Three days after the hospital, I went to try on a wedding dress.

Alone.

No security detail. No press. No smug future father-in-law singing praises. Just me, in a faded boutique tucked behind a graffiti-stained church. The owner was some half-blind Russian seamstress who didn’t speak unless she had a needle in her mouth.

It was perfect.

I picked a dress. I didn’t even look at the price tag. Slipped it on, stared into the cracked mirror, and thought—briefly—what it might’ve been like if none of this had happened. If the man I was marrying wasn’t a monster.

Or worse... wasn’t making me into one.

I stepped into the alley behind the shop for a smoke. Heels clicking against concrete, veil still tangled in my hair. The cigarette was between my lips when the cloth came down.

Sweet chemical. Too sweet.

Chloroform.

I fought—hard. But it hit fast. Numbness bloomed through my limbs like black water. I hit the ground before the cigarette did.

---

I woke up choking on the taste of my own blood.

Blindfolded. Wrists bound behind the chair. My back already screaming. My mouth tasted copper and cotton and dirt.

The room smelled like damp stone and gasoline. Somewhere underground. I could hear a fan humming above me, the occasional drip of water. My head throbbed in sync with my heartbeat.

Then it started.

The paddle cracked down across my back, sharp and immediate. Not like the one I used.

My entire body jerked. My lungs refused to work. The pain struck so deep, I couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even scream.

The sting burned down my back like fire, searing through every nerve, every muscle. My teeth grinded together, but I didn’t make a sound. I couldn’t. The air was sharp, every hit slicing through me.

I didn’t know how many there were. I stopped counting after twenty. After thirty. My body stopped reacting—my mind tried to shut it all down, but the agony was too much.

Fifty strikes. Maybe more. I lost track of time. My back was a mess of blood and raw skin, and I could taste it. Salty, metallic, dripping from my lips. The pain blurred, twisted into something almost... familiar.

And then, I heard it.

A voice, muffled by the static of the phone.

“Done what you asked, sir.”

A pause. And then...

“Send her back.”

My breath caught in my throat.

Creed.

My heart stopped.

He ordered this?

The bastard—he did this because of Alina. Because that bitch had wanted to play the hero. She’d put herself in the way. But this? This wasn’t a punishment for that.

This was him punishing me.

I went still. My body betrayed me. My mind shut down, too shocked, too broken to process. It was too much.

I wanted to scream. To fight. But I couldn’t. The blood in my mouth tasted like iron—felt like the last taste of my own destruction until I passed out from pain.

—

I woke up again in a hospital bed. White sheets, IV in my arm, pain wrapping around me like a second skin. Outside the door, I could hear the hushed murmurs of nurses, gossiping like vultures.

“That man in VIP—what a dream. So gentle, holding his girl’s hand the whole night…”

“She only had a bruise on her arm. But that one in 106? Covered in paddle marks. No visitors.”

Guess who was in 106?

I ripped the IV out, the sting barely registering. The room swayed, but I didn’t care. I dragged myself into the hallway, using the wall for support. Every step felt like walking on broken glass, but I kept moving. One foot in front of the other.

And there he was.

Creed.

Outside Alina’s room. Holding a glass of water, lifting it to her lips like she was some porcelain doll, fragile and perfect.

She batted her lashes at him, said something—her voice too sweet, too innocent. And he smiled.

He smiled.

Wiped a drop of water from her mouth with his thumb, that smile never faltering.

My throat closed up. Not from jealousy—no. Not this time. It was the sheer absurdity of it all.

I almost died becuse of him.

And here he was, babysitting a liar who flinched at her own shadow.

My back was raw—every movement felt like knives digging deeper into the flesh. But my heart? That had been shredded. Torn apart in ways I couldn’t fix, couldn’t even try to understand.

I didn’t cry. I refused. I’d rather choke on this pain, swallow the hurt whole, than give him the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

---

No one came to discharge me. No flowers, no bodyguards, no apologetic father flying in to wrap me in gold and guilt. Just a quiet nurse handing me release papers and a bag with my torn dress and ruined heels.

My father was “abroad on business.” Typical.

I took a cab back to my villa. My ribs screamed with every bump in the road, but I didn’t flinch. I’d already learned to sit with pain. Live in it. Let it become part of the furniture.

Once inside, I didn’t unpack. Didn’t shower. I just sat on the edge of the velvet chaise and stared at my phone. Then I dialed him.He picked up after two rings.

I didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“I know it was you.”

Silence.

“I know you’re the one who had me drugged, tied, and beaten to hell. I know every scream was your order.”

"How—”

“No worries, Creed. Or should I say—Winston Salerno?” A sharp inhale on the other end. I smiled coldly. “Whatever pain you gave me—I’ll return it tenfold. Count on it.” then I hung up.

No theatrics. No yelling. Just a promise.

I slept for six hours straight. Dead sleep. The kind only agony can buy.

When I woke, the villa was dark, except for the bluish glow of the giant TV flickering across the marble floor. I turned it on, needing noise, distraction—anything to fill the silence.

And there it was.

Breaking news. Fireworks over the sea. Lights glittering on the surface of a luxury yacht.

Creed.

On one knee.

A ring the size of a small planet in his hand.

Alina squealing. Crying. Throwing herself into his arms.

The anchor’s voice cooed over the footage like this was a fairytale ending:

"The world had only known Creed as a low-profile bodyguard. But tonight, he is revealed to be Winston Salerno, billionaire heir to the Salerno fortune."

Cut to him in a suit, hair wind-tousled, eyes full of fake sincerity.

“I did it all,” he said smoothly, “because I wanted to be close to the woman I love… Alina.”

Cue fireworks. Cue kiss. Long. Sloppy. Too much tongue for prime time.

I laughed. Loud. Ugly. A sound that didn’t belong to me anymore.

Then my phone rang.

Her name flashed on the screen.

Alina.

I answered. I wanted to hear it from her lips.

“Did you watch Winston’s proposal to me?” she sang, giddy like a drunk ballerina. “It was so fairytale. Sorry you couldn’t be there.”

I said nothing.

She giggled. “Lucky me, right? That lowkey bodyguard you fuck around turned out to be a billionaire. The heir to Salerno. And he chose me.”

Another pause.

“Oh, and you’re invited to the wedding,” she purred. “Not as a guest… but as the loser.”

Click.

I hung up. And I just sat there.

Smiling. Because they had no idea what kind of storm was coming for them.

I didn’t wait.

I called my father straight from the villa phone. His assistant answered, crisp and chirpy, until I said, “Put him on. Now.”

A pause. Then his voice.

“Scarlett,” he said, cautious. “Are you alright?”

“No,” I replied coolly, “but I’m getting there.”

A breath, then silence. He knew better than to ask why.

“I’ve made a decision.”

“About?”

“Zacharias Colombo.”

I let the name settle, heavy as a guillotine.

“I’ll marry him. Today.”

I could hear the sharp inhale, the rustle of fabric as he stood from whatever plush seat he’d been lounging in.

“You… Scarlett, you’re serious?”

“I’m already dressed.”

A beat of stunned silence. Then joy. Genuine, giddy, capitalistic joy. He barked something at his assistant.

“London,” he told her. “Book her the fastest jet. Zacharias will be thrilled. I’ll follow within the hour. Make sure her security detail is doubled—”

I hung up before he could finish.

His excitement made my stomach churn, but I’d take that flight. I’d go to London. I’d play the obedient heiress, the loyal daughter, the desperate woman seeking solace in power. In arms that would shield me… and fund the war I was about to start.

But not yet. I didn’t go to the airport right away.

Instead, I went to her grave. The only place I could still breathe.

The cemetery was quiet. Cold. The kind of silence that respected the dead more than the living.

I knelt, the hem of my coat sweeping wet stone. My fingers brushed over the engraved name, delicate and trembling for the first time in days.

“Mother,” I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

I rested my forehead against her tombstone, closing my eyes. The ache in my body dulled, but the ache in my chest burned hotter.

“They think they’ve won. That I’m broken. But you raised me better than that, didn’t you?”

A tear slid down my cheek, but I wiped it fast.

“I’m not going to cry for him again. Not for her. Not for anyone. I’ll marry Colombo. I’ll wear their power like armor. And then…” I stood, staring down at the grave, wind tugging at my hair like a ghostly hand. “I’ll burn every one of them down.”

---

I arrived at the private terminal dressed like vengeance in heels.

Black silk clung to every cruel curve, slit high enough to start wars. My sunglasses were oversized, the kind you wear when you’re either hiding heartbreak or planning someone’s downfall. In my case, both. Lips painted in blood-red, of course. A warning and a weapon.

I didn’t flinch as I stepped onto the tarmac. The jet waited—sleek, silver, mine. The ground crew parted like I was Moses in Louboutins. Good. Let them stare.

I boarded like it was a throne room, not a cabin. Each step deliberate. My heels clicked a rhythm of ruin. I didn’t smile. Queens don’t smile when they’re marching toward fire. They just make sure the crown doesn’t slip.

Once seated, I tapped the call button. A flight attendant in crisp black appeared in seconds.

“Stock the entire jet,” I said coolly. “I want champagne, couture, Cartier. I want to land like sin itself.”

She blinked. Nodded. Left without a word. Smart girl.

I pulled out my phone, opened my private social, and snapped a single photo—legs crossed, thigh high and bare, champagne flute balanced just so. My sunglasses hid my eyes. Dangerous. Desirable. Untouchable.

The caption was simple:

Mid-air, mid-mayhem. I can’t wait to marry my fiancé tonight. #excited

I hit post and smirked.

Good bye, Creed.