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.

“Oh my God, you’re conscious!” Dahlia exclaimed as she swept into the room, her wide eyes already shimmering with ready-made tears. She clasped my hand dramatically, like we were two sisters forever bound by calamity. “Raven, are you in pain? This is all because of me—I’m so, so sorry—”

I didn’t watch her face as a whole. I focused on her lips.

Because I saw it—that flicker, the twitch at the corner of her mouth, that cruel little curl of satisfaction before she rearranged her expression into grief.

“You’re blocking the window,” I murmured flatly, voice thin but sharp. “Hard to fake recovery when you’re standing there, cutting off the light with your cheap performance.”

Her lower lip trembled. Convincing. Almost award-worthy. Then Leander’s phone buzzed. He muttered something, stepping out with a look that promised he’d be back in a minute.

The door shut. Silence.

Dahlia’s mask dropped instantly.

Her spine straightened, her eyes went cold. A different creature stood before me.

“Well, well,” she drawled, brushing imaginary dust off the white sheets near my leg. “You’re still breathing. Pity.”

I said nothing. Just stared.

“I wanted your guts scattered across that floor,” she whispered, venom coating every syllable. “But no—some faceless fool had to haul you out like the pitiful stray you are.”

She leaned down, lips nearly grazing my ear. Her breath scalded. “Leander would’ve left you to the fire. If no one was watching, he wouldn’t have spared you a second glance.”

My body moved before thought caught up. My hand lashed out. The slap cracked through the sterile hospital air like a pistol shot.

She staggered back, clutching her cheek.

And then the door opened.

Leander reappeared, his gaze locking on Dahlia’s trembling face.

“What the hell happened?” he barked, striding over. “Raven, what did you do?”

“She struck me!” Dahlia whimpered, collapsing into his arms like a shattered doll. “I only came to see if she was okay, and she… she attacked me!”

“You’ve gone too far,” Leander snarled at me, fury burning in his voice. “From this moment forward, I am no longer your bodyguard.” His finger stabbed toward me like a blade. “We’re finished.”

Something deep inside me cracked wide open.

“For once,” I rasped, raw and broken, “did you ever truly love me?”

Dahlia sniffled, resting her head against his chest like she had won a prize. “Leander… maybe I should leave. Let you two settle this—”

“No,” he cut her off, tightening his hold on her. “Stay. You need to hear this.”

Then his eyes locked onto me. Unflinching. Cold. Certain.

“I never loved you, Raven. I used you. You were nothing more than a doorway to Dahlia.” He didn’t waver. Not once.

“You were just convenience. A warm body. A pastime. Dahlia is the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Breathing felt like swallowing acid.

He stepped closer, voice dropping like the edge of a blade.

“If you ever touch her again, if you ever raise a hand to her, it won’t end with a slap. You’ll deal with me.”

And then they walked out—hand in hand, without even a glance over their shoulders.

I sat there, broken open in ways no doctor could ever stitch back together.

---

When I was released from the hospital, I didn’t crawl home to lick my wounds. I went straight to my father’s estate.

The study still reeked of smoke, liquor, and old betrayals. My leg burned beneath the bandage, but I walked as if it didn’t. Pain was better than pity.

At his desk, I pulled open the bottom drawer—the one only gloved hands dared touch. Wrapped in black velvet lay the punishment paddle. Obsidian-stained yew, carved with cruel, jagged ridges. Not ceremonial. Not for show. A family tradition, soaked in discipline.

I rested it across my lap. Waiting.

“Bring him in,” I ordered the butler.

Leander entered like a shadow, shoulders squared, jaw rigid. A soldier awaiting trial. His eyes landed on the paddle, then flicked to me. He didn’t flinch. Just silence.

“You swore an oath,” I said, voice iron. “That ring you still wear around your neck—you made vows with it. You promised to protect me. You don’t get to walk away. Not without blood.”

He opened his mouth, but I cut him off.

“You shattered it. That means I take tenfold in return.”

I rose, limping but unbothered, circling him like a predator circling prey. “Ten lashes. Or one strike from this.”

The paddle hit the desk with a heavy thud. Final.

Leander’s jaw clenched. “If that’s what it takes to make things right… then do it.”

Those words hurt worse than my wounds.

Because I didn’t want right. I wanted pain.

He shrugged off his coat. Then his shirt. Turned his back without hesitation.

That’s when the doors slammed open.

“Raven, stop!” Dahlia shrieked, her dramatic white dress fluttering behind her like she’d stepped off a stage. “Don’t hurt him! If anyone should suffer, let it be me!”

I didn’t blink. “Get out of my way.”

“No!” she wailed, tears streaking her face with perfect precision. “I won’t let you do this! He’s not the villain—you just don’t understand—”

“Dahlia.” Leander tried to pull her back, his grip firm but gentle.

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

Something inside me snapped. I raised the paddle. She threw herself in front of him.

The strike cracked through the room.

Her scream was raw. Real. Blood bloomed across her flawless dress, staining it scarlet. She collapsed.

Leander caught her before she hit the floor, trembling as he held her. His fist curled tight, his jaw locked.

She wept against him. He looked at me.

I’d never seen eyes like that.

“I warned you,” I said softly, gripping the paddle firm. “Defiance has consequences.”

His voice shook, quiet but steady. “You’re sick.”

“She stepped between us.”

“She always will,” he said, gathering her carefully, his touch tender even through her pain. “And now you’ve made the mistake of your life.”

He turned for the door, every muscle tight with restraint. Just before leaving, he paused, casting me one last look.

That look wasn’t hatred.

It was a vow.

“I told you there’d be punishment,” Leander said, his voice low and final. “Yours is coming.”

Then they vanished. The doors boomed shut, leaving me alone with the echo.