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.

La Notte buzzed with low lights, dirty jazz, and perfume-thick secrets. I sat at the bar, alone, swirling my second—no, third—glass of bourbon. The ice had mostly melted. The heat from the race still pulsed under my skin, but the bitter taste of loss settled heavier than the liquor ever could.

I should’ve won.

I would’ve, if my car hadn’t been tampered with.

But of course, Alina walked away with the trophy. And Creed—my so-called guardian—walked beside her like she owned him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the crowd to thin. Long enough for my resentment to burn clean.

Then they walked in.

Alina, glowing. Creed, beside her like a knight she’d enchanted. I laughed, quietly. Figures.

Creed’s eyes landed on me instantly. Alina blinked, feigning surprise.

“Oh! Scarlett,” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “Didn’t expect you here. Come join us—we’re celebrating.”

I didn’t answer. Just stood, smoothed down my dress, and walked straight past them. The bass was thumping. I stepped onto the stage without a second thought.

If they wanted a show, I’d give them one.

I danced—free, dangerous, reckless. The lights caught my skin, and soon enough, men began circling. Hands reaching, eyes hungry. I moved around them like smoke.

Then Creed was there. Trying to get to me. His face was tight, brows drawn. Like he had the right to care. Like I was his problem.

But Alina’s voice cut through it. “Let my sister dance,” she said, so gracious, like she was granting me a moment in her spotlight.

I met Creed’s eyes. Smirked. “Jealous?”

For a moment, I was drunk on it. On being seen. On not needing them.

Then I heard him. Heard what he said when he thought I wouldn’t.

“Scarlett looks pathetic. That’s why she’ll always be so far from you, Alina.”

The words sliced through me. Clean. Cold.

Then the music stop.

“Attention!” the MC’s voice cracked through the haze of smoke and jazz. “Tonight’s entertainment—old-school justice! Place your bets!”

The crowd surged toward the pit cage at the center of La Notte, bills flying, drinks spilling. I stayed seated, swirling my wine as if I had nothing better to do than watch a pair of monsters rip each other apart.

The iron gates groaned open.

Two panthers padded into the ring, lean and twitchy. One wore a red tag on its collar—“Vesuvio.” The other, blue—“Lucifero.” The crowd roared louder.

“Five hundred on Lucifero!”

“Two grand on Vesuvio!”

“Million on red,” Alina’s voice rang out, saccharine and smug as she leaned against Creed. “Scarlett?” She grinned at me. “No bet? Or too broke to play?”

I took a slow sip of wine, smirking. “I don’t gamble on things that don’t walk upright.”

Her smile faltered, just a flicker. Creed said nothing.

In the pit, the panthers circled, snarling, muscles rippling under the strobe lights. Bloodlust thickened the air.

Then— Fire alarm. One short beep. Then a second. Too quiet. Then boom.

A curtain behind the bar exploded in flames.

Screams. Bottles shattered. Red light became real fire. People stampeded.

The MC’s voice cracked again—this time in panic.

The cage gate buckled.Metal screamed, then snapped open as the lock gave way. The panthers were loose.

One dove into the crowd. The other locked eyes on me.

Shit!

I was on my feet, wine glass gone. I ran, heels pounding, but Vesuvio was faster. Pain ripped through my thigh—its teeth tore flesh from bone. I hit the ground hard. My blood slicked the tiles beneath me.

Then gunfire.

Creed.

He shot Vesuvio—cold, clean.

But he didn’t come for me.

He turned—wrapped Alina in his arms, dragging her to safety, whispering to her like she was made of porcelain.

The flames climbed higher. The ceiling groaned. Somewhere someone screamed my name, but it didn’t sound real. I bled out alone as the fire consumed the room. And all I could think was:

Even in hell, Alina still wins.

---

I woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the kind of pain that felt stitched into bone. My body ached like I’d been dragged through hell—and maybe I had.

The good news? No burns. Just torn muscle and a leg wrapped like a war wound. I should’ve been grateful. But gratitude doesn’t come easy when betrayal’s still pulsing louder than pain.

I remembered fire. Screaming. Blood. And a hand—rough, unfamiliar—grabbing me, hauling me out while the flames chased behind.

Not Creed.

Some stranger pulled me from the fire. Not the man who was supposed to protect me. Not the one who once swore he’d never let anything touch me.

The door creaked. Then came the sound I hated more than sirens.

Fake sobbing.

Alina.

Wrapped in Creed’s arms like she was the one who’d nearly been mauled to death. Her crocodile tears leaked onto his shirt as she whimpered, “I shouldn’t have been there… Scarlett got hurt because of me…”

I nearly laughed. Nearly tore out my IV just to shove her against the wall and see if she’d still cry when it wasn’t for show. My fingers twitched with the urge. But I stayed still.

Numb.

Then his voice. Low. Soft. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, stroking her cheek like she was glass. “If I had to choose again, I wouldn’t hesitate to choose you.”

And just like that, the last of me shattered.

Because he meant it. He chose her.

Over me.

I closed my eyes. Not to rest... To forget.

Forget that my boyfriend—my bodyguard—protected her while I bled alone on a nightclub floor. Forget that in this twisted fairytale, the villain keeps winning. And I’m just the girl who keeps getting burned.