Tan Foundation’s annual charity night wasn’t just an event—it was a statement. Silk gowns. Champagne flutes. A gala vision in gold.

And tonight, I came dressed to be seen.

The moment I stepped into the ballroom, a few heads turned. Not because they recognized me—most never even knew the CEO’s “assistant” had a name. Just another shadow trailing behind Dominic Sullivan.

Until now.

“Ms. Rinelli?” A hostess blinked, surprised. “I… didn’t see your name on the guest list.”

I smiled. “Someone made sure I’d get in anyway.”

Because someone wanted this confrontation.

And I already knew who—Isabelle Tan.

Gold-plated, sharp-tongued, born from old money and newer scandals. Near the center of the room, framed by soft lights and social climbers, she’s a scene-stealer in her champagne silk, red lips. Eyes like a blade you wouldn’t see coming until it was already under your ribs.

She spotted me across the ballroom, and for a second, I saw it—the flicker of annoyance. Then she smiled. And motioned me over like I was a lost girl she’d already decided to pity.

“Therese,” she said sweetly, eyes cold. “What a surprise. Back from the dead?”

I didn’t answer her bait. The first time I knew their filthy affair was over a phone call. Late. I brought him coffee. He didn’t hear me outside the door.

“She suspects nothing,” Dominic said.

Then her laugh—low, slow, poisonous.

“Let her wear the ring,” Isabelle purred. “I’ll wear you.”

I left the tray on the floor.

They were careful—at first.

Then careless.

Then bold.

After that, I watched everything with fresh eyes.

How her hand lingered on his arm at board meetings. How she called me “sweet” like I was a dumb puppy.

And then Maldives. A photo. No caption.

Just Isabelle almost naked in the poolside, golden skin, holding his tumbler—my gift to him on our second anniversary. He told me he was in Morocco for a business forum, but his reflection was in her sunnies.

That’s when I stopped crying.

And started recording.

“I thought you might want to speak in private,” I said after a while.

She chuckled, sipping her drink. “Why? We’ve already shared so much, right? But, yeah, let's hear your thing.”

She led the way into a quiet side hallway, the velvet curtains muffling the sound of wealth behind us.

“I assume Dominic knows you’re here?” Isabelle folded her arms over her supersized chest and went on, “Or is this another secret you’re keeping from your husband?”

“You already knew, didn’t you?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head. “Of course. I’ve known for a while.”

“Then why continue the engagement?”

She stepped closer. “Because I don’t care that he married you. You were a rug he loved to step on. A body he used to get through the silence. You're good as dead, Therese.”

I stiffened. But she wasn’t done.

“Would you like to know what we did the night your car flipped and burned?”

I stayed still.

She leaned in, her voice a silk blade. “We were in his penthouse. My lipstick was still on his collar when they called to tell him you were ‘missing.’ He didn’t even pause. Just poured me another drink and said, ‘It’s handled.’”

Heat surged under my skin, but I didn’t move.

“You think showing up here makes you strong?” She sneered. “It makes you pathetic. Everyone knows Dominic plays dirty. But you? You thought he’d love you for being loyal.”

I met her eyes. “And you think he’ll love you for being cruel? You don’t scare me, Isabelle. You never did.”

Her smile faltered—just enough for me to see the crack. I stepped past her; she followed.

“And where exactly are you going?” she called behind me.

I didn’t turn around as I answered, “To make sure your fairytale ends before the wedding does.”

She laughed. But behind the sound, I heard what she didn’t want me to notice—fear in shrilling bold letters. I slipped away from the crowd, because I had one last stop to make.

__

INSIDE THE PROJECTOR ROOM

The tech team was gone, busy helping with soundcheck. I reached into my clutch and pulled out a slim USB. Labeled only with a single word—DEATH.

I slotted it into the control board. The video was short. Forty-three seconds. Just long enough. Dominic’s voice. Isabelle’s laughter. A cold conversation recorded months ago—one neither of them knew I had.

I hit upload.

The timer was set. The video would play at the end of the presentation, right when the camera panned to the future Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. Dominic built an empire on image.

Now he’d watch it crumble in front of every lens. And when that video plays, Isabelle won’t just lose her crown—she’ll choke on it!

I stood at the edge of the ballroom, one hand resting on a crystal flute I didn’t drink from.

From here, I could see my sloppy, good-for-nothing soon to be ex-husband.

Dominic was immaculate in a black tuxedo, hand resting far too comfortably on Isabelle Tan’s waist. He looked like a man born to dominate the room—effortless, controlled, adored.

The projector screen flickered to life at the front of the ballroom. A polished montage began to play—children in classrooms, charity galas, press clippings. The music soared. Applause followed like sheep.

A waiter glided by with champagne. I didn’t take one.

Ten seconds...

The host stepped forward. “And now, a special message from the bride and groom-to-be…”

The lights dimmed dramatically. The screen faded to black. Then Dominic’s calculated and cold voice wafted into the air.

“She’s not going to make it.”

Then came over Isabelle’s voice—

“Are you sure? If she survives, she’ll be a liability.

“So what do we do?”

Silence. Then Dominic again—

“We let her die.”

The hall turned fiery. Ripples. Shifts. Murmurs behind crystal and silk, gasps scattered like broken glass. Phones began to rise like a wave of judgment.

Chaos cracked beneath chandeliers and curated luxury. People moved—toward exits, toward screens, toward answers.

Dominic spun—eyes wild, hunting.

Then he saw me.

And across the havoc, Isabelle turned her head slowly toward me. Her eyes locked onto mine, then the screen, then back. Her expression cracked. Fury poured out. She stormed through the crowd. And then—slap!

Her hand whipped across my face, a brutal slap that echoed above the chaos. My head snapped sideways, but I stood my ground.

“You vindictive little witch,” she spat, trembling, breathless. “I should’ve finished you with my bare hands!”

Blood painted the inside of my cheek. I smiled through it.

“You ruined everything,” she seethed.

I didn’t flinch. “Did I? Because from where I’m standing… it looks like you did that all by yourself.”

Phones filmed. Whispers surged like wildfire. Isabelle Tan, the flawless fiancée, was unraveling for the world to see.

Dominic reached us, tone sharp. “Isabelle, stop—”

“No, Dominic! Let me handle this bitch!” Isabelle shrieked, aiming to slap me again.

But I struck her right away. My palm met her face with such force that her head snapped the other way. Gasps ripped through the crowd like thunder. “That’s for trying to bury me,” I whispered in her ear. “Next time, aim for the heart.”

Dominic grabbed my wrist. “Enough of this bullshit, Therese!” His touch burned against my skin—not from guilt. From thick and cold fury.

“She was supposed to be gone,” he muttered, gaze never leaving me.

“I trusted you, Dom!" Isabelle snapped at him.You said she was handled.

"She was nothing!” Dominic hissed in ragged breaths.

I laughed—a bitter, unholy sound. “Only the dead don't say a thing, Dominic.”

He stared at me, eyes darker than I remembered. Not with regret, but it was something nasty. Rotten. Dominic’s voice cut through the noise. Seething.

“You shouldn’t have come back, Therese.”

I turned slowly, lips curling. “Oh, Dominic…” I said. “I never really left.”

Behind him, Isabelle yanked something from her purse. And then everything went black. Then came a scream… and a terrifying GUNSHOT.

Screams sliced through the ballroom. The screen went dead. The chandeliers flickered. Panic surged like a rising tide.

Someone yelled, “Get down!”

I didn’t move. My ears rang. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air like a curse. Across the chaos, Isabelle stood by the stage, shoulders heaving, eyes wide with something like madness. The gun still smoked in her trembling hand.

“HE IS MINE!” She shrieked. Her voice was shrill, unrecognizable.

I stepped forward. Isabelle pointed the gun toward me—but her hand shook so violently she could barely aim.

“You think he’s yours now?” she snapped. “You think just because you walked back from the grave, he’ll love you again?”

Isabelle’s finger inched toward the trigger.

BANG!

A bullet tore through the wall behind where I’d been standing. Screams exploded again. A chair toppled over. Security lunged at Isabelle, pinning her against the stage as the gun clattered to the floor.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Suddenly, a body slammed into me, causing me to drop on the floor.

But none of it mattered… Because I was in Lance McKinley’s arms. I blinked back the burn in my eyes. Then, I realized—people were watching us. Recording. Whispering.

And Dominic?

He stood across the hall, frozen, jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cracked bone. Our eyes locked.

He tried to erase me, but now he was watching me held by another man—and I could see it written all over his face.

Possession.

The kind of look that said you may have ruined me, but I still own you.

Lance helped me to my feet, one arm protectively looped around my waist. Dominic took one slow, dangerous step toward us.

“You,” he spat, his voice low and sharp. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve just walked into.”

Lance didn’t even blink. “No, you don’t. Because this time, she’s not alone.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Lance didn’t flinch. “The man who actually gives a damn whether she lives.”

With that, he walked me straight out of the ballroom like the ending to every disaster movie. Reporters shouted questions. Security cleared a path. Cameras exploded behind us.

Lance covered me until we slid inside his car. We burst into the night, tires screaming against the pavement.

He glanced at me, voice rough. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a bruised cheek… and a few old wounds reopening,” I whispered.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I swear, if he touches you again—”

“I’m not afraid of Dominic anymore.”

Lance looked over, gaze heavy. “Good. But just in case, I brought backup.”

Silence. Then—

“I thought I lost you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Six years, and I still remember how you looked when you laughed at my terrible pizza. How you always stole the last fry. I’m still into you, Therese.”

I turned to him slowly. But before I could say anything, he tensed.

His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

“What is it?” I asked, nervous.

He looked at me. “We’re being followed.”

I turned, craning my head out for the window. And there it was—Dominic’s car—chasing after us like he had a death note clamped around his neck.