to care. Something inside me felt displaced, like I was wearing a body that no longer belonged entirely to me. I felt detached from my own reflection, disconnected from pain, from fear—yet constantly on edge.

So I drove.

Not to the hospital. Not home.

I drove to the Moon Monastery.

The road was quiet, the sky heavy with gray clouds that pressed low against the horizon. Cold seeped through the air as I parked just outside the towering stone walls surrounding the old compound. Its spires pierced the sky like silent sentinels, ancient and foreboding.

As I stepped out, gravel crunching beneath my boots, a strange smell lingered—herbs, pine resin, and something darker. Rot. Old decay.

“Girl.”

The voice rasped behind me.

I spun.

An elderly woman stood near the gate, wrapped in a long ash‑colored cloak. Her face was partially hidden, but her eyes were sharp—too sharp. Her presence unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain.

“Be careful,” she whispered, gripping my wrist. Her fingers were freezing. “You were noticed. Once something tastes you, it doesn’t let go.”

“What are you talking about?” I snapped, yanking free.

“You shine,” she murmured, gaze unfocused. “And shadows hunger for light. They know you now.”

Before I could demand answers, she turned and vanished into the trees.

Uneasy, irritated, I shook it off and climbed the monastery steps.

I never reached the door.

Something struck the back of my head.

Darkness swallowed everything.

---

Pain dragged me back to consciousness.

Rough rope bit into my wrists. My arms were numb, my skin raw. A blindfold pressed against my eyes, amplifying every sound, every smell—blood, sweat, metal, and something feral.

Blows landed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each strike burned, stripping away more than skin. It was humiliation. Control. Punishment meant to break me.

“You shouldn’t have touched her,” a man’s voice said coldly. “She’s protected.”

I spat blood. “Who sent you?”

No answer.

He made a call instead.

“She’s finished,” he said into the phone.

A familiar voice responded.

“Leave her.”

Ashford.

I knew it instantly.

The man who was sworn to protect me. The man who had vowed loyalty. He had ordered this.

When they dumped me by the roadside, I barely had strength left. Blood soaked my clothes. My vision blurred. Somehow, I crawled, flagged down a taxi, snarling at the driver until he drove.

At the hospital, antiseptic filled the air.

I overheard whispers.

“The man who brought the other girl—so attentive.”

“He didn’t leave her side.”

“And the one in this room? Looks like she was attacked.”

That was when I ripped the IV from my arm.

I found them in the hallway.

Ashford holding Bella’s hand. Kissing her forehead. Speaking softly.

I turned away before they noticed me.

That night, Ashford came to see me. He stood silently, eyes heavy. I said nothing.

Then my phone rang.

My father.

“You’ll attend tonight’s banquet,” he ordered. “Bella’s exhibition. Everyone important will be there.”

“No.”

“You will.”

Ashford leaned closer. “Just go. For me.”

For her.

I went anyway.

The Luna Gallery shimmered with light. Bella stood at the center, adored. I stayed in the shadows, wearing crimson—the color I used to paint in.

She spoke.

“It’s unfortunate Nathaniel Sterling won’t wake,” she said delicately. “But I need a stronger man.”

Behind her hung paintings.

Mine.

Every brushstroke. Every color.

She’d stolen them.

I staggered outside.

She followed.

Mocked my mother.

Then staged a scene.

Ashford arrived.

Chose her.

I threw wine in her face.

Later, I followed them.

To the butterfly garden.

Through glass, I watched her claim him.

And Ashford let her.

“I’m yours,” he said.

And something inside me finally shattered.