Anastasia
I had been dead for four years, at least, that was the truth everyone clung to. A fire, a broken body, a casket they never opened. Lucius saw to that himself. He made sure no one asked questions, made sure the evidence was sealed tighter than the lies he fed to the world. But fire has a way of birthing things anew, and I… I came back with the kind of rage that doesn't scream—it simmers, it calculates. I looked in the mirror that morning, and the woman who stared back at me wasn't the girl who once whispered his name like a prayer in the dark.
No. She was steel forged in betrayal, sharpened by silence, and dressed in the bones of the woman she used to be. I was Anastasia reborn—and I was going to crush Kelvin Arnold from the inside out, starting with the one thing he truly loved: his empire.
I slipped through the streets of Marseille like a ghost wrapped in flesh, every step calculated, every glance unnoticed. My first stop? The Port of Léon, where he kept his shipping empire tucked beneath the guise of humanitarian aid and international trade. What they didn't know—what he never thought anyone would be alive long enough to expose—was that the manifests were doctored, the containers filled with weapons, stolen art, and blood diamonds masked as cocoa and coffee beans. I remembered the first time he took me there, his lips brushing my ear as he murmured.
"Everything I own, one day, you'll help me rule." I didn't know then he meant it in chains, under glass, like a museum relic. Now? Now I was the goddamn thief.
I broke into the secured terminal under the cover of night. I knew his codes, some things never change, not even in the minds of the arrogant. 03-17-7, his mother's birthday and the date of his first kill. The terminal blinked green, and I was in. It wasn't enough to simply destroy the ledgers, I wanted to bury him in debt, and wanted the world to see the rot under the gold. I downloaded the shipment logs, every bribe, every laundered Euro funneled through shell companies in Singapore, Ghana, Belize. My contact in Zurich, Marceau, had been waiting for this.
"You're playing with fire," he warned through the encrypted line. "He's still dangerous, even if you've risen from the ashes."
"Let him burn," I hissed, watching the red light flash as data flooded the drive. "It's my turn now."
The next day, I sat across from a banker in Geneva, sunglasses perched low and voice smooth like aged scotch. I called myself Isolde, the new majority shareholder in a firm Kelvin had no idea was now under my control. With one signature, I redirected over sixteen million Euros from his holding accounts to a trust that didn't exist yesterday. By the time he'd notice the deficit, his entire payroll would freeze. No pay for the guards, the lieutenants, the mistresses he spoiled with private jets and diamonds mined by children. I wanted them to feel the ripple, panic, chaos, the cracks beneath the throne.
I knew the moment it hit. Somewhere in a marble office in Rome, Kelvin would slam his fist on a desk, shouting orders no one could follow because the silence on the other end would be too loud, too terrifying. I imagined his eyes narrowing as he tried to guess who was bold enough to strike him, the untouchable god of the underworld. But not even a god can prepare for a ghost.
The hardest part wasn't watching him unravel. It was keeping my distance from my own blood. My sister still wore mourning black, still left lilies by the gate on the anniversary of my death. My father drank himself to sleep, mumbling
"I should have protected her." They didn't know I was alive because they couldn't. If they found out, Kelvin would too. I couldn't let them fall into the fire I was stroking with every calculated blow.
But sometimes, in the dead of night, I'd drive past the house I grew up in, windows dim, curtains swaying gently like ghosts dancing to the same silence that buried me. I'd grip the steering wheel so tight my fingers went white.
"Just a little longer," I whispered to the universe. "I'll come home. When he's gone. When the nightmare ends."
Next, I targeted his partner in Macau—a pompous bastard named Arturo who once laughed when I spilled wine at his birthday dinner. He used to call me a pretty little fool in Spanish, thinking I didn't understand. That same fool now sat across from him under a different name, different face, whispering that Kelvin was laundering money behind his back. Arturo bit that bait like a starved dog. In two days, their alliance fell apart. I watched from afar as Kelvin tried to salvage the mess, unaware that the floodgates had just begun to open.
I would not stop. Not until his hands were empty. Not until his empire crumbled at his feet. And when he was broken, truly broken, then I'd step from the shadows. Let him see the face he tried to bury. Let him see the rage, the pain, the wrath he created. I was no longer his Anastasia. I was his reckoning.
And I was just getting started.
An hour later, I sat at the edge of the mahogany desk, one heel tapping the floor impatiently as the clock ticked on. The dim light of the chandelier above cast long shadows over the walls, the kind that stretched like fingers trying to claw their way into my mind. My phone buzzed once. He was here. Finally,
The door opened quietly, and in walked the man I'd hired — Vincent Drey. A former detective, now a private investigator with a reputation for doing the kind of dirty work others wouldn't touch. He had that tired look in his eyes, the kind that only came with knowing too much about too many people. And tonight, he knew more about Kelvin than anyone alive.
"You're late," I said, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.
"I'm careful," Vincent replied, closing the door behind him. "You didn't hire me to be quick. You hired me to be thorough. And trust me, Anastasia... I was."
I folded my arms, leaning back slightly. "Then tell me everything. Every move. Every lie. Every goddamn person he's touched in the shadows."
Vincent walked closer, tossed a file on the desk, thick with photos and documents. My heart didn't skip, no. It burned. I reached for the file with steady fingers, even though rage was already curling in my gut.
"He's been meeting with a woman named Elira," Vincent began. "Not his secretary. Not his assistant. Not even someone that works for him officially. She's off the books. Trained. Dangerous. I think she's a cleaner."
"A cleaner," I echoed, flicking through the photographs. One showed Kelvin smiling like the devil as he held a glass of whiskey with that woman seated too close.
"So he's scared."
Vincent nodded. "He should be. Your plan, if you follow through will be the end of him. He's trying to preempt that. But he's two steps behind. Always has been."
I stood up then, file in hand, walking over to the bar to pour myself a drink. The ice clinked against the glass like warning bells, but I ignored them.
"He thought he could ruin me," I said softly, watching the amber liquid swirl. "He thought betraying me, stealing from me, manipulating me into silence was something I'd just accept. He doesn't know the meaning of wrath."
Vincent stepped forward. "You sure you want to go through with this? Once it starts, there's no pulling back."
I turned to face him, eyes narrowed. "Vincent. I didn't hire you to ask questions. I hired you to show me where the cracks were. And now that I know where to strike, I'll make damn sure the dagger hits bone."
He studied me for a second longer, then gave a small nod. "Then I'll tell you the rest. He has a warehouse near the docks. It's where he keeps the files he doesn't want seen. Not just for you — for everyone he's ever crossed. Politicians. CEOs. Even a few federal agents. It's all there."
A slow smile pulled at my lips. "Perfect. That's where I'll start."
"But it won't end there," Vincent warned. "He'll retaliate. That man plays dirty."
"And I play deadlier," I shot back, crossing the room toward the window, staring into the night.
"This time around, Kelvin won't survive what I've planned for him. This isn't vengeance. This is execution, and it's long overdue."
There was a silence between us. Heavy. Final. Vincent didn't say anything as he turned and left. He didn't need to. He knew as well as I did, the clock had started ticking for Kelvin. And when the hour struck, he wouldn't even see it coming.