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.

Third Person’s POV

The memory of that night still burned in Samantha’s chest like a live wire. Ashford’s hand had hovered near Bella’s, brushing against hers in a gesture no one else would dare. The moment lingered, unfinished, and the subtle heat of it remained etched in the memory—he hadn’t kissed her back, not in the way she would have wanted. Not fully.

Samantha crouched behind the silver-leaved willow, invisible in the shadows, eyes narrowed as she watched Bella slip into the waiting car with that infuriatingly satisfied smirk. Ashford lingered behind for a moment, alone and silent, until Beta Cyrus stepped out from between the trees, his tall frame tense, the crisp scent of anger practically rolling off him.

“You’re telling me,” Cyrus said, voice low and sharp, “that you let her do that… and didn’t even respond? Didn’t push back?”

Ashford’s tone was impossibly calm, deliberate. “It’s exactly what she wanted.”

“She’s not your partner,” Cyrus shot back, jaw tight, eyes flashing. “Think about what you’re doing! You’re the head of Silvana Enterprises, Ashford. She doesn’t even belong in your world. None of this is real.”

“I don’t need her to belong,” Ashford said, tilting his gaze upward toward the night sky, his voice quiet, almost detached. “She wanted it this way. I gave it to her.”

Cyrus ran a hand down his face, pacing. “You’d give her the world if she asked for it,” he muttered under his breath.

Ashford didn’t argue.

Samantha turned silently, refusing to hear another word. Her chest ached—not from what had been said, but from the betrayal she felt coiling like acid in her veins. Watching Ashford bend to Bella’s whims hollowed something out inside her, reopening old scars she thought she’d healed.

She didn’t follow them. Not that night. She returned to her penthouse and stayed silent, letting the city’s noise wash over her without touching the raw emptiness inside.

Meanwhile, within hours, Ashford had driven Bella back to her own estate, the city lights reflecting off the blacked-out windows of his sleek car.

Later, the wind shifted, carrying the scent of blood, leather, and power through the outskirts of Montclair territory. Ashford had left alone, navigating the back roads with a singular purpose: retrieve the Red Lotus Moonstone—a rare, priceless gem locked away in a high-security vault, rumored to hold centuries of corporate secrets and family legacy. Bella wanted it. And Ashford obeyed.

It wasn’t a surprise. She had told him, offhandedly, in the exhibit hall earlier, what she expected from the man she would allow herself to consider her equal.

Cyrus had argued, of course. “You can’t just steal that. It’s part of Silvana’s legacy. Do you want to risk the entire enterprise for some fantasy of hers?”

“I’ll get it,” Ashford said, jaw tight, eyes narrowing. “Even if it costs me everything.”

“That moonstone isn’t a toy!” Cyrus snapped, pacing the rooftop like he could will sense into Ashford’s choices. “Even if she’s… important, this vault was sealed for a reason. Generations of blood went into keeping it safe. Every misstep could destroy your reputation, or worse.”

Ashford didn’t waver.

“They’ve set layers of security—laser grids, biometric locks, alarms. One wrong move and you could be trapped. You might not make it back.”

“I will,” Ashford murmured, voice low but unyielding. “Because she wants it. And I will risk everything for her.”

He did.

By the time he returned, hands cut and bleeding from shards of glass and jagged edges, every suit and tie in Silvana’s boardroom whispered about it. He had endured pain, physical and mental, and he had done it all because Bella had wanted it.

...

Samantha’s POV

That evening, I opened the front door to the sharp tang of leather and ozone.

Ashford was there, standing like a storm dragged through a battlefield—shirt torn, suit scuffed, a thin sheen of blood crusting his temple, his expensive leather shoes scuffed with mud. No flowers this time. He’d already sent them ahead to Bella, probably with one of his aides. Naturally.

“There was… an incident,” he said quietly, eyes avoiding mine, voice low but steady.

I tilted my head, calm. “I understand.”

He nodded once, stiffly, the kind of nod that held more tension than it let on. “I’ll be away… a few days. Maybe a week. I… need time to recover.”

“Of course,” I replied softly. “Take all the time you need.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, searching mine as if trying to read something deeper. “You’re not going to ask more?”

A faint, controlled smile played across my lips. “No need. I’ll manage perfectly fine on my own.”

He looked momentarily puzzled. Good. He had no idea what I was really saying—that this was goodbye. He simply inclined his head again and walked off toward his quarters, probably to collapse into some carefully maintained heap of bruised ego.

The following morning, the skies were impossibly still. Too clear. Unnatural.

I sat with my closest friends in a secluded room at the exclusive Skyview Club. It was meant to be a farewell gathering, though only I knew that. Laughter filled the space—bright, sharp—but it cut deeper than any wound.

“To Mr. Donavich!” someone toasted, glass raised high. “May his union with Samantha be everything he deserves!”

Lindsay rolled her eyes, voice low. “Honestly, Becca, if he ever wakes up and realizes who he’s tied to, he might faint all over again.”

I forced a hollow smile. Too many things felt unreal—maybe too many felt painfully real.

Leaning closer, Lindsay whispered, voice tight with frustration. “This isn’t fair. Bella? After all she’s done? And your father… he’s treating you like a pawn in some game only he’s playing.”

“It won’t matter for long,” I murmured.

Her face softened, worry lingering. “We’ll still see you, right?”

I raised my glass, keeping my expression casual. “Of course, silly.”

But we both knew that was a lie.

Later, I returned to the Montclair estate, determined to speak with my father—no, Mr. Donavich—one final time. My heels clicked against the marble floors, a hollow rhythm echoing in a house that never truly felt like home, only a gallery of fading memories.

Before reaching his study, Bella’s voice floated from a side room, tipsy laughter carrying over the polished floors.

“…He actually let me take control! Can you believe it?” she slurred, the arrogance thick in her tone. “I own him now. Like some spoiled little pet.”

Laughter followed.

“He must be in love,” someone whispered, eyes wide.

Bella scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please. He’s just convenient. He does what I want, when I want it. If I call, he comes. If not, he stays out of the way.”

A pause. Then her voice, venomous with amusement. “And you’re still planning to marry that sleeping man?”

She laughed again, bold and shameless. “No! If I had the choice, I’d marry the head of Silvana instead. He’s wealthier, more powerful, and infinitely easier to control. Can you believe he even gave me the Red Lotus Moonstone?”

I blinked slowly, a bitter, dry smirk tugging at my lips. She had no idea that the man she lusted after and Ashford were one and the same. My loyal, stupid, bleeding Ashford—completely oblivious to being treated like a plaything, a secondary option, a pawn.

I turned sharply, abandoning both my father and that cursed house. I didn’t need to hear more. I sought the only place where silence could soothe the raw edges of my heart: the graveyard.

My mother’s stone glistened under the moonlight, silver casting shadows over the etched letters. I knelt, placing a single white rose at the base.

“I won’t be like you,” I whispered, voice trembling with resolve. “You waited your whole life for love that never came. I’ll survive… even if I have to do it without it.”

At dawn, a message arrived. A gold deposit—massive, half of the Montclair treasury. Payment for my silence, my farewell, my hand in a marriage no one expected me to endure.

I accepted.

Then, with deliberate finality, I severed every last tie to the Montclair legacy—my father, Ashford, Bella. Gone.

The next morning, as I packed the final boxes, I handed Ashford one last parcel.

“Give this to Bella,” I said simply.

He stared, confused, as though the box might explode. “What’s in it?”

“My old art supplies,” I replied, voice icy. “She wants to be me so badly. Let her have the scraps.”

He didn’t know yet, but I’d already signed the papers to reassign him as her personal aide. Let her have him. He was never truly mine.

“And you?” he asked, holding the box like it weighed more than gold.

“I’ll manage,” I said with a faint, almost cruel smile. “Packing up isn’t difficult.”

It meant nothing, but it was my final demand.

Ashford’s brow furrowed, smeared with dried blood. “Where are you moving? Give me the address so I can—after giving this to Bella—follow you.”

I gave him a steady, unreadable look. “I’ll let you know… eventually.”

There was no eventually.

He lingered, searching my face for an explanation I would never give. I offered none. Once he walked away, I snapped my SIM card in half and tossed it from the moving car window. The wind carried it far into the trees.

By the time he returned… I was already gone.