My Ex-lover Begged for My Love after He Abandoned me

Two weeks before I was meant to become the bride of a stranger, I agreed to marry a dying man.

Not for love. Not for mercy.

But because Alina and Creed, my private bodyguard and lover were fucking behind my back—and I don't believe in forgiveness. Only strategy.

Alina, the illegitimate daughter my father paraded around like a prized lamb, was supposed to marry the Colombo heir, Zacharias Colombo. It was her crown, her alliance, her throne. Until the car went under, until he fell into a coma—and she ran like a coward. Said she wouldn’t “tie herself to a corpse.”

She abandoned the empire like it was a bad purse. And my father—spineless, shivering behind his legacy—begged me to take her place. I said no. Laughed. Poured wine and let it spill like venom across his desk. Again and again. Until I realized something:

If I want to burn them, I need the match.

If I want revenge, I need power.

And the Colombos? They’re bleeding.

So I said yes.

I’ll marry the breathing carcass she left behind. I’ll wear her dress. I’ll take her throne. And when I’m done building my empire, I’ll ruin her.

Let Alina watch me wear the crown she threw away—and choke on every jewel.

“I’ve made my decision now. I’ll marry the comatose heir of the Colombo family.”

Father looked up. The cigar fell from his mouth like a man overboard.

“You’ll what?” His voice was soft. Soft like the moment before a noose tightens.

“You heard me,” I replied, stepping into the room. Each click of my heels on marble was a warning shot. “The Colombo boy. The one with a heartbeat and nothing else. The one who drools in his hospital bed while his family scrambles to keep their empire intact. That one.”

Father’s eyes narrowed. Then, unbelievably, his lips curled into something resembling pride.

“Scarlett, sweetheart, this is… unexpected. The Colombos have been circling like vultures, and the wedding’s in two weeks. I’ll have Madison bring in designers from Milan. Black, right? Something dramatic?”

“That’s it?” I tilted my head. “I’m sacrificing myself to marry a man in a coma—a man who was Alina’s fiancé to begin with. She was the one who was supposed to walk down that aisle. But the moment things got hard, that unhinged, golddigging coward ran. And now I’m the one saving your criminal empire. No bonus? No thank you? Not even a damn crown?”

His jaw locked. The air grew heavy—thick with unspoken threats and old, rotting truths.

“Watch your mouth,” he growled. “She’s your sister.”

“No,” I snapped, my voice like frostbite. “A sister is someone born of the same woman. That girl is the stain on Mom’s coffin.”

His face twitched—just a flicker of guilt, gone before it could bloom.

We never spoke of it. Not really. But we both knew the truth. My mother didn’t die of illness. She died of heartbreak—watching the man she loved parade his mistress through our home, then force us to play happy family with the bastard child who came after.

Alina.

The daughter he loved more than me. The one who got the smiles, the attention, the mercy. While I got trained like a soldier and starved for affection.

I was born with fire in my lungs. She was born with his hand around her shoulder.

And somehow, I was the one who kept bleeding for this family.

“What do you want?” he asked finally.

“One hundred million wired to my account after the wedding. And I want Vincent Creed reassigned—to her.”

He blinked. Once. Twice. “Creed? Your personal guard?”

I shrugged. “People change. I don’t want him anymore.”

He didn’t believe me—not fully. But he didn’t press. After a moment, he nodded. “Fine. The money transfers when the marriage is legal. Creed goes with her. Done.”

I turned to leave, but his voice caught me like a hook in the ribs.

“Scarlett…” he said, quieter now, almost human. “Creed was the only man you ever cared about. You sure about this?”

I rested my hand on the door handle. My chest tightened. Just for a breath. Then I exhaled the ache and steeled myself.

“He made his choice,” I said. “Now I’m making mine.”

I don’t want Creed anymore.

Not after I found him with her—with Alina—naked and breathless on my sheets, in my room, where I used to dream about a life that could’ve been ours. The man I trusted, the one who used to trace the scars on my back and kiss every one like a vow, now tangled in the arms of the girl who destroyed everything she touched.

He was never just a guard to me. He was mine—in secret, in stolen nights, in the hidden corners of a world that would never let us be together. For a year, we existed like a whisper between wars. He knew my real laugh, not the one I weaponized. He knew how I liked my coffee. He knew how to hold me when my father’s coldness cracked me open. And I let him see me—every broken, bruised, vicious part.

I loved him in a way that made me feel human. Whole. Safe.

And then Alina came back from Europe.

She waltzed into the estate with her designer bags, sunkissed skin, and that glittering little smirk that always meant ruin. Everything shifted after that. Creed grew distant. Guarded. He started taking shifts he never used to take—ones that meant he was near her. And I—I made excuses. For him. For her. For the silence that grew like mold between us.

Until the day I came home early.

Until I opened my bedroom door and saw the man I loved inside her.

No one could scream that kind of betrayal. It sinks too deep. It guts too clean. I stood frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on the bed, on the betrayal, on his back as it curved toward her like instinct. I didn’t cry until later—when they were gone and the room still stank of them.

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

I screamed into my pillows, sobbed until my lungs turned inside out. Because I didn’t just lose him. I lost the one good thing I thought I had. The one man who looked at me like I wasn’t just another soldier in my father’s war.

But the numbness came. Slowly. Like winter crawling under a door. And when it settled, it made things clear.

Alina always took what was mine. Always.

Friends. Dresses. Teachers’ praise. Father’s approval. Even the final thread of sanity holding my mother’s soul together. She watched our mother spiral into grief after becoming the “other woman” in her own home, and she never once looked guilty. She was the golden child, the chosen one, the girl everyone loved because she played soft and sweet while I burned too bright.

And now, Creed.

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

The Royce villa was a tomb when I returned—grand, hollow, and heavy with ghosts. Not the dead kind. The kind that still breathed, still touched, still lied.

I climbed the stairs, the velvet runner swallowing the sound of my heels. Everything looked the same. Polished. Perfect. Except me.

As I passed his door—Creed’s door—I heard it. A breath. A moan. A name.

Alina.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve let the moment rot untouched. But I didn’t.

The door was ajar. I looked.

Creed sat on the edge of the bed, shirt undone, sweat on his skin, tattoos stretched across his chest like sin. One hand clutched a photograph. The other moved between his thighs, slow and desperate.

“Alina… goddamn, baby… so fucking tight…”

It gutted me. The picture in his hand was hers.

I’d been fucking him in this very house. In my bed. In the dark hours when his job was supposed to be guarding me. I remembered how he touched me—like he was starving. How he moaned my name like a man drowning in need.

But now?

Now it was her name he choked out in pleasure. Her name he poured himself into. Like I had never been anything but a placeholder.

My mouth was dry. My pulse ice.

Then his burner buzzed.

He answered without hesitation, still breathless, knuckles pale against the mattress.

“What?”

The voice on the other end was male, smug. “Yo, Man. You still playing bodyguard for the Royce bitch? Richest man’s son playing house for a secondrate heiress—just to sniff Alina’s trail? You’re a lovesick joke.”

Creed gave a soft, almost reverent chuckle. “She’s my first. My only. She needed protection, not pressure. I’d wait another lifetime if it meant she was safe.”

“And Scarlett?” the voice teased.

Creed laughed—quiet and cruel. “Scarlett was just warm skin and open legs. A way to forget. But love? That was never hers. Never could be.”

I didn’t wait to hear more. Couldn’t.

My blood went silent. My vision tunneled.

I kicked the door open.

He looked up, startled. And for the first time in years, his eyes met mine with no mask, no pretense. Just shock.

I was ice. Sharpened and deadly.

“Don’t stop on my account,” I said, voice lined with venom. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt your worship.”

The second Creed looked up, I caught it—that flash of hunger in his eyes. Then just as fast, it was gone. Buried. The guy tucked the photo back under the silk pillow and zipped himself up like this wasn’t the first time he’d nearly come undone over my sister’s face.

Figures.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t scramble. Just leaned back against the velvet headboard like nothing happened.

I leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed. “Didn’t finish the show? Or saving the grand finale for later? You always did have a thing for pain, Creed.”

His eyes didn’t even twitch. Just adjusted his gloves, staring ahead like I wasn’t even in the room. “You need something, Scarlett?”

Scarlett. Funny. He could still barely remember my name when he was too busy chasing her.

“I’m racing tonight,” I said, deadpan. “You will come with me.”

Creed’s eyebrow shot up. “Thought I had the night off.”

I didn’t even look at him. Just leaned against the car, my voice as cold as the pavement. “Alina’s in the lineup.”

That shut him up.

He was quiet for a beat—two—then, “Understood.”

Of course. One mention of her, and his attention snaps like a rubber band. I wasn’t surprised. Let him chase her. Let him. I’d set the stage for his little obsession—then let it crash.

By the time we pulled up to the underground garage, Creed was already out of the car, all sleek and dark in his tailored suit, the kind that belonged in a magazine, not this grimy world of fast cars and desperate gamblers.

I didn’t look at him as I stepped out. My heels clicked against the concrete, sharp as a warning.

The silence between us was thick, full of unspoken things.

The race was already buzzing when we arrived. The kind of place you don’t just show up at—you’re invited, or you don’t get in. It was buried deep under the Mirage Hotel, with walls lined in velvet, neon lights flashing over polished chrome, and the air heavy with money that wasn’t clean.

And there she was.

Alina.

That highpitched laugh that felt like nails on chalkboard. It hit me like a punch to the gut.

I froze for half a second. Creed didn’t. He’d already spotted her, eyes locking onto the blonde in ivory silk, her hair falling perfectly like she had a personal team of stylists. He wasn’t Creed the bodyguard now. He was Creed the fool. The chaser.

She saw me too, of course. And sauntered over like we were old friends. “Sis! Didn’t expect to see you here!”

I didn’t even flinch. “Don’t touch me.”

Alina blinked, then pouted, the kind of pout that could’ve melted anyone else. “Creed, I just wanted to see her. She’s been so distant lately.”

Creed didn’t even look at me.

“I heard you put in an extra lap when I was hurt, Creed,” she cooed, clutching onto his arm. “So sweet. I really like you.”

I bit back a laugh. That night, he’d barely been able to stand, bloodied and drained. Yeah, real sweet.

“I owe you dinner,” she added, all sugar and lies.

Creed didn’t argue. “Sure.”

“You wouldn't mind, right, Scarlett?” she chirped, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “Oh, sis, you look pale. Everything okay?”

I gave her a smile so sharp, it could cut steel. “You’re not my sister. You’re just the mistress’s side project with a revolvingdoor face. Know your place.”

Alina flinched. Creed looked like he wanted to speak, but then the roar of engines filled the air, signaling the start of the race. I walked off without a second thought, my heels clicking against the asphalt like a countdown. I wasn’t here for showy distractions—I was here to win.

Engines screamed under the city’s concrete veins.

The pit smelled like burnt rubber, gasoline, and testosterone. Floodlights cracked the dark like lightning, blinding and electric. Spectators lined the barricades—gang leaders, tech billionaires, washedup models and criminal royalty. But the only thing that mattered tonight was the final race.

Me. And her.

Scarlet Royce. Alina Royce.

Sisters in blood. Enemies in everything else.

I adjusted my gloves. The matteblack beast I was driving snarled like it was caged too long. Custom V12. Illegal modifications. It could’ve outrun death itself—if not for the sabotaged engine. I’d discovered it too late. Just enough power left for one run… maybe.

Across the track, Alina leaned against a candyapple red hypercar like it was her throne. Too glossy. Too clean. She’d never driven a street race in her life, but that didn’t matter anymore.

Because Winston Salerno aka Creed made sure his perfect little Alina would win. I know already. Winston and Creed are one.

“Big money’s on Royce,” someone muttered behind me.

“Not money,” someone else hissed. “Salerno bet the whole goddamn Falcone block on Alina. If she wins, she becomes the face of his Eastside expansion.”

“She’s his new muse.”

That word. Muse. Like she was art. Like I was scrap metal.

A thunderous voice broke over the speakers. “Tonight, the crown is claimed not by blood—but by fire. Two racers. One title. Eastside Muse.”

The phrase echoed like prophecy. I locked eyes with Alina. She winked. And then—on every massive screen hanging above the crowd—her face lit up. A live feed. Soft filters, flawless angles, eyes glistening with gratitude.

“I’d like to thank Mr. Salerno,” she said sweetly, voice trembling just right. “For believing in me when no one else did.”

The crowd roared.

Creed stood beside her pit. Not mine. His gaze was fixed on her like she was the goddamn moon. Salerno’s men flanked her like she was royalty. She was dripping in his favor. She hadn’t even raced yet, and she’d already won the kingdom.

The red light ticked down.

Three.

Two.

One.

GO.

We launched like hell unchained. I took the first bend sharp, tires kissing the edge of ruin. Alina followed, slower, hesitant—but her car was newer. Faster. Fed by Salerno’s endless coffers.

Straightaway. I gunned it. Engine screamed. The dashboard flickered—a warning. My baby was bleeding under the hood. But I didn’t stop.

I clipped the overpass, slid around a neonsoaked corner, sparks kissing the concrete. The city blurred. My pulse synced with every gearshift. I was gaining. Alina swerved in my peripheral. Her car glinted under streetlamps—perfect, untouched, undeserved.

Half a block left.

I was going to win.

And then I saw it.

Her face. On the screen above the finish line. Alina, laughing in slow motion. Bathed in Salerno’s spotlight. Crowned without a coronation.

And beside her—Creed.

His hand on her back. His eyes soft.

Not for me.

The wheel slipped. Just a fraction. Someone shot my wheel from a distance, I felt it. My engine coughed. Alina did something dirty again. Alina surged forward, her scream swallowed by the crowd’s explosion.

She crossed first.

By less than a breath.

The finish line vanished behind her. Fireworks erupted like mockery. Salerno’s men clapped. Reporters swarmed. Cameras swiveled. Alina stepped out, flushed, victorious, arms raised like she just inherited Rome.

And me?

I rolled to a stop in the shadows.

Smoke hissed from my hood. I didn’t move. Just stared at the screen as Alina smiled and the world smiled back. Alina did the cheat code, but it's okay. She can have all the basking and glory while I will have the last laugh.

Alina stepped out of her car, the victory glowing on her face. She was practically glowing, basking in the attention. I forced myself to keep my cool as she gave me that fake, sugarcoated smile.

Creed, of course, was all praise, backing her up. “You’ve earned it,” he said, his voice too soft, too warm. Alina’s eyes lit up, thrilled by his words.

“Winston’s been so generous. Why does he invest in me so much?” she asked, giddy.

Creed didn’t miss a beat. “Because he worships you.”

I clenched my teeth. “Yeah, we all know why you win. Dirty play.”

Her smile faltered, but she recovered too quickly. I turned to my car, pretending to check the wheel. But I knew. There it was. A hole. Sabotage.

I glanced back at Alina. Her face went pale. She knew I knew.

Without another word, I walked away, the cold air biting at my skin. Creed was right behind me, asking, “Why act like that? You embarrassed her.”

I didn’t stop, didn’t even look back. “She did it to herself.”

Creed’s voice trailed behind me, softer now, but I didn’t care. “Say sorry to her.”

Me? What the fuck.

I didn’t reply. I was already out the door, the tension in the air thick enough to slice. Fuck them both to hell.

Creed called me but I gave him my middle finger while the crowd celebrating Alina's win.

La Notte buzzed with low lights, dirty jazz, and perfumethick secrets. I sat at the bar, alone, swirling my second—no, third—glass of bourbon. The ice had mostly melted. The heat from the race still pulsed under my skin, but the bitter taste of loss settled heavier than the liquor ever could.

I should’ve won.

I would’ve, if my car hadn’t been tampered with.

But of course, Alina walked away with the trophy. And Creed—my socalled guardian—walked beside her like she owned him.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Long enough for the crowd to thin. Long enough for my resentment to burn clean.

Then they walked in.

Alina, glowing. Creed, beside her like a knight she’d enchanted. I laughed, quietly. Figures.

Creed’s eyes landed on me instantly. Alina blinked, feigning surprise.

“Oh! Scarlett,” she said sweetly, too sweetly. “Didn’t expect you here. Come join us—we’re celebrating.”

I didn’t answer. Just stood, smoothed down my dress, and walked straight past them. The bass was thumping. I stepped onto the stage without a second thought.

If they wanted a show, I’d give them one.

I danced—free, dangerous, reckless. The lights caught my skin, and soon enough, men began circling. Hands reaching, eyes hungry. I moved around them like smoke.

Then Creed was there. Trying to get to me. His face was tight, brows drawn. Like he had the right to care. Like I was his problem.

But Alina’s voice cut through it. “Let my sister dance,” she said, so gracious, like she was granting me a moment in her spotlight.

I met Creed’s eyes. Smirked. “Jealous?”

For a moment, I was drunk on it. On being seen. On not needing them.

Then I heard him. Heard what he said when he thought I wouldn’t.

“Scarlett looks pathetic. That’s why she’ll always be so far from you, Alina.”

The words sliced through me. Clean. Cold.

Then the music stop.

“Attention!” the MC’s voice cracked through the haze of smoke and jazz. “Tonight’s entertainment—oldschool justice! Place your bets!”

The crowd surged toward the pit cage at the center of La Notte, bills flying, drinks spilling. I stayed seated, swirling my wine as if I had nothing better to do than watch a pair of monsters rip each other apart.

The iron gates groaned open.

Two panthers padded into the ring, lean and twitchy. One wore a red tag on its collar—“Vesuvio.” The other, blue—“Lucifero.” The crowd roared louder.

“Five hundred on Lucifero!”

“Two grand on Vesuvio!”

“Million on red,” Alina’s voice rang out, saccharine and smug as she leaned against Creed. “Scarlett?” She grinned at me. “No bet? Or too broke to play?”

I took a slow sip of wine, smirking. “I don’t gamble on things that don’t walk upright.”

Her smile faltered, just a flicker. Creed said nothing.

In the pit, the panthers circled, snarling, muscles rippling under the strobe lights. Bloodlust thickened the air.

Then— Fire alarm. One short beep. Then a second. Too quiet. Then boom.

A curtain behind the bar exploded in flames.

Screams. Bottles shattered. Red light became real fire. People stampeded.

The MC’s voice cracked again—this time in panic.

The cage gate buckled.Metal screamed, then snapped open as the lock gave way. The panthers were loose.

One dove into the crowd. The other locked eyes on me.

Shit!

I was on my feet, wine glass gone. I ran, heels pounding, but Vesuvio was faster. Pain ripped through my thigh—its teeth tore flesh from bone. I hit the ground hard. My blood slicked the tiles beneath me.

Then gunfire.

Creed.

He shot Vesuvio—cold, clean.

But he didn’t come for me.

He turned—wrapped Alina in his arms, dragging her to safety, whispering to her like she was made of porcelain.

The flames climbed higher. The ceiling groaned. Somewhere someone screamed my name, but it didn’t sound real. I bled out alone as the fire consumed the room. And all I could think was:

Even in hell, Alina still wins.

I woke to the sharp scent of antiseptic and the kind of pain that felt stitched into bone. My body ached like I’d been dragged through hell—and maybe I had.

The good news? No burns. Just torn muscle and a leg wrapped like a war wound. I should’ve been grateful. But gratitude doesn’t come easy when betrayal’s still pulsing louder than pain.

I remembered fire. Screaming. Blood. And a hand—rough, unfamiliar—grabbing me, hauling me out while the flames chased behind.

Not Creed.

Some stranger pulled me from the fire. Not the man who was supposed to protect me. Not the one who once swore he’d never let anything touch me.

The door creaked. Then came the sound I hated more than sirens.

Fake sobbing.

Alina.

Wrapped in Creed’s arms like she was the one who’d nearly been mauled to death. Her crocodile tears leaked onto his shirt as she whimpered, “I shouldn’t have been there… Scarlett got hurt because of me…”

I nearly laughed. Nearly tore out my IV just to shove her against the wall and see if she’d still cry when it wasn’t for show. My fingers twitched with the urge. But I stayed still.

Numb.

Then his voice. Low. Soft. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, stroking her cheek like she was glass. “If I had to choose again, I wouldn’t hesitate to choose you.”

And just like that, the last of me shattered.

Because he meant it. He chose her.

Over me.

I closed my eyes. Not to rest... To forget.

Forget that my boyfriend—my bodyguard—protected her while I bled alone on a nightclub floor. Forget that in this twisted fairytale, the villain keeps winning. And I’m just the girl who keeps getting burned.

“Oh my God, you're awake!” Alina gasped as she barged into the room, crocodile tears already shimmering in her wide doe eyes. She clutched my hand like we were sisters bonded by tragedy. “Scarlett, does it hurt? This is all my fault, I’m so, so sorry—”

I stared at her. Not her words. Her lips.

Because I saw it—that twitch. That curl of satisfaction before she schooled her face into mourning.

“You’re standing in front of the window,” I said flatly, my voice barely more than a whisper. “Kind of hard to pretend I’m healing when you’re blocking the sunlight with your cheap theatrics.”

Her lip quivered. Oscarworthy. Then—like on cue—Creed’s phone rang. He stepped out to take the call, shooting me a look that tried to say I’ll be right back.

The second the door clicked shut, Alina dropped the act.

Her entire posture shifted. Cold. Cruel.

“Aw,” she sneered, brushing invisible lint off the pristine sheets beside my leg. “You’re still alive. That’s a shame.”

I didn’t speak. I just stared.

“I wanted to see your guts spilled on that floor,” she went on, voice low and venomous. “But nooo, some random idiot had to drag you out like the pathetic stray you are.”

She leaned in, her breath hot near my ear. “Creed would’ve let you burn. If it weren’t for the crowd, he wouldn’t have even looked back.”

My hand moved before I thought. The slap echoed through the sterile room like a gunshot.

She stumbled, one hand flying to her cheek.

And right then, the door opened.

Creed stepped inside—eyes locking instantly on Alina’s red, trembling face.

“What the hell?” he snapped, rushing over. “Scarlett, what did you do?”

“She hit me!” Alina wailed, curling into him like she was made of glass. “I just wanted to check on her and she… she lashed out!”

“You’re unbelievable,” Creed growled, turning to me. “From this moment on, I’m no longer your bodyguard.” He pointed at me like I was nothing. “I’m done.”

Something hollow cracked inside me.

“For once,” I asked, voice raw, “did you ever love me?”

Alina sniffled, resting her head against his chest like a reward. “Creed… I should go. Let you two talk—”

“No,” he said sharply, pulling her close. “Stay. I want you to hear what I’m about to say.”

Then he looked at me. No hesitation. No regret.

“I never loved you, Scarlett. I used you. You were a means to get closer to Alina.” He didn’t even blink.

“You were just a pastime. A bedwarmer. Nothing more. Alina’s the only one I’ve ever loved.”

The air felt like poison in my lungs.

He took a step forward, the final blow still hanging in his voice.

“If you ever lay a hand on her again, it won’t be a slap you’ll pay for. You’ll answer to me.”And then they left—hand in hand, without a glance back.

And I sat there, bleeding in places no bandage could fix.

When I was finally discharged, I didn’t go home to rest. I went to my father estate.

The study smelled like ash, whiskey, and betrayal. My leg throbbed beneath the bandage, but I walked like it didn’t. Pain made a better companion than pity.

I pulled open the bottom drawer of my father’s old desk, the one no one touched without gloves or permission. Inside—wrapped in black velvet—was the long punishment paddle. Thorned. Handcarved from obsidianstained yew, each ridge cruel and deliberate. It wasn’t decorative. It was tradition.

I laid it across my lap and waited.

“Bring him,” I told the butler.

Creed walked in like a shadow—broad shoulders, jaw tight, a man ready for war or surrender. He stopped when he saw the paddle. His eyes flicked to it, then to me. No fear. Just that same stupid, heavy silence.

“You made me a promise,” I said, voice flat. “You took a vow with that ring you still wear on your chain. You swore to protect me. You don’t get to resign. Not without blood.”

He opened his mouth—but I didn’t let him speak.

“You broke it. So I get tenfold.”

I stood, limping a little, but I didn’t care. I circled him slowly, like a lioness around a traitor in her den. “Ten lashes. Or one hit with this.”

I tapped the thorned paddle against the desk once. The sound was final.

Creed looked at me, jaw clenched. “If it will fix what I broke… do it.”

That hurt more than I expected.

I didn’t want it to fix anything. I wanted it to hurt.

He took off his coat and shirt without being told. Turned his back to me.

That’s when the doors burst open.

“Scarlett, stop!” Alina screamed, dramatic as ever. Her perfect white dress fluttered behind her like some tragic heroine from a bad opera. “Don’t hurt him! If someone should be punished, let it be me!”

I didn’t even blink. “Move.”

“No!” she cried, fake tears already painting her cheeks. “I can’t let you do this to him! He’s not the villain—he just—he just—”

“Alina.” Creed tried to pull her back, firm but gentle.

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

I snapped. I raised the paddle. And she jumped in front of him.

The crack echoed.

A scream ripped out of her throat. Thin. Real.

Blood welled up where the thorns had struck, sharp and red against all that white. She crumpled.

Creed caught her before she hit the ground. He knelt there, trembling, one arm around her, the other curled into a fist.

She sobbed into his chest. He looked at me.

And I’ve never seen eyes like that.

“I warned you,” I said quietly, holding the paddle steady. “Anyone who defies me gets punished.”

His voice was quiet. Shaking. “You’re sick.”

“She got in the way.”

“She always will,” he said, gathering her up in his arms. She whimpered when his fingers brushed her wound. “But you just made a mistake you won’t walk away from.”

He turned to the door, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. Just before he stepped out, he paused.

That look he gave me—

It wasn’t hate.

It was promise.

“I told you you’d be punished,” Creed said, without looking back. “Wait for it.”

Then they left. The doors slammed behind them.

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

Alone.

No security detail. No press. No smug future fatherinlaw singing praises. Just me, in a faded boutique tucked behind a graffitistained church. The owner was some halfblind 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 lowprofile bodyguard. But tonight, he is revealed to be Winston Salerno, billionaire heir to the Salerno fortune."

Cut to him in a suit, hair windtousled, 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 bloodred, 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:

Midair, midmayhem. I can’t wait to marry my fiancé tonight. #excited

I hit post and smirked.

Good bye, Creed.