Claire Voss stumbled into the alley's rancid embrace, Louboutins scraping through fast-food wrappers and condom foil. Neon from the Black Diamond Bar's sign bled across puddles like radioactive sludge, illuminating the meth-eyed trio blocking her retreat.
"Lookit this Barbie doll lost her Dreamhouse," sneered the one with prison tattoos crawling up his neck. His companions' laughter echoed off dumpsters overflowing with the bar's shameful secrets.
Claire's Chanel clutch became a weapon, swinging wildly. "My father will—"
"Your daddy ain't here, princess." Fingers like meat hooks dug into her spray-tanned shoulders. The stench of rotgut whiskey and dental neglect flooded her nostrils as the leader licked a stripe up her jugular. "Gonna make you our little box office hit—"
The alley reeked of stale urine and failure when Xander materialized like a particularly caustic guardian demon. Moonlight glinted off his platinum cufflinks as he examined his Rolex. "Three minutes. You cockroaches work fast."
Recognition dawned on Meth Eyes. "Huo Laoban! We didn't—"
Xander's stiletto knife found the gap between the thug's third and fourth ribs. "Pro tip," he purred as the man folded, "never fuck with Thorn's castoffs."
Claire's hysterical whimpers harmonized with the remaining attackers' retreating footsteps. Xander crouched, tilting her chin with blood-smeared fingers. "Tell me Claire—was the humiliation worth the Instagram likes?"
Across the street, Caleb's Rolls idled in carcinogenic exhaust fumes. Through the tinted window, he watched Xander haul Claire upright with all the tenderness of a butcher handling spoiled meat.
"Sir?" The driver adjusted the rearview. "Shall we—"
"Wait." Caleb's phone illuminated the car's interior as he texted Luna: Your sister requires dry cleaning.
The response came instantly: Charge it to Father's account.
—
Luna sprawled across the Thorn Manor's bed, silk sheets pooling around her like liquid mercury. Lila's voice memo arrived drenched in Hollywood saccharine: "Darling, I've weaponized three TikTok influencers and a retired TMZ cameraman. Margaret's Botoxed tears go viral in T-minus..."
The bathroom door hissed open on hydraulic hinges. Caleb emerged trailing bergamot-scented steam, water sluicing down the topography of scars mapping his torso. Luna's phone chose that moment to blare Lila's follow-up: "So when do I meet this human viagra you've shackled yourself to?"
Caleb's towel hit the marble floor. "Viagra?" His eyebrow arched like a falcon's wing. "Should I be flattered or insulted?"
"Surprised you recognize the term," Luna retorted, fingers flying across her screen. "Given your Victorian-era bedroom techniques."
He captured her ankle, dragging her to the bed's edge. "Techniques require willing participants." His thumb found the pulse point beneath her medial malleolus. "You've been... distractingly chaste."
Luna's stiletto pressed warningly against his carotid. "Chastity's underrated. Ask the Pope."
Their standoff shattered when Lila facetimed through the 85-inch bedroom TV. "Sweeties! I'm doing pre-Oscars yoga with a tantric sex guru who—" Her collagen-plumped lips formed a perfect O. "Oh. You're busy defiling my best friend."
Caleb didn't bother covering himself. "Miss Chen. Luna claims you require stamina demonstrations."
Lila's giggle crackled through the Dolby Atmos speakers. "Darling, if he's half as creative with his—"
Luna terminated the call with violence usually reserved for malware. The ensuing silence throbbed with unspent laughter and something darker.
—
At dawn, security feeds showed Claire Voss scrubbing alley filth from her pores in a five-star suite's gold-plated shower. Xander's "cleaning fee" invoice arrived via courier—$250,000 itemized under "hazardous waste disposal" and "emotional damages."
Richard Carter paid without protest. The alternative involved certain blockchain files depicting his "family values" yacht parties.
—
Lila descended upon Highland International Airport three days later via private Gulfstream, trailed by a phalanx of Louis Vuitton trunks and a personal aura of controversy. Paparazzi mobs documented her runway strut through arrivals—vintage Dior trench flaring, diamond choker catching runway lights like disco shrapnel.
"Darling!" She engulfed Luna in a cloud of Tom Ford Fucking Fabulous. "You've gone full Lady Macbeth while I was shooting that dreadful Netflix thing." Her kohl-rimmed eyes assessed Caleb. "Though I see you kept the crown jewel."
Caleb accepted her air-kiss with regal disdain. "Miss Chen. Your security detail's inadequate."
Lila's smile revealed cosmetically perfected canines. "Sweetie, my security's currently banging a PA in the cargo hold. Now—" She linked arms with Luna. "—take me somewhere that serves martinis and morally ambiguous men."
As the trio disappeared into the limo's opiated gloom, Xander's surveillance drone captured their departure. He zoomed in on Caleb's hand resting possessively at Luna's lumbar curve—a touch that spoke of medieval moats and mutually assured destruction.
"Interesting," he murmured, lighting a cigarette off an UberEats driver's headlamp. The game was evolving.
And Xander Huo never missed a move.
The bathroom's Carrara marble threw back fractured reflections of their standoff - Luna's bare toes curling against ice-cold stone, Caleb's shadow stretching across the heated floor like a predator's silhouette. Moonlight through the skylight gilded the scar peeking above his unbuttoned collar, transforming the old wound into a silvered hieroglyph of violence survived.
"Meowing?" Luna's voice ricocheted off steam-clouded mirrors. "Did you raid a Harlequin novel for that line?"
Caleb's cufflinks hit the vanity with twin clicks. "Merely observational." His gaze tracked the flush blooming beneath her sleep shirt's lace trim. "You've been eyeing my belt since Lila's unfortunate FaceTime."
The accusation hung between them, thick as the bergamot-scented fog from his interrupted shower. Luna's fingers found the dagger strapped to her thigh - not in threat, but as grounding ritual. Sixteen years of Carter family betrayals had taught her to armor softness with steel.
His laughter was velvet wrapped around a blade. "Still sheathed? I'm flattered."
The intercom buzzed with Grayson's static-laced reminder. "Sir, Zurich awaits."
Caleb's hands stilled on his tie knot. For three heartbeats, the bathroom became a confessional - his reflection's exhaustion visible only in the bracketing of his eyes, the slight tremor in his champagne-drenched fingers. Luna catalogued the tells like a battlefield surgeon assessing wounds.
"Stay." The word escaped before she could armor it.
His knuckle brushed the pulse rabbiting at her throat. "Dangerous request, Mrs. Thorn."
The ensuing silence stretched taut as piano wire until airport runway lights strobed through the windows. Caleb's private jet taxied into view, its obsidian hull drinking moonlight.
—
Eclipse Grand Hotel's ballroom glittered like a diamond cutter's nightmare. Luna's stilettos sank into blood-red carpeting as Margaret's perfume - Opium cut with malice - assaulted her senses.
"Darling!" The matriarch's talons closed around her wrist. "We've prepared something... special."
Claire materialized in a cloud of Cristal fumes and poorly concealed rage. "Careful, stepsister. These floors aren't meant for cow shit."
Luna's smile cut glass. "Then watch your step, Princess. I hear bankruptcy leaves slippery residue."
The cake knife's ivory handle chilled her palm. French vanilla and arsenic notes wafted from sixteen tiers of fondant lies. Claire's reflection warped in the blade's polished surface - a funhouse mirror version of the girl who'd once pushed Luna down marble stairs.
"Make a wish," Luna purred, driving steel through sugar.
The double doors exploded inward.
Caleb's arrival fractured the ballroom's fragile reality - a dark star bending light and sound to his gravitational pull. Paparazzi flashes ignited diamond earrings and champagne flutes as he crossed the floor, each step measured like a panther circling prey.
Luna's blade hovered over Claire's quivering chiffon. "Early homecoming?"
"Business concluded." His palm covered hers on the knife hilt. "Though I see you've started without me."
Claire's whimper harmonized with camera shutters. Margaret's Botox prevented proper scowling, leaving her face frozen in a rictus of rage.
The cake collapsed in a buttercream avalanche as Caleb's mouth claimed Luna's - not the chaste peck society demanded, but a conqueror's plunder. Somewhere in the chaos, a Cristal flute shattered.
When they broke apart, Luna's lipstick bled across his jaw like a war paint slash. "Welcome home, Mr. Thorn."
His thumb smeared the crimson proof of possession. "Did you miss me?"
Laughter bubbled up from some long-buried well of lightness. "Ask me again when the tabloids stop combusting."
—
Later, in the Rolls' hermetic silence, Caleb produced a USB drive from his breast pocket. Security footage glowed on the limo's tinted windows - Margaret's "special" birthday surprise involving hired actors and a rigged chandelier.
"Predictable," Luna murmured, tracing the crescent moon indentation above his collarbone.
Caleb captured her wandering finger. "Shall we give them a real scandal?"
Midnight found them on the hotel's helipad, Luna's stolen Valentino gown flaring like a bloodstain against city lights. Caleb's tuxedo jacket warmed her shoulders as paparazzi drones circled like mechanical vultures.
"Smile, Mrs. Thorn." His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "We're trending."
The resulting front-page photo would later sell for six figures at Christie's - modern art critics praising its chiaroscuro tension and "brilliant commentary on societal rot."
Richard Carter's subsequent stroke made headlines too.
But in the helicopter's shuddering ascent, none of that mattered. Caleb's hand found hers beneath the noise-canceling headphones, their scars aligning like puzzle pieces finally snapped into place.
The city shrank to a circuit board of lies and vengeance below.
And high above the carnage they'd wrought, two monsters learned the shape of something resembling peace.