Two weeks before I was meant to become the bride of a stranger, I agreed to marry a dying man.

Not for love. Not for mercy.

But because Alina and Creed, my private bodyguard and lover were fucking behind my back—and I don't believe in forgiveness. Only strategy.

Alina, the illegitimate daughter my father paraded around like a prized lamb, was supposed to marry the Colombo heir, Zacharias Colombo. It was her crown, her alliance, her throne. Until the car went under, until he fell into a coma—and she ran like a coward. Said she wouldn’t “tie herself to a corpse.”

She abandoned the empire like it was a bad purse. And my father—spineless, shivering behind his legacy—begged me to take her place. I said no. Laughed. Poured wine and let it spill like venom across his desk. Again and again. Until I realized something:

If I want to burn them, I need the match.

If I want revenge, I need power.

And the Colombos? They’re bleeding.

So I said yes.

I’ll marry the breathing carcass she left behind. I’ll wear her dress. I’ll take her throne. And when I’m done building my empire, I’ll ruin her.

Let Alina watch me wear the crown she threw away—and choke on every jewel.

“I’ve made my decision now. I’ll marry the comatose heir of the Colombo family.”

Father looked up. The cigar fell from his mouth like a man overboard.

“You’ll what?” His voice was soft. Soft like the moment before a noose tightens.

“You heard me,” I replied, stepping into the room. Each click of my heels on marble was a warning shot. “The Colombo boy. The one with a heartbeat and nothing else. The one who drools in his hospital bed while his family scrambles to keep their empire intact. That one.”

Father’s eyes narrowed. Then, unbelievably, his lips curled into something resembling pride.

“Scarlett, sweetheart, this is… unexpected. The Colombos have been circling like vultures, and the wedding’s in two weeks. I’ll have Madison bring in designers from Milan. Black, right? Something dramatic?”

“That’s it?” I tilted my head. “I’m sacrificing myself to marry a man in a coma—a man who was Alina’s fiancé to begin with. She was the one who was supposed to walk down that aisle. But the moment things got hard, that unhinged, gold-digging coward ran. And now I’m the one saving your criminal empire. No bonus? No thank you? Not even a damn crown?”

His jaw locked. The air grew heavy—thick with unspoken threats and old, rotting truths.

“Watch your mouth,” he growled. “She’s your sister.”

“No,” I snapped, my voice like frostbite. “A sister is someone born of the same woman. That girl is the stain on Mom’s coffin.”

His face twitched—just a flicker of guilt, gone before it could bloom.

We never spoke of it. Not really. But we both knew the truth. My mother didn’t die of illness. She died of heartbreak—watching the man she loved parade his mistress through our home, then force us to play happy family with the bastard child who came after.

Alina.

The daughter he loved more than me. The one who got the smiles, the attention, the mercy. While I got trained like a soldier and starved for affection.

I was born with fire in my lungs. She was born with his hand around her shoulder.

And somehow, I was the one who kept bleeding for this family.

“What do you want?” he asked finally.

“One hundred million wired to my account after the wedding. And I want Vincent Creed reassigned—to her.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Creed? Your personal guard?”

I shrugged. “People change. I don’t want him anymore.”

He didn’t believe me—not fully. But he didn’t press. After a moment, he nodded. “Fine. The money transfers when the marriage is legal. Creed goes with her. Done.”

I turned to leave, but his voice caught me like a hook in the ribs.

“Scarlett…” he said, quieter now, almost human. “Creed was the only man you ever cared about. You sure about this?”

I rested my hand on the door handle. My chest tightened. Just for a breath. Then I exhaled the ache and steeled myself.

“He made his choice,” I said. “Now I’m making mine.”

I don’t want Creed anymore.

Not after I found him with her—with Alina—naked and breathless on my sheets, in my room, where I used to dream about a life that could’ve been ours. The man I trusted, the one who used to trace the scars on my back and kiss every one like a vow, now tangled in the arms of the girl who destroyed everything she touched.

He was never just a guard to me. He was mine—in secret, in stolen nights, in the hidden corners of a world that would never let us be together. For a year, we existed like a whisper between wars. He knew my real laugh, not the one I weaponized. He knew how I liked my coffee. He knew how to hold me when my father’s coldness cracked me open. And I let him see me—every broken, bruised, vicious part.

I loved him in a way that made me feel human. Whole. Safe.

And then Alina came back from Europe.

She waltzed into the estate with her designer bags, sun-kissed skin, and that glittering little smirk that always meant ruin. Everything shifted after that. Creed grew distant. Guarded. He started taking shifts he never used to take—ones that meant he was near her. And I—I made excuses. For him. For her. For the silence that grew like mold between us.

Until the day I came home early.

Until I opened my bedroom door and saw the man I loved inside her.

No one could scream that kind of betrayal. It sinks too deep. It guts too clean. I stood frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on the bed, on the betrayal, on his back as it curved toward her like instinct. I didn’t cry until later—when they were gone and the room still stank of them.

That night, I fell apart. Not like a girl. Like a weapon dropped too hard on stone.

I screamed into my pillows, sobbed until my lungs turned inside out. Because I didn’t just lose him. I lost the one good thing I thought I had. The one man who looked at me like I wasn’t just another soldier in my father’s war.

But the numbness came. Slowly. Like winter crawling under a door. And when it settled, it made things clear.

Alina always took what was mine. Always.

Friends. Dresses. Teachers’ praise. Father’s approval. Even the final thread of sanity holding my mother’s soul together. She watched our mother spiral into grief after becoming the “other woman” in her own home, and she never once looked guilty. She was the golden child, the chosen one, the girl everyone loved because she played soft and sweet while I burned too bright.

And now, Creed.

Even he wasn’t strong enough to resist her gravity.

The Royce villa was a tomb when I returned—grand, hollow, and heavy with ghosts. Not the dead kind. The kind that still breathed, still touched, still lied.

I climbed the stairs, the velvet runner swallowing the sound of my heels. Everything looked the same. Polished. Perfect. Except me.

As I passed his door—Creed’s door—I heard it. A breath. A moan. A name.

Alina.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve let the moment rot untouched. But I didn’t.

The door was ajar. I looked.

Creed sat on the edge of the bed, shirt undone, sweat on his skin, tattoos stretched across his chest like sin. One hand clutched a photograph. The other moved between his thighs, slow and desperate.

“Alina… goddamn, baby… so fucking tight…”

It gutted me. The picture in his hand was hers.

I’d been fucking him in this very house. In my bed. In the dark hours when his job was supposed to be guarding me. I remembered how he touched me—like he was starving. How he moaned my name like a man drowning in need.

But now?

Now it was her name he choked out in pleasure. Her name he poured himself into. Like I had never been anything but a placeholder.

My mouth was dry. My pulse ice.

Then his burner buzzed.

He answered without hesitation, still breathless, knuckles pale against the mattress.

“What?”

The voice on the other end was male, smug. “Yo, Man. You still playing bodyguard for the Royce bitch? Richest man’s son playing house for a second-rate heiress—just to sniff Alina’s trail? You’re a lovesick joke.”

Creed gave a soft, almost reverent chuckle. “She’s my first. My only. She needed protection, not pressure. I’d wait another lifetime if it meant she was safe.”

“And Scarlett?” the voice teased.

Creed laughed—quiet and cruel. “Scarlett was just warm skin and open legs. A way to forget. But love? That was never hers. Never could be.”

I didn’t wait to hear more. Couldn’t.

My blood went silent. My vision tunneled.

I kicked the door open.

He looked up, startled. And for the first time in years, his eyes met mine with no mask, no pretense. Just shock.

I was ice. Sharpened and deadly.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, voice lined with venom. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your worship.”

The second Creed looked up, I caught it—that flash of hunger in his eyes. Then just as fast, it was gone. Buried. The guy tucked the photo back under the silk pillow and zipped himself up like this wasn’t the first time he’d nearly come undone over my sister’s face.

Figures.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scramble. Just leaned back against the velvet headboard like nothing happened.

I leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Didn’t finish the show? Or saving the grand finale for later? You always did have a thing for pain, Creed.”

His eyes didn’t even twitch. Just adjusted his gloves, staring ahead like I wasn’t even in the room. “You need something, Scarlett?”

Scarlett. Funny. He could still barely remember my name when he was too busy chasing her.

“I’m racing tonight,” I said, deadpan. “You will come with me.”

Creed’s eyebrow shot up. “Thought I had the night off.”

I didn’t even look at him. Just leaned against the car, my voice as cold as the pavement. “Alina’s in the lineup.”

That shut him up.

He was quiet for a beat—two—then, “Understood.”

Of course. One mention of her, and his attention snaps like a rubber band. I wasn’t surprised. Let him chase her. Let him. I’d set the stage for his little obsession—then let it crash.

---

By the time we pulled up to the underground garage, Creed was already out of the car, all sleek and dark in his tailored suit, the kind that belonged in a magazine, not this grimy world of fast cars and desperate gamblers.

I didn’t look at him as I stepped out. My heels clicked against the concrete, sharp as a warning.

The silence between us was thick, full of unspoken things.

The race was already buzzing when we arrived. The kind of place you don’t just show up at—you’re invited, or you don’t get in. It was buried deep under the Mirage Hotel, with walls lined in velvet, neon lights flashing over polished chrome, and the air heavy with money that wasn’t clean.

And there she was.

Alina.

That high-pitched laugh that felt like nails on chalkboard. It hit me like a punch to the gut.

I froze for half a second. Creed didn’t. He’d already spotted her, eyes locking onto the blonde in ivory silk, her hair falling perfectly like she had a personal team of stylists. He wasn’t Creed the bodyguard now. He was Creed the fool. The chaser.

She saw me too, of course. And sauntered over like we were old friends. “Sis! Didn’t expect to see you here!”

I didn’t even flinch. “Don’t touch me.”

Alina blinked, then pouted, the kind of pout that could’ve melted anyone else. “Creed, I just wanted to see her. She’s been so distant lately.”

Creed didn’t even look at me.

“I heard you put in an extra lap when I was hurt, Creed,” she cooed, clutching onto his arm. “So sweet. I really like you.”

I bit back a laugh. That night, he’d barely been able to stand, bloodied and drained. Yeah, real sweet.

“I owe you dinner,” she added, all sugar and lies.

Creed didn’t argue. “Sure.”

“You wouldn't mind, right, Scarlett?” she chirped, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Oh, sis, you look pale. Everything okay?”

I gave her a smile so sharp, it could cut steel. “You’re not my sister. You’re just the mistress’s side project with a revolving-door face. Know your place.”

Alina flinched. Creed looked like he wanted to speak, but then the roar of engines filled the air, signaling the start of the race. I walked off without a second thought, my heels clicking against the asphalt like a countdown. I wasn’t here for showy distractions—I was here to win.

Engines screamed under the city’s concrete veins.

The pit smelled like burnt rubber, gasoline, and testosterone. Floodlights cracked the dark like lightning, blinding and electric. Spectators lined the barricades—gang leaders, tech billionaires, washed-up models and criminal royalty. But the only thing that mattered tonight was the final race.

Me. And her.

Scarlet Royce. Alina Royce.

Sisters in blood. Enemies in everything else.

I adjusted my gloves. The matte-black beast I was driving snarled like it was caged too long. Custom V12. Illegal modifications. It could’ve outrun death itself—if not for the sabotaged engine. I’d discovered it too late. Just enough power left for one run… maybe.

Across the track, Alina leaned against a candy-apple red hypercar like it was her throne. Too glossy. Too clean. She’d never driven a street race in her life, but that didn’t matter anymore.

Because Winston Salerno aka Creed made sure his perfect little Alina would win. I know already. Winston and Creed are one.

“Big money’s on Royce,” someone muttered behind me.

“Not money,” someone else hissed. “Salerno bet the whole goddamn Falcone block on Alina. If she wins, she becomes the face of his Eastside expansion.”

“She’s his new muse.”

That word. Muse. Like she was art. Like I was scrap metal.

A thunderous voice broke over the speakers. “Tonight, the crown is claimed not by blood—but by fire. Two racers. One title. Eastside Muse.”

The phrase echoed like prophecy. I locked eyes with Alina. She winked. And then—on every massive screen hanging above the crowd—her face lit up. A live feed. Soft filters, flawless angles, eyes glistening with gratitude.

“I’d like to thank Mr. Salerno,” she said sweetly, voice trembling just right. “For believing in me when no one else did.”

The crowd roared.

Creed stood beside her pit. Not mine. His gaze was fixed on her like she was the goddamn moon. Salerno’s men flanked her like she was royalty. She was dripping in his favor. She hadn’t even raced yet, and she’d already won the kingdom.

The red light ticked down.

Three.

Two.

One.

GO.

We launched like hell unchained. I took the first bend sharp, tires kissing the edge of ruin. Alina followed, slower, hesitant—but her car was newer. Faster. Fed by Salerno’s endless coffers.

Straightaway. I gunned it. Engine screamed. The dashboard flickered—a warning. My baby was bleeding under the hood. But I didn’t stop.

I clipped the overpass, slid around a neon-soaked corner, sparks kissing the concrete. The city blurred. My pulse synced with every gearshift. I was gaining. Alina swerved in my peripheral. Her car glinted under streetlamps—perfect, untouched, undeserved.

Half a block left.

I was going to win.

And then I saw it.

Her face. On the screen above the finish line. Alina, laughing in slow motion. Bathed in Salerno’s spotlight. Crowned without a coronation.

And beside her—Creed.

His hand on her back. His eyes soft.

Not for me.

The wheel slipped. Just a fraction. Someone shot my wheel from a distance, I felt it. My engine coughed. Alina did something dirty again. Alina surged forward, her scream swallowed by the crowd’s explosion.

She crossed first.

By less than a breath.

The finish line vanished behind her. Fireworks erupted like mockery. Salerno’s men clapped. Reporters swarmed. Cameras swiveled. Alina stepped out, flushed, victorious, arms raised like she just inherited Rome.

And me?

I rolled to a stop in the shadows.

Smoke hissed from my hood. I didn’t move. Just stared at the screen as Alina smiled and the world smiled back. Alina did the cheat code, but it's okay. She can have all the basking and glory while I will have the last laugh.

Alina stepped out of her car, the victory glowing on her face. She was practically glowing, basking in the attention. I forced myself to keep my cool as she gave me that fake, sugar-coated smile.

Creed, of course, was all praise, backing her up. “You’ve earned it,” he said, his voice too soft, too warm. Alina’s eyes lit up, thrilled by his words.

“Winston’s been so generous. Why does he invest in me so much?” she asked, giddy.

Creed didn’t miss a beat. “Because he worships you.”

I clenched my teeth. “Yeah, we all know why you win. Dirty play.”

Her smile faltered, but she recovered too quickly. I turned to my car, pretending to check the wheel. But I knew. There it was. A hole. Sabotage.

I glanced back at Alina. Her face went pale. She knew I knew.

Without another word, I walked away, the cold air biting at my skin. Creed was right behind me, asking, “Why act like that? You embarrassed her.”

I didn’t stop, didn’t even look back. “She did it to herself.”

Creed’s voice trailed behind me, softer now, but I didn’t care. “Say sorry to her.”

Me? What the fuck.

I didn’t reply. I was already out the door, the tension in the air thick enough to slice. Fuck them both to hell.

Creed called me but I gave him my middle finger while the crowd celebrating Alina's win.