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.

La Notte hummed with dim chandeliers, smoky jazz that slithered through the air, and perfume laced with secrets. I lingered at the bar alone, swirling what was left of my bourbon—third glass, maybe fourth. The ice had drowned into water. Heat from the race still throbbed under my skin, though the sting of losing pressed down heavier than the liquor in my veins.

I should’ve taken it.

I would’ve, if no one had sabotaged my ride.

But instead, Dahlia left with the trophy—and Leander, my so-called protector, shadowed her like she had him under some spell.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the room to bleed thin of people. Long enough for my bitterness to harden into something sharp and steady.

Then the door swung open.

Dahlia walked in, radiant as ever. Leander followed, her obedient knight. A laugh slipped out of me, low, bitter. Of course.

Leander’s gaze snapped to me immediately. Dahlia blinked, all fake innocence.

“Oh! Raven,” she chirped, voice dripping honey. “Didn’t think I’d see you here. Come on—join us, we’re celebrating!”

I didn’t give her the courtesy of an answer. I rose, smoothed my dress down with slow precision, and brushed past them like they didn’t exist. The bassline throbbed against my chest as I climbed onto the stage without hesitation.

If they wanted spectacle, I’d give them one.

I danced—wild, unrestrained, dangerous. The lights bathed me, and soon men circled close, their hands twitching, their stares starving. I moved like smoke, untouchable, letting their hunger fuel me.

Then Leander was there, forcing his way forward. His jaw was set, his eyes narrowed, as if he had some right to intervene. As if I belonged to him.

But Dahlia’s voice carried over the music: “Let my sister dance,” she said, graciously, like she was blessing me with her mercy.

I locked eyes with Leander, lips curling. “What’s the matter? Jealous?”

For a moment, I drowned in it—in being watched, in proving I didn’t need them.

Then I heard it. The words that weren’t meant for my ears.

“Raven’s pathetic. That’s why she’ll never come close to you, Dahlia.”

The sentence slid through me like a blade. Precise. Icy.

The music cut.

“Attention!” the MC roared, his voice echoing through the haze of jazz and smoke. “Tonight’s main act—old-fashioned justice! Place your bets!”

The crowd surged toward the iron cage at the club’s heart, money flying, glasses spilling. I stayed where I was, lazily swirling my wine as if I had nothing better to do than watch predators tear each other apart.

The gates screeched open.

Two panthers prowled out, sinewy and restless. One wore a collar tagged red—“Vesuvio.” The other, blue—“Lucifero.” The crowd lost its mind.

“Five hundred on Lucifero!”

“Two grand on Vesuvio!”

Dahlia’s voice chimed above them all, syrupy and smug. “A million on red,” she declared, leaning into Leander. Her grin darted toward me. “What about you, Raven? No bet? Or too broke to play?”

I lifted my glass, savoring a sip, then smirked. “I don’t waste money on beasts that don’t walk on two legs.”

Her smile cracked—barely noticeable—but it was enough. Leander stayed silent.

Down below, the cats circled, muscles rippling under strobe light, throats rumbling. The crowd’s hunger thickened with theirs.

Then—shrill. A single fire alarm beeped. Then a second, quiet. And then—boom.

The curtain behind the bar ignited, flames roaring outward.

Screams ripped through the air. Bottles burst. The red light was replaced by real fire. Bodies shoved toward the exit in a panicked tide.

The cage’s lock wailed under pressure, then split wide. Metal shrieked.

The panthers were free.

One bolted into the crowd. The other fixed its yellow gaze on me.

Shit.

I bolted upright, the wine glass shattering at my feet. I ran, heels pounding the slick floor, but Vesuvio was faster. Pain detonated in my thigh—teeth tearing into muscle. My body slammed to the tiles, blood slicking beneath me.

Gunshots cracked.

Leander.

He put Vesuvio down—cold, precise.

But he didn’t reach for me.

He turned straight to Dahlia, gathering her up, cradling her like she was something precious. Whispering reassurances into her hair as fire ate the ceiling.

The room screamed. Someone shouted my name, distant, warped. I lay bleeding, abandoned, flames closing in. And all I could think was:

Even here, in the mouth of hell, Dahlia still walks away the victor.

---

I woke to antiseptic biting my nose and pain stitched deep into my bones. My body ached as if I’d been dragged across glass.

The upside? No burns. Just a torn leg wrapped like shrapnel had kissed it. I should’ve been thankful. But gratitude doesn’t survive when betrayal beats louder than agony.

I remembered the fire. The screaming. My blood painting the floor. A hand—rough, unfamiliar—dragging me out while the inferno roared.

Not Leander’s hand.

A stranger saved me. Not the man who swore he’d always protect me.

The door creaked. And then came the sound I hated more than fire alarms.

Dahlia’s fake sobbing.

She collapsed against Leander, his arms around her as if she were the one torn apart. Her crocodile tears wet his shirt as she whimpered, “I shouldn’t have been there… Raven only got hurt because of me…”

I nearly laughed. Nearly ripped the IV from my arm just to slam her against the wall and see if she could still cry without an audience. My fingers twitched with the urge. But I lay still. Hollow.

Then Leander’s voice—low, soothing. “Don’t say that,” he murmured, caressing her face like she was glass. “If I had to do it again, I’d still choose you.”

And that broke me clean.

Because he meant it. He chose her. Always her.

I shut my eyes. Not for sleep. But to erase it.

Erase the image of my boyfriend—my supposed protector—shielding her while I bled out alone on the nightclub floor. Erase the truth that in this twisted story, the villainess always claims the crown. And me? I’m the girl left behind, burning over and over.