I don’t want Leander anymore.

Not after I discovered him with her—with Dahlia—entwined and breathless on my sheets, in my room, in the bed where I used to dream of the life we might have had. The man who once traced the scars on my back and kissed them like sacred vows now lay tangled in the arms of the girl who poisons everything she touches.

He was never just a bodyguard to me. He was mine—in secret, in stolen hours, in the quiet corners of a world that wouldn’t allow us to exist. For a year, we lived like whispers carried between wars. He knew the real sound of my laugh, not the one sharpened into a weapon. He knew my coffee order. He knew how to hold me when my father’s cruelty carved me open. And I let him see all of me—the vicious, the broken, the raw.

I loved him in a way that made me feel whole. Alive. Safe.

Then Dahlia returned from Europe.

She swept into the estate with her designer luggage, tanned skin, and that infuriating smirk that always meant devastation. From that moment, everything tilted. Leander withdrew, became distant. Guarded. He started volunteering for shifts that planted him close to her. And I—I kept inventing excuses. For him. For her. For the silence spreading like rot between us.

Until the day I came home too early.

Until I pushed open my bedroom door and found them.

There is no scream for that kind of betrayal. It cuts too neatly. It carves too deep. I stood frozen at the threshold, eyes locked on the tangle of bodies, on his back bent toward her like instinct. I didn’t cry until later—when they were gone, and the air still reeked of them.

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

I screamed into the pillows, cried until my lungs threatened to collapse. Because I hadn’t just lost him. I had lost the only good thing I believed was mine. The only man who ever looked at me like I wasn’t just another pawn in my father’s endless war.

But the numbness crept in. Slowly. Like frost crawling under a door. And when it settled, it clarified everything.

Dahlia always stole what was mine. Always.

Friends. Clothes. Teachers’ praise. Father’s affection. Even the last fragile string of sanity that held my mother together. She watched our mother sink into despair in her own home and never once looked ashamed. She was the golden girl, the beloved, the darling everyone adored because she knew how to smile softly while I burned too brightly.

And now, Leander.

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

---

Two weeks before I was destined to be handed over as a bride to a stranger, I struck a deal to wed a man who was barely alive.

Not out of affection. Not out of pity.

But because Dahlia—and Leander, the man who was supposed to guard me, the man I secretly loved—were sharing a bed behind mine. And I’ve never been one for forgiveness. I’ve always believed only in calculation.

Dahlia, my father’s illegitimate child paraded around like she was a prized jewel, was originally chosen to marry Caius Martino, heir to one of the most dangerous dynasties. It was supposed to be her crown, her alliance, her kingdom. Until the car crash. Until he slipped into a coma—and she fled like a rat from fire. She announced she wouldn’t “shackle herself to a corpse.”

She discarded the empire like it was a handbag out of season. And my father, weak and trembling behind the shadow of his legacy, fell to his knees, begging me to step into her role. I laughed in his face. Said no. Tilted my glass and spilled red wine across his desk like venom, again and again.

Until it hit me—

If I wanted vengeance, I needed leverage.

If I wanted to destroy them, I had to claim the fire.

And the Martinos? They were bleeding.

So I accepted.

I would marry the breathing shell she left behind. I’d slip into her gown. I’d seize her throne. And when my empire was strong enough, I’d tear her apart.

Let Dahlia watch me carry the crown she threw away—and choke on every jewel in its frame.

---

“I’ve made up my mind,” I announced. “I’ll marry the unconscious Martino heir.”

My father froze. His cigar slipped from his lips and tumbled like a man thrown overboard.

“You’ll what?” he whispered, his tone quiet—quiet like the last moment before the trapdoor opens beneath the gallows.

“You heard me.” I walked further into the study, my heels cracking against the marble like shots fired. “The Martino boy. The one whose heart still beats but whose mind is gone. The one lying in a hospital bed while his family claws to hold their empire together. That one.”

His gaze sharpened, suspicion flickering—then, to my shock, his mouth twisted into the ghost of a proud smile.

“Raven, darling, this is… unexpected. The Martinos have been scavenging for an edge, and the ceremony is only two weeks away. I’ll have Madison fly in designers from Milan. Black, yes? Something bold, dramatic?”

“That’s it?” I cocked my head. “I’m throwing myself to marry a man who doesn’t even know I exist—a man who was Dahlia’s fiancé first. She should’ve been the one walking down that aisle. But the moment the storm came, that greedy little coward bolted. Now here I am, rescuing your crumbling empire. And I don’t even get a thank-you? Not even a crown for my trouble?”

His jaw locked tight. The atmosphere thickened, heavy with unsaid threats and ancient, festering truths.

“Watch your tongue,” he snapped. “She’s your sister.”

“No.” My voice lashed out like ice in the bloodstream. “A sister is born of the same mother. That girl is nothing but the shadow that stained Mom’s coffin.”

For just a second, his face faltered—an involuntary twitch of guilt, gone as quickly as it appeared.

We never truly spoke of it. But we both carried the truth like a scar. My mother didn’t wither from sickness. She wasted away from heartbreak—forced to watch the man she loved parade his mistress through our halls, forced to live under the same roof as the bastard child she never asked for.

Dahlia.

The daughter he adored above me. The one who earned the smiles, the forgiveness, the warmth. While I was forged into steel, trained like a soldier, starved of gentleness.

I was born with fire in my chest. She was born with his arm slung around her shoulders.

And yet, I was the one left bleeding to hold this family together.

“What do you want?” he asked at last.

“One hundred million transferred into my account the moment the marriage is sealed. And Leander reassigned—to her.”

His eyes blinked once. Twice. “Leander? Your own bodyguard?”

I gave a careless shrug. “People change. I don’t want him anymore.”

He didn’t entirely believe me—I saw it. But he didn’t dig. He only nodded after a long pause. “Fine. The money comes once the papers are signed. Leander goes with Dahlia. Consider it done.”

I turned toward the door, but his voice hooked into me like a knife.

“Raven…” he said softly, almost human for once. “Leander was the only man you ever let close. Are you truly certain about this?”

My hand curled over the brass handle. My chest tightened for a single heartbeat. Then I forced the ache out with one breath and locked the steel back in place.

“He made his decision,” I answered coldly. “Now I’m making mine.”

The Royce estate felt like a mausoleum when I walked back through its doors—grand, pristine, but suffocating under the weight of ghosts. Not the kind buried six feet under, but the kind who still breathed, still whispered, still betrayed.

I ascended the staircase, the velvet runner muffling each step. Everything looked identical to how I had left it. Gleaming. Untouched. Perfect. Except me.

Then I passed his room—Leander’s.

A sound drifted out. A low exhale. A strained moan. A name.

Dahlia.

I should have kept moving. Should have let that sound rot unacknowledged. But I didn’t.

The door was slightly open. I glanced inside.

Leander sat hunched on the edge of his bed, his shirt unbuttoned, sweat glistening along his chest, dark tattoos stretched like shadows across muscle. One hand clutched a photo. The other moved with a desperate rhythm between his thighs.

“Dahlia… damn, baby… so tight…”

The words ripped me open.

The photograph was hers.

I had been sleeping with him in this very house, in my bed, in the hours where duty was supposed to bind him to me. I remembered how his hands shook with hunger, how my name spilled from his mouth like a drowning man gasping for air.

But now?

Now it was her name spilling from his lips, her name he was losing himself to, as though I had never been more than a substitute.

My mouth turned sand-dry. My heartbeat froze to ice.

Then his burner phone buzzed.

He picked up instantly, still panting, knuckles pressed white into the mattress.

“What?”

The voice on the line was male, smug, taunting. “Man, you still playing watchdog for the Royce brat? The heir of a billionaire stuck babysitting a bargain-bin heiress—just because you’re obsessed with Dahlia? You’re pathetic.”

Leander let out a laugh, low and reverent. “She was my first. My only. She needed protection, not pressure. I’d wait forever if it kept her safe.”

“And Raven?” the voice mocked.

His laugh this time was softer, sharper. “Raven was just flesh. Warmth. Something to sink into when I needed release. She was never love. She never could be.”

I didn’t hear the rest. I couldn’t.

My veins went quiet. My vision shrank to a single point.

I slammed the door wide open.

He jerked his head up, startled. And for the first time in years, his eyes met mine bare, unmasked. Pure shock.

I was frozen steel. Sharpened and merciless.

“Don’t pause because of me,” I said, every syllable soaked in venom. “Wouldn’t dream of spoiling your devotion.”

For a moment—just a flicker—his gaze burned with hunger when it locked onto me. Then it was gone, buried deep. He tucked the photo beneath the silk pillow, zipped himself back together like this ritual had been repeated too many times to count.

Typical.

He didn’t scramble. Didn’t stutter. Just leaned lazily against the headboard, as though I hadn’t caught him at his most pathetic.

I crossed my arms, leaning against the frame. “What, no encore? Or are you saving the climax for later? You always did savor pain, Leander.”

He didn’t even blink. Just adjusted the gloves on his hands, eyes fixed ahead, deliberately ignoring me. “What do you want, Raven?”

Raven. The name fell like ash. Funny how he could spit it so easily when every part of him was still owned by her.

“I’m racing tonight,” I said flatly. “You’re coming with me.”

One brow rose. “I thought I was off duty.”

I didn’t glance his way. Just leaned further, voice colder than marble. “Dahlia’s in the race.”

That shut him up.

He went still—one beat, then another—before replying. “Got it.”

Of course. The moment her name surfaced, he snapped back to attention like a trained dog. I wasn’t surprised. Let him chase her. Let him keep crawling after her shadow. I’d give him the stage for his obsession—and then I’d watch it collapse.

---

By the time we rolled into the underground garage, Leander was already out of the car. He looked like something pulled from glossy pages—sharp suit, sleek lines, every inch of him polished. He didn’t belong in a place crawling with gamblers and grease.

I stepped out slower, heels striking concrete like gunfire. The silence between us was thick, heavy with all the words unsaid.

The crowd was alive with tension when we arrived. These races weren’t places you wandered into—they were invitations only, secret codes whispered between dangerous men. Buried beneath the Mirage Hotel, the venue glowed with neon, velvet walls, and chrome that reflected dirty money back in polished lies.

And then I saw her.

Dahlia.

Her laugh split the air, shrill and sweet, scraping against me like broken glass.

I froze. Just half a second. Leander didn’t. He already had his eyes locked onto her—on the blonde draped in ivory silk, her hair tumbling like she carried her own team of stylists in her shadow. He wasn’t Leander the bodyguard anymore. He was Leander the fool, Leander the moth circling flame.

She spotted me too. And strutted over like we were still family. “Sister! Didn’t think I’d run into you here!”

I didn’t flinch. “Don’t touch me.”

Her pout was flawless, practiced, the kind that might melt anyone else. “Leander, I only wanted to talk to her. She’s been distant.”

Leander didn’t spare me a glance.

“I heard you added an extra lap when I was hurt, Leander,” she purred, slipping her hand onto his arm. “That was so sweet of you. I really do like you.”

I nearly laughed out loud. That night, he’d been bloody and staggering, barely upright. But sure, call it sweet.

“I owe you dinner,” she added, dripping sugar.

And he didn’t refuse. “Fine.”

“You won’t mind, will you, Raven?” she said, feigning innocence. “Oh, you look pale, dear. Are you all right?”

I gave her a smile honed sharper than any blade. “You’re not my sister. You’re the mistress’s leftover project with a borrowed face. Remember your place.”

Dahlia’s body tensed, a subtle shiver running through her shoulders. Leander’s mouth parted as if words were about to tumble out, but the roar of engines ripped through the night, swallowing his hesitation. The signal had been given. The race was beginning. Without sparing him another glance, I strode away, my heels striking the cracked asphalt in rhythmic echoes, each step counting down to war. I wasn’t here for chatter or theatrics. I came for one purpose alone—victory.

Engines howled like starving beasts through the city’s steel arteries.

The pit was saturated with the heavy stench of scorched tires, gasoline fumes, and raw ego. Towers of floodlights slashed through the shadows like jagged bolts of lightning, searing the eyes of anyone who dared look up. The barricades groaned with the weight of spectators—crime lords, corporate moguls, faded cover girls, and the self-proclaimed royalty of the underground. But none of them mattered. Not tonight. Tonight belonged to two names, two destinies colliding.

Me. And her.

Scarlet Royce. Dahlia Royce.

Bound by blood, broken by everything else.

I tugged my gloves tighter, fingers flexing. The matte-black monster crouched at my side gave a low, restless growl, eager to devour the road. A V12 heart with forbidden upgrades, a machine built to outrun death itself. But it wasn’t whole. I’d found the sabotage too late—her lungs slashed, her pulse weakened. Just enough strength for one last sprint. Maybe.

Across the way, Dahlia draped herself over a cherry-red hypercar, gleaming and untarnished, as though it had rolled straight out of some showroom fantasy. She leaned there like a queen waiting to be crowned. She’d never burned rubber in the streets before, not once, but skill wasn’t the game anymore.

Not when Winston Salerno—Leander himself—had stacked the board for her. I knew it. Winston and Leander, two faces, one man. And his perfect Dahlia was destined to win.

“The smart money’s on Royce,” a voice whispered behind me.

“Not just cash,” another hissed. “Salerno staked the entire Falcone block on her. If she pulls it off, she becomes the front of his Eastside empire.”

“She’s his muse now.”

That word made my stomach turn. Muse. As if she were divine art and I was nothing but discarded scrap.

A booming announcement tore through the speakers, thick with ceremony:

“Tonight, the crown will not be passed by bloodlines—but forged in fire. Two racers. One title. Eastside Muse.”

The phrase hung heavy, almost sacred. My eyes locked with Dahlia’s across the track. She tossed me a wink, smug and poisonous. And then—every massive screen hanging overhead came alive with her face. Her flawless image filled the night sky, softened by filters, haloed by studio-perfect light.

“I want to thank Mr. Salerno,” she cooed, her voice pitched with trembling sweetness, the practiced tone of gratitude. “For believing in me when no one else ever did.”

The crowd erupted in wild cheers.

And Leander—he was there, right at her side. Not mine. His gaze devoured her like she was celestial, his universe in flesh. Salerno’s men encircled her, standing guard as if she were royalty. Before a single wheel had turned, Dahlia had already secured her throne.

The signal lights bled down to red.

Three.

Two.

One.

GO.

We exploded forward, demons unshackled. I sliced into the first curve, tires screaming against the brink of ruin. Dahlia trailed, her inexperience flashing, but her machine was sharper, faster—an engine fattened on Salerno’s limitless wealth.

The straightaway opened. I pushed my dying beast to its edge, every piston shrieking, the dashboard stuttering in alarm. She was bleeding under the hood, begging me to stop. I refused.

Steel rail, neon blur—I clipped the overpass, sparks scattering like fireflies as I spun into the corner. The city became a smear of lights and speed. My veins pulsed with each shift of the gearstick. I was pulling ahead. I could feel it.

Dahlia hovered in the corner of my vision, her candy-red machine glistening beneath the lamps, a spotless jewel that hadn’t earned a single scar.

Half a block left.

Victory within reach.

Then I saw it.

Her face, stretched across the colossal screen above the finish line. Dahlia—laughing, slow motion, radiant in Salerno’s gaze. Crowned without a ceremony. And beside her? Leander. His palm pressed lightly against her back, his eyes molten and soft—

Not for me.

The wheel twitched beneath my grip. Barely a fraction. Then the shot came. Clean, distant, deliberate. My tire buckled. Sabotage. Again. My engine spasmed, coughing black smoke.

Dahlia surged past, her scream drowned beneath the thunder of the mob.

She broke the line first. By less than the length of a breath.

The finish swallowed her whole. Fireworks split the night sky like cruel laughter. Salerno’s men applauded, their smirks flashing. The press lunged forward. Cameras whirled to her side. Dahlia emerged from her shining machine, flushed, victorious, raising her arms like a conquering empress.

And me?

I coasted into the dark edge of the lot, hidden in shadow. Smoke hissed from my hood, curling like ghosts. I didn’t move. I just stared at the screen, at Dahlia’s glittering smile, and the crowd’s rapture echoing back at her. She’d played her dirty tricks, but it didn’t matter. Let her savor the spotlight. Let her bathe in hollow glory. Because in the end? I’d be the one laughing last.

She floated out of her car, glowing under every flash, basking in borrowed power. I swallowed my rage, forcing ice into my veins as she painted that saccharine, plastic grin in my direction.

Leander, ever faithful, stood at her side like her shadow. “You deserve this,” he murmured, his tone too tender, too warm. Dahlia’s eyes gleamed like stars at his words.

“Winston’s been so kind to me. Why do you think he gives me so much?” she asked, practically trembling with joy.

Leander didn’t even pause. “Because he worships you.”

My teeth ground together, sharp with fury. “Yeah, we all know how you win. Cheap stunts.”

Her smirk faltered, just for an instant, before she stitched it back into place. I turned away, crouching by my wheel as though I were checking the damage. But I didn’t need to look long. The truth gaped back at me. A bullet hole.

I lifted my eyes, meeting hers. Her color drained. She knew that I knew.

I said nothing. I didn’t need to. I straightened and walked off, the night air biting, colder than ever. Leander’s voice snapped behind me. “Why’d you do that? You humiliated her.”

I didn’t stop. Didn’t glance back. My words cut sharp: “She humiliated herself.”

His tone shifted softer, trailing behind me, desperate almost. “Apologize to her.”

Apologize? Me? What a goddamn joke.

I didn’t dignify it with an answer. My stride carried me straight through the gates, the tension thick as blood in the air. They could both rot.

Leander called after me, his voice chasing me like a leash. Without turning, I raised my hand and flipped him off, the crowd still roaring Dahlia’s stolen triumph behind me.