They say betrayal cuts deepest when it comes from the ones you once held closest. But what they don't say is how betrayal festers—how it rots into something darker. Vengeance. Obsession. Bloodlust.
Selena Vellance had become a problem.
And Damien Kain didn't like problems.
"She's ruining everything," Sierra hissed, pouring herself another glass of red wine in the penthouse kitchen. "Every time I see her, it's like she's laughing at me. Like she knows something. Like she's waiting for me to slip."
"You're paranoid," Damien muttered, buttoning his cufflinks as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"I'm right," she snapped. "Selena doesn't let go. You think she took that CEO role just for business?"
Damien turned, his eyes colder than steel. "She hasn't done anything. Yet."
Sierra stepped closer, her perfume thick and sweet—suffocating. "She's a threat. She always has been. You never really got over her."
His jaw tightened. "Don't."
"She's going to ruin us, Damien. She'll destroy this merger. She'll ruin your reputation. Our reputation. You want to be a joke in front of the board? You want them whispering about how you're still caught up in your ex?"
He said nothing.
"She needs to go."
His silence was permission.
Sierra smiled.
The first attempt came wrapped in silver and lace.
Selena had grown cautious over the years—elegant, yes, but far from naïve. When the anonymous gift box arrived at her studio, wrapped in the exact satin she used for her signature bridal line, she paused. No card. No branding. Just a handwritten note that read: For the queen of gowns.
Inside: a glass bottle of rare red wine and a velvet box of imported truffles.
Selena didn't drink that night.
She had it tested the next morning.
Traces of polonium—a slow, lethal poison. Undetectable if swallowed in small doses. Brutal when accumulated.
Her assistant screamed. Selena simply folded the note, slid it into her file of "Unfinished Business," and went on with her day.
She didn't call the police.
Not yet.
Because fear, she had learned, was a kind of currency. And she would not be poor again.
The second attempt was more… intimate.
A week later, Damien invited her for a private dinner at the Kain Holdings executive suite. A peace offering, he claimed.
Selena didn't trust him. But curiosity was its own drug.
She arrived in black silk and pearls, eyes sharp, smile sharper.
Damien greeted her with the same charm he'd once used to kiss her knuckles and sketch constellations on her skin with his fingertips.
But tonight, it didn't work.
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
He poured her wine himself. The same wine that nearly killed her last week.
She didn't drink it.
When he stepped away to take a call, she tilted the glass over a rose pot near the window. The petals began to wilt within seconds.
She smiled.
Damien returned to a half-empty glass and a tighter dress than he remembered.
"Still beautiful," he murmured, eyes tracing her collarbone.
"Still deadly," she replied.
She left before dessert.
The third attempt was messy. Desperate.
A masked intruder broke into her penthouse three nights later. Not a thief. There were no signs of forced entry. No valuables missing. Just a man with gloves and a dagger, waiting by the closet door.
Selena had insomnia to thank for surviving that one.
She'd been in the living room, sketching under moonlight, when she heard the faintest creak. Not from the wind. From the hallway.
She moved like liquid—silent, trained by instinct and fear.
The dagger missed her by inches.
She fought. Hard.
The man was tall, built, trained. But Selena didn't scream. She aimed for his eyes.
Blood. Screams. He fled when she sliced his thigh with her paperweight—a gold swan gifted by her mother.
The police came this time.
But no fingerprints. No leads.
"Professional," the officer said. "Whoever sent him wanted it clean."
She didn't need a name.
She already knew.
But even the cleverest prey can fall.
Especially when the trap wears a familiar face.
The final attempt didn't look like danger. It looked like closure.
A text. Simple. Soft.
From Damien: Can we talk? Just once. No games. No business. Please.
She hesitated. Her fingers trembled.
She should've blocked him.
Instead, she replied: One hour. My terms. No Sierra.
They met at a private club in City A—neutral ground. Cameras, security, other eyes.
Selena wore white. Clean. Peaceful. As if daring him to stain her.
He looked tired. Haunted.
"I don't want to fight anymore," he said.
"Then stop trying to kill me," she replied.
His expression didn't change.
They spoke for twenty minutes. Nothing meaningful. Just shadows pretending to be memories.
When she stood to leave, he didn't stop her.
But he didn't have to.
Because someone else was already in place.
Back at her penthouse, the lights were off. The security code—changed. Her keycard didn't work.
Selena paused. Something was wrong.
Too late.
Hands. Rope. Silence.
She woke up gagged, wrists bound, slumped against the cold tile of an unfamiliar room. A warehouse, maybe. Or a storage floor.
Metal walls. No windows.
And standing over her—
Sierra.
In stilettos.
Holding the dagger from the break-in like it was an accessory.
"I told him you'd come," she said, voice like poisoned sugar.
Selena didn't struggle. Not yet.
"You always were the favorite," Sierra continued, pacing. "Always graceful. Always praised. But not anymore. You had your time, Selena. Now it's mine."
She crouched, face inches from Selena's.
"You think Damien loves me? He doesn't. Not really. But I make him feel powerful. You made him feel small. That's why he agreed."
Selena's eyes narrowed.
"You lied to him," she tried to say, muffled by the gag.
"Oh, I did more than lie."
Sierra stood, tossed a cloth aside. Behind her, Damien.
Pale. Quiet.
No longer charming. Just… broken.
"I didn't want this," he said, voice low.
"But you let it happen," Selena whispered.
He flinched.
Sierra handed him the dagger.
"Do it."
His hands trembled. But he stepped forward.
Selena didn't plead.
She stared at him—really stared.
And for a second, he saw it. The woman he used to love. The fire. The pain. The scars.
He hesitated.
Sierra saw it too.
And snapped.
She lunged.
The dagger plunged into Selena's side.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Damien screamed.
But he didn't stop her.
Selena didn't scream. She simply fell.
The blood pooled fast.
Her breath slowed.
Sierra knelt, face close again. "Now you're finally out of the way."
Selena smiled.
A flicker. Barely there.
Then darkness.
The news reported it as a burglary gone wrong. No arrests. No suspects.
But whispers spread. Whispers of a cover-up. Of business deals that suddenly changed hands. Of a woman's body burned beyond recognition, and a closed-casket funeral no one attended.
Damien spoke at the memorial.
"She was… radiant," he said, voice breaking. "And I will carry her memory forever."
Sierra wore white.
Too much perfume.
And a diamond necklace that used to belong to Selena.
They thought they'd won.
That she was gone.
But the thing about fire…
It always leaves smoke.
Author's Note:
Selena's life ended that night—but her story? It's far from over. Secrets buried in blood have a way of rising again. Chapter Three will reveal what the world doesn't know: that death was not the end for Selena Vellance.
What if the dead could whisper?
What if the woman they tried to kill had planned for everything?
Keep reading.
Things are about to get darker.