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.

“Oh my God, you're awake!” Alina gasped as she barged into the room, crocodile tears already shimmering in her wide doe eyes. She clutched my hand like we were sisters bonded by tragedy. “Scarlett, does it hurt? This is all my fault, I’m so, so sorry—”

I stared at her. Not her words. Her lips.

Because I saw it—that twitch. That curl of satisfaction before she schooled her face into mourning.

“You’re standing in front of the window,” I said flatly, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Kind of hard to pretend I’m healing when you’re blocking the sunlight with your cheap theatrics.”

Her lip quivered. Oscar-worthy. Then—like on cue—Creed’s phone rang. He stepped out to take the call, shooting me a look that tried to say I’ll be right back.

The second the door clicked shut, Alina dropped the act.

Her entire posture shifted. Cold. Cruel.

“Aw,” she sneered, brushing invisible lint off the pristine sheets beside my leg. “You’re still alive. That’s a shame.”

I didn’t speak. I just stared.

“I wanted to see your guts spilled on that floor,” she went on, voice low and venomous. “But nooo, some random idiot had to drag you out like the pathetic stray you are.”

She leaned in, her breath hot near my ear. “Creed would’ve let you burn. If it weren’t for the crowd, he wouldn’t have even looked back.”

My hand moved before I thought. The slap echoed through the sterile room like a gunshot.

She stumbled, one hand flying to her cheek.

And right then, the door opened.

Creed stepped inside—eyes locking instantly on Alina’s red, trembling face.

“What the hell?” he snapped, rushing over. “Scarlett, what did you do?”

“She hit me!” Alina wailed, curling into him like she was made of glass. “I just wanted to check on her and she… she lashed out!”

“You’re unbelievable,” Creed growled, turning to me. “From this moment on, I’m no longer your bodyguard.” He pointed at me like I was nothing. “I’m done.”

Something hollow cracked inside me.

“For once,” I asked, voice raw, “did you ever love me?”

Alina sniffled, resting her head against his chest like a reward. “Creed… I should go. Let you two talk—”

“No,” he said sharply, pulling her close. “Stay. I want you to hear what I’m about to say.”

Then he looked at me. No hesitation. No regret.

“I never loved you, Scarlett. I used you. You were a means to get closer to Alina.” He didn’t even blink.

“You were just a pastime. A bedwarmer. Nothing more. Alina’s the only one I’ve ever loved.”

The air felt like poison in my lungs.

He took a step forward, the final blow still hanging in his voice.

“If you ever lay a hand on her again, it won’t be a slap you’ll pay for. You’ll answer to me.”And then they left—hand in hand, without a glance back.

And I sat there, bleeding in places no bandage could fix.

---

When I was finally discharged, I didn’t go home to rest. I went to my father estate.

The study smelled like ash, whiskey, and betrayal. My leg throbbed beneath the bandage, but I walked like it didn’t. Pain made a better companion than pity.

I pulled open the bottom drawer of my father’s old desk, the one no one touched without gloves or permission. Inside—wrapped in black velvet—was the long punishment paddle. Thorned. Hand-carved from obsidian-stained yew, each ridge cruel and deliberate. It wasn’t decorative. It was tradition.

I laid it across my lap and waited.

“Bring him,” I told the butler.

Creed walked in like a shadow—broad shoulders, jaw tight, a man ready for war or surrender. He stopped when he saw the paddle. His eyes flicked to it, then to me. No fear. Just that same stupid, heavy silence.

“You made me a promise,” I said, voice flat. “You took a vow with that ring you still wear on your chain. You swore to protect me. You don’t get to resign. Not without blood.”

He opened his mouth—but I didn’t let him speak.

“You broke it. So I get tenfold.”

I stood, limping a little, but I didn’t care. I circled him slowly, like a lioness around a traitor in her den. “Ten lashes. Or one hit with this.”

I tapped the thorned paddle against the desk once. The sound was final.

Creed looked at me, jaw clenched. “If it will fix what I broke… do it.”

That hurt more than I expected.

I didn’t want it to fix anything. I wanted it to hurt.

He took off his coat and shirt without being told. Turned his back to me.

That’s when the doors burst open.

“Scarlett, stop!” Alina screamed, dramatic as ever. Her perfect white dress fluttered behind her like some tragic heroine from a bad opera. “Don’t hurt him! If someone should be punished, let it be me!”

I didn’t even blink. “Move.”

“No!” she cried, fake tears already painting her cheeks. “I can’t let you do this to him! He’s not the villain—he just—he just—”

“Alina.” Creed tried to pull her back, firm but gentle.

She clung harder. “No, I won’t let her! I won’t let her—”

I snapped. I raised the paddle. And she jumped in front of him.

The crack echoed.

A scream ripped out of her throat. Thin. Real.

Blood welled up where the thorns had struck, sharp and red against all that white. She crumpled.

Creed caught her before she hit the ground. He knelt there, trembling, one arm around her, the other curled into a fist.

She sobbed into his chest. He looked at me.

And I’ve never seen eyes like that.

“I warned you,” I said quietly, holding the paddle steady. “Anyone who defies me gets punished.”

His voice was quiet. Shaking. “You’re sick.”

“She got in the way.”

“She always will,” he said, gathering her up in his arms. She whimpered when his fingers brushed her wound. “But you just made a mistake you won’t walk away from.”

He turned to the door, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. Just before he stepped out, he paused.

That look he gave me—

It wasn’t hate.

It was promise.

“I told you you’d be punished,” Creed said, without looking back. “Wait for it.”

Then they left. The doors slammed behind them.