Chapter 9
By sunset my living room turned into a private runway.
Sofia walked in with fabric swatches like weapons. Marco started flipping through hair color charts before I even said a word.
“We’re going for blood,” I said. “Not elegance. Power, Make it look like I wear destruction for breakfast.”
Sofia clapped once. “Say no more.”
By the time they were done, the woman in the mirror wasn’t Amelia Winslock. She wasn’t even Amelia Rodrigo. She was something else entirely.
Hair: rich mahogany, soft waves that kissed my shoulders like firelight.
Style: tailored black silks with deep red undertones that shimmered when I walked. No. more flowery pastels. No more innocent lace.
Makeup: dark burgundy lips and smoky eyes that said touch me and die.
Posture: stronger, upright, like my spine remembered who the hell I was.
Even Adrian noticed. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, brow raised.
“If you’re ready for a date,” he said, “I know someone–he’s handsome, clean, and his parents never tried to murder a baby.”
I snorted, smoothing my blazer. “What I want isn’t romance, hermano. It’s revenge. You can’t date your way through trauma.”
He sighed, gave me that tired big–brother look, then kissed my cheek. “Just don’t burn the city down. I like Milan.”
That night was the charity gala for climate aid in the city. High society. Cameras, Scandal disguised in sequins and cocktails.
Perfect.
The moment I stepped out of the black car and onto the red carpet, a hush followed me. People stared. They didn’t recognize me–not right away.
One reporter actually whispered, “Who’s that?” like I was a myth walking past.
Another said, “She looks like someone important.”
Damn right, I do. My assistant leaned in beside me as we stepped into the venue.
“You sure you want this out there already?” she whispered.
I smiled slowly, that sharp, unkind smile I’d practiced in front of the mirror.
“Let the Cunninghams know I’m back.”
Because this isn’t just a comeback. It’s a warning.
They invited me to the wedding thinking I’d break down. Now they’ll wish they never sent the invite at all.
12:38 Tue, 24 Jun M.
CAROLINE’S POV
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I was flipping through the fashion magazine while getting my nails done at the penthouse when I saw her.
Page six. Full spread.
Black silk. Blood–red lips. Smiling like she owned Milan and the rest of us were just extras in her movie.
Amelia.
I froze, mid–sip of my cucumber–infused water, and stared at the photo. She didn’t look broken. She didn’t look lost or regretful. She looked–God, I hate even saying it–hot. Like, painfully hot. Like the kind of woman men turn into fools for. Like the kind of woman who didn’t just survive hell–she redecorated it and made it hers.
I zoomed in.
“She’s doing this to mess with me,” I muttered, low under my breath.
“She’s in Milan,” said the nail tech innocently. “Everyone’s talking about her comeback.”
Comeback? Please. She was never important. She was a nobody. A charity case with sad eyes and an oversized corduroy jacket that smelled like cheap coffee and wet paper. Argg! I still remember that faded green hoodie she wore every damn day in high school. Two sizes too big, sleeves chewed up from nerves. Hair like it hadn’t met conditioner in years. And those orthopedic shoes? I used to call her Granny Gear. She’d laugh it off, like it didn’t sting, but it did. I could tell.
And college? Even worse.
She used to trail behind Favio like a lost puppy, practically begging for attention he never gave.
She had this massive crush on him–everyone knew. Girl did his homework, packed his lunch, even ironed his shirts. I literally caught her sewing a button back onto his shirt once like some unpaid housewife.
“She’s like your little assistant,” I told Favio once, giggling while we watched her from across the quad. “Or maybe a fan club with legs.”
“Free labor,” he shrugged. “Why not?”
I was the one he kissed in the backseat of his dad’s Porsche. I was the one who wore his sweatshirt and left lipstick stains on his collar. I was the one he loved. Until I got bored. Chased something flashier. Richer.
And when I came back five years later, all sun–kissed and wiser… He was married to her. Amelia Winslock.
The sidekick. The ghost. The nobody.
I don’t even know how it happened. One minute she was still invisible, the next she was Mrs. Favio Cunningham–smiling at charity galas like she belonged there, like she hadn’t scraped gum off the bottom of cafeteria chairs. And yes, I got rid of her. Eventually.
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Pulled the right strings, whispered the right poison in Favio’s ear, reminded him who he was and who she wasn’t. She never stood a chance.
Not with me in the picture.
Not after I made sure her little surprise pregnancy didn’t last. So why the hell am I the one feeling twisted up right now?
I dialed Favio the second I got home. My voice stayed sweet. Honey–laced. Soft, like hadn’t just thrown my purse across the hallway.
“Baby?” I cooed when he picked up. “Where are you?”
“Still in the office. What’s wrong?” he replied, voice low and distracted, like always.
“I–I saw her. Amelia. She’s everywhere. Magazines. Blogs. Even the charity gala. She’s doing this on purpose.” I pouted, making sure he could hear the tremble in my voice. “She’s trying to ruin everything. Our wedding, our peace. Us.”
He sighed. That heavy kind of sigh that meant he didn’t want to deal with this.
“She’s just dressing up and playing games,” he muttered. “Let her enjoy the attention while it lasts.”
“Favio,” I whispered, “do you still think about her?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a real one. You two were married. She’s not exactly hiding anymore, is she?” I lowered my voice and softened it to a gentle breath. “I just need to know you’re with me. That I’m not competing with someone you’re still secretly obsessed with.”
He didn’t answer right away. And that pause? That damn pause? It sliced me wide open.
12:38 Tue, 24 Jun OM.
Chapter 10
“I’m with you, Caroline,” he said finally, clipped and cold. “We’re getting married. You won.”
Won. What a joke.
Winning implies she’s not still playing. And judging by those photos–by that smirk, those eyes, that killer body–Amelia Winsock is just getting started.
I held the phone tighter.
“She’s nothing,” I said out loud, maybe to myself. “I’m the one wearing the ring. I’m the one with the Cunninghams. I’m the future.”
But deep down, in that little corner I keep hidden behind pearls and good lighting… I felt it.
That twinge. That ugly, burning itch.
Insecurity. Because for the first time,
Amelia wasn’t the one trying to catch up.
I was.
He was waiting for me at the rooftop bar–discreet, tucked in the corner like a man who used to own the world but now preferred shadows. Hugo Durant. Former CFO of Cunningham Industries. Fired two years ago with zero press coverage, no severance, and a gag order so tight it could’ve strangled a king.
I didn’t need the file in his hand to know he was the real deal. The bitterness in his eyes told me everything.
“Miss Winslock,” he greeted, not Mrs. Cunningham. Smart man. “I must say, you’re… nothing like you were before.”
I sat down slowly, crossing my legs, keeping my tone light. “That’s the point.” I picked up my espresso. “I heard you had something for me.”
He slid the envelope across the table. Black, sealed with gold wax. Funny how revenge always came in such luxurious packaging.
“I kept this,” Hugo said, his voice low, almost guilty. “I was supposed to destroy all copies. Internal audit reports, laundering trails, off–the–books subsidiaries. I couldn’t stomach it anymore. I worked for that family for ten years. And they erased me like I was nothing.”
I opened the file, flipping through numbers and fake shell companies that even I hadn’t heard of. It was a goldmine. No–an arsenal.
“They’ve been siphoning funds through a dummy charity,” Hugo added. “All under Mrs. Cunningham’s personal directive. It’s her slush fund. Ties to a few offshore accounts in Dubai and the Caymans. One leak and Cunningham Industries burns.”
I looked up at him, dead in the eye. “What do you want?”
“Protection. A comeback. I want to work again. Not under her. Just… somewhere I’m not buried alive for telling the truth.”
Chapter 9
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I smiled. Not the polite kind. The kind that makes men either afraid or aroused. “You give me the match, Hugo. I’ll burn them down myself. And when it’s all ash, I’ll build you your empire back.”
His eyes widened, just a flicker. “You’re serious about this.”
“I asked for one billion,” I said calmly. “They laughed. Mocked me. Tricked me. Killed my child. Stripped me of everything and left me with nothing but headlines and ghosts.” I leaned forward, softening my voice but not my intent. “But now, I don’t want the money. I want the throne. If she won’t give me the billion-” I tapped the folder- “I’ll take it from their corpse.”
He nodded, slow. “You’re not afraid of her?”
I chuckled and closed the folder. “She should’ve been afraid of me the moment she thought I was weak.”
As I stood, I adjusted my blazer, smoothing the silk down my arms. “You’re on my team now, Hugo. And I don’t lose.”
I walked away with the file under my arm, my heels clicking like war drums on marble. Mrs. Cunningham thought she played me. She thought the divorce ended the story. But this wasn’t about love anymore.
This was a business war.
And I just found her Achilles‘ heel.
It was funny–how power slipped through people’s fingers the second they got too comfortable. That’s what I thought when I walked into the Lucente Gallery, dressed in black velvet and blood–red silk, my heels clicking over marble like a clock counting down. I knew he’d be here. The art auction was a Cunningham–sponsored event. Big names, bigger
egos.
I made sure to arrive late. Grand entrances hit harder when people are already watching.
I stood by a sculpture installation, champagne glass in hand, pretending to be absorbed in the abstract mess of steel and broken mirrors. Then I felt the shift. The hush. The familiar presence that once used to melt me.
Favio Cunningham.
I turned like it was pure coincidence–like I hadn’t orchestrated this moment to the second.
“Favio,” I said, smooth, cool. “Long time.”
His eyes widened, just slightly. Still sharp in a dark suit, tailored perfectly, but suddenly unsure of himself.
He stammered my name like a prayer. “Amelia-?”
I sipped my drink. “Rodrigo now. You know how names work in business. Hope your new fiancée enjoys sharing you with your boardroom. Or… did Caroline finally learn how to keep you off your assistant’s desk?” I let the words drip off my tongue like venom wrapped in
silk.
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He blinked. His jaw flexed. “You just disappeared. After everything. I gave you an option- you could’ve stayed. You could’ve had both. Her and you.”
I turned slightly, watching his reflection in the sculpture’s broken mirrors.
“Wow,” I murmured, voice soft but sharp. “You really thought I was built for second place.”
His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me, and I caught the slip in his gaze–the way it raked over me like he hated himself for still wanting me.
“Why?” I asked suddenly, voice louder now. “Do I give you a boner now?” I raised an eyebrow, playful and cruel. “Didn’t you tell Caroline I was a nerd? Outdated? Not hot enough for your image? So why do you look like I just walked out of your wet dream, Favio?”
He stepped closer, and I let him, knowing damn well I was pulling every string in this game. His hand reached out to grab my arm–same controlling move I remembered–but I shifted, stepped away, letting his fingers catch air.
Then I leaned in, close enough to make him forget where he was. My whisper landed right under his ear like a dagger wrapped in lace.
“I know it was you,” I said slowly. “The night at the stairwell. You shoved me. I was four months pregnant with your child, and you took that from me… for her.”
His eyes went dead quiet.
“And you know what’s funny?” I laughed, leaning back, sharp smile playing on my lips. “The baby Caroline’s parading around as yours? Is it even yours, Favio?”
I saw it then. That crack. That instant flicker of doubt behind his perfectly sculpted arrogance. And it was delicious.
12:39 Tue, 24 Jun
