The first sound I hear as I regain consciousness is the steady, rhythmic beeping of a machine beside my head. A pained moan escapes me as I open my eyes, only to close them back when a harsh, bright light overhead greets me like an abrupt slap to the face. I wince, lifting my hand to shield my eyes but the tug of an IV in my wrist stops me. Giving it a moment, I blink my eyes open again, adjusting to the light while the pungent scent of antiseptic fills my nostrils, mingling with a metallic tang in the back of my throat as I notice the various machines connected to me.
My brows furrow in confusion and just as I reach the conclusion that I'm currently at the hospital, I hear a familiar voice speak up beside me. “Selena, you're finally awake.”
I turn to see my best friend, Yemaya, watching me, her chocolate brown eyes glistening with concern and unshed tears. She moves closer, taking my free hand and squeezing it in hers. “You have no idea how terrified I was, sweetheart. I thought I'd lose you,” she rasps. “How are you feeling now? Does anything hurt? Should I get the doctor? She left just a few minutes ago. I'm sure she's closeby—”
“M-Maya,” I croak, interrupting her nervous rant.
Yemaya takes a deep breath and exhales shakily, her chin wobbling as she apologizes, “I’m sorry. The last thing I should be right now is a mess. It's just— God, I'm so sorry, Selena. So fucking sorry. I should've been there. Shouldn't have left you all alone with those fucking wolves.”
I frown, momentarily confused but before I can ask her what she means, the fog in my mind clears and the onslaught of memories that immediately floods my mind has me gasping loudly as I stiffen.
The pictures. Stella's betrayal. My husband.
I jerk upright in bed, ignoring the pain that shoots through my entire body and the wave of dizziness that hits me. My actions are panicky as I grab onto Yemaya, asking, “D-Daniel? Where's my husband? I need to see him, Maya. Need to explain to him. I didn't do it. It was all Stella. She–she planned it.”
“Lena, you need to calm down. Please. Listen to me.” My best friend says, trying to calm me down as the heart monitor goes haywire in time with my heartbeat. But despite her efforts, my panic climbs higher and I make a move to yank the IV injection out of my hand—pain be damned, when she jerks me suddenly, yelling at me to stop.
“Just listen to me, Selena!” My frantic movements come to an abrupt halt, leaving both of us heaving as we try to catch our breaths. The erratic beeping from the heart monitor starts to slow and Yemaya crouches, staring me dead in the eyes then said, “I’ll be damned if I let you leave this hospital until you're a hundred percent healthy again, cupcake.”
A noise of protest leaves my mouth but my best friend simply shakes her head, her eyes resolute yet her voice sounding pained as she continues, “You were unconscious for two days, Selena, you had to go through an emergency surgery, battled for your life and yet, your so-called husband,” she says with obvious contempt, “didn’t even visit. Not for one second. All I care about is your well-being, Lena. I don't give two fucks about those pieces of shit.”
I shake my head, holding onto Yemaya’s forearms. “You don't understand, Maya. I-I need to speak to Daniel. I didn't do any of it. I didn't cheat on him. You have to believe me.”
“I do,” Yemaya says, palming my wet cheeks. “I do believe you, darling. You're my best friend. I know you. You don't have to prove anything to me or to anybody else either, especially your husband, who oughta know and trust you the most. If he decides to believe fabricated fucking pictures over his own wife, then it's either he never truly loved you or…” she pauses, seemingly gauging my reaction before she continues in a cautious tone. “. . .maybe Stella wasn't acting alone.”
Her words send a chill down my spine, but I shake my head forcefully, refusing to believe Yemaya. He wouldn't do that to me. My husband wouldn't do that to me. I tell my best friend exactly this.
Yemaya sighs, settling in front of me. “Selena, you had suspicions about Daniel cheating on you with someone. What if that someone…had been Stella? Try to think about it, sweetheart.”
“No!” I cry adamantly, my body shaking from the force of my sobs. “Daniel wouldn't do that to me. Not with my foster sister. I know you aren't a fan of him, Maya, but please don't try to drive us even further apart. I need my husband now more than ever. If not for anything, then at least for the sake of our unborn baby.”
I notice Yemaya stiffen, her expression darkening at something I said before she quickly looks away. Her body appears to suddenly thrum with anger, her hold on me turning rigid. My voice is soft and tentative as I probe her. “Maya, what's wrong? I'm so sorry if I said anything to hurt you. I love and appreciate you very much, you know that, right?”
A minute passes before she faces me again and I'm startled by the sight of tears streaking her face. My best friend sniffles then speaks, “Never doubted it for a second, sunshine, and you mean the whole damn universe to me. That's why it kills me to see you being treated this way when all you deserve is love, happiness and for those bastards to worship at your feet after everything you did for them.”
I frown, wondering what she's talking about, even as an inexplicable unease makes my heart begin to pound. “Did anything else happen, Maya? I don't underst—”
I freeze when something she said earlier suddenly registers, and then it's my turn to grip tightly onto her. “Just now, you said I underwent s-surgery, right? Why? What for?”
Yemaya hesitates to respond, merely staring at me and it worsens the sinking feeling in my stomach. Impatient and anxious, I shake her, getting right up in her face as I prompt her. “Answer me, Maya. What was it for?”
My best friend looks away from me as she delivers the bad news that shatters what's left of my world. “For the b-baby,” she whispers, her words echoing in my mind. “You’d already miscarried by the time you arrived at the hospital, Lena. The doctor had to do an immediate surgery to remove any residual pregnancy tissue to ensure you were totally out of danger.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I was still reeling from the news when Yemaya delivered another blow. “But that's not all. The doctor said she’d found something in your bloodstream when you wouldn't stabilize even after the operation was successful.” She meets my eyes then, her own pair brimming with both tears and hatred. “It was poison, Selena. In such high doses that you'd have d-died if you'd been brought in any lat— Lena? Selena!”
I lost my baby. I was poisoned. I was almost killed.
Those are the thoughts that keep repeating in my head as I give in to the surrounding darkness once again.
I'm grateful for the numbness that envelops me as I step into the mansion I’d regarded as home since childhood—a place I had believed was a sanctuary of love and family. However, now, with the veil of illusion lifted, I see it for what it truly is: a den of betrayal. But despite everything, I refuse to believe my husband, Daniel, is involved in their treachery, which is what I'm here to confirm. Yemaya informed me that he'd been staying at the Winthrop mansion while I was hospitalized, and though she strongly opposed my decision to visit, she'd driven me here and was waiting outside, ready to barge in if I wasn't out within ten minutes. Her unwavering support reassures me as I walk silently down the familiar corridor lined with obnoxiously expensive artworks. Nearing the end of the hall, I begin hearing voices emanating from what I recall as the drawing room—a room that's never fulfilled its purpose.I don't know what to expect as I approach the ajar doorway but the sight of my husban
𝐒𝐢𝐱 𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 The hum of soft conversations and the occasional clink of cutlery greets me as I step into The Gilded Stag, a beacon of luxury in the heart of London. Although I've been working here for a little over a month, the understated elegance of the restaurant never hesitates to stun me. Subdued lighting glints off the crystal chandeliers, giving the place a warm and cozy vibe while servers glide between polished tables draped in pristine white linens. I clock in at the side station, exchanging curt nods and murmured hellos with my coworkers. “Good evening, Elena.” The maître d’, Colette, greets, her French accent as crisp as her tailored uniform. “It is a slow one tonight.”“Appears so,” I reply, grabbing my program sheet for the night. Colette nods and strides off, leaving me to make my way to the alcove where my grand piano sits. It's tucked in a corner near the bar, just enough to let my music drift around the restaurant without overwhelming the guests. I l
CameronI don’t fixate on people—it’s never been my style. And with women, I’ve never had to try too hard. The Lancaster name alone is enough to have them flocking towards me, though most recognize me before I even speak.Yet, here I am, over a week later, still thinking about her—the pianist from one of my family’s restaurants. About that punch and how, despite the bloody pain, it only made her more intriguing. About the way she looked at me, not with interest, but irritation, like I was more of a nuisance than a man worth her time. It should’ve pissed me off; should’ve bruised my ego along with my nose. Instead, it’s got me walking back into The Gilded Stag, feeling like I’ve got unfinished business.Officially, I’m here to celebrate another successful acquisition. But let’s not kid ourselves—that’s just an excuse. Dining at one of my own restaurants has never been my idea of celebrating. No, I’m here for her. And this time, I want my best mates to be present for this.I’ve booked a
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚The elevator dings before the doors slide open and I step out into the dimly lit underground garage of the restaurant, a sigh escaping my lips. The fresh, cool air that rushes at me makes my body sag in relief as I weave through the many luxurious cars of varying brands and colors parked here, my phone pressed to my ear.I could've simply gone to relax in the staff lounge which is on the floor below the restaurant but it's routine for me to stretch my legs during my break since I spend hours seated on a bench plus, I don't want to risk bumping into a co-worker in there and being forced to interact. Perhaps not entirely safe but the underground garage is where I find myself on most nights. It provides the privacy I desire and it's the only other place besides the restaurant and lounge (which take up the 29th and 28th floors respectively) we, the staff, have access to within the entire 30-storey building complex and thus, the best place for me to stroll.“Wait, are you bei
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚The cab smells faintly of stale leather and cheap air freshener. I sit curled against the window as the morning fog hangs low over the streets, blurring the corners of buildings and streetlights. Tiny beads of moisture cling to the cab window, streaking slightly as the car moves. I watch them absentmindedly, my thoughts just as heavy as the damp air outside.Another day. Another appointment. Another round of cautious optimism. Another chance for disappointment to sink its teeth into me.I shouldn’t hope, but I do. Every single time.The cab jerks to a stop in front of the hospital, the familiar white building looming before me. I swallow the lump in my throat, fumbling in my purse for cash. My fingers tremble slightly as I hand the cabbie the rumpled money, my pulse thrumming in my ears."Keep the change," I mutter, pushing the door open.Cold air bites at my cheeks as I step out. The hospital doors stand just a few feet away, but I hesitate, staring up at the building lik
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚I step off the bus, adjusting the strap of my purse as I start the familiar walk back to my apartment. I've only walked past a few houses when a chill suddenly creeps down my spine, having absolutely nothing to do with the cold.I’m not sure what sets me off first—the way the air suddenly feels heavier or the prickling sensation at the back of my neck. But the moment I stop to listen closely, I hear it.Footsteps. Slow. Careful. Too careful. Like they have purpose.My breath hitches, and my fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. It could be nothing—someone else walking home or going for an evening stroll—but my gut tells me otherwise.Forcing my legs to keep a steady pace, I walk faster, my heart pounding with every step. The streets aren’t deserted, but they’re quiet enough that every little noise feels amplified.I turn the corner onto my street, my building in sight. Almost there.But my heart lurches when the footsteps behind me seem to pick up speed, closing in.
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚Standing before the full-length mirror in my room, I smooth my hands over the silky, cream dress I’d chosen for tonight's occasion. Soft and elegant, despite coming from a clearance rack, it fits snugly yet remains modest. Understated. And exactly what I need to blend in tonight. After that dreadful night few months ago, wearing anything remotely revealing feels impossible.My makeup is minimal—light foundation, a hint of blush, and soft nude gloss. Nothing too bold or attention-grabbing. My choice of jewelry is a pair of delicate silver earrings and a matching bracelet on my wrist. I tilt my head slightly, studying my reflection. My midnight-black hair is swept into a neat bun, with a few stray curls left to frame my face. It doesn’t exactly make me unrecognizable, but it'll have to do.Through the mirror, I spot my best friend behind me, leaning against my bedroom doorway with her arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging on her lips. “I must say you clean up real nicely,
𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚Marcos’s car slows to a smooth stop in front of an estate straight out of a European aristocrat’s dream. Towering Corinthian columns rise along the grand façade, their pristine white stone carved with intricate lines and details that tell of a wealth spanning generations. A stately pediment crowns the entrance, adorned with elegant reliefs, while wrought-iron balconies curve above tall, arched windows that gleam beneath the chandelier-lit interior. The mansion’s pristine symmetry, from its ornate cornices to the black mansard roof edged with decorative railings, exudes a timeless authority.At the heart of the circular driveway, a tiered marble fountain cascades in soft ripples, the sound blending with the distant hum of classical music being played inside. Sculpted hedges and ornate lampposts frame the path leading to the grand staircase, where a set of gleaming double doors await beneath an opulent glass chandelier.Against the backdrop of the dark but starry night sky,
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚Marcos’s house is exactly what I imagined it would be—elegant, structured, and yet effortlessly warm. The kind of place that feels like a home rather than a showcase. Books line the built-in shelves along the far wall, some stacked horizontally, some upright with worn spines and dog-eared corners. There’s a hint of cedar in the air, a scent I’d somehow already come to associate with him.“Welcome to Casa Marcos,” he says with a mock bow, holding the door open as I step in. “Shoes off or on?”“I’m not in Japan,” I deadpan, slipping them off anyway. “But I’ll humor your inner neat freak.”His grin is boyish, dangerous, and far too charming for a man who claims he doesn’t brood.Lunch is already prepped by the time we move into the kitchen, and the aroma alone is enough to make me weak in the knees. He’s made roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, buttery roasted potatoes, tender-stem broccoli, and gravy that smells like it was made by the angels themselves. For dessert: sticky
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The familiar buzz of activities at the GemsThorne company headquarters feels like a warm hug after days of unpredictable terrain, ancient jewels, and family feuds that felt like something out of a historical thriller. London’s cloudy sky greets me with its usual moody charm, and for once, I don’t mind. There’s something grounding about being back. About knowing exactly where I stand.My heels click softly against the marble as I step out of the elevator and onto topmost floor where my office is located, a genuine smile lighting up my face.“Ms. Hawthorne!” Winnie, my long-suffering and endlessly efficient personal assistant, pops out of her glass-walled office like a meerkat. She looks impeccably put-together as always, in a lilac blouse and black pencil skirt, with her work tablet in hand.“Winnie!” I greet her in a similar fashion, sweeping her into a brief, exaggerated hug that makes her squeak.“Welcome back, ma'am. I must say though, you seem to be in a good mood tod
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧Everything about this meeting screams a trap.I sit in the backseat of a nondescript black SUV, eyes trained on the quiet stretch of road as we drive out of the city. The address I was given isn’t the Barsamian mansion where we had the last meeting—it’s a guesthouse tucked into the outskirts of a neighboring city. That alone is a red flag. But what makes it worse is that I was explicitly asked to come alone.Of course, I’m not that foolish.A second vehicle trails behind, discreet and distant—my hired security detail, professionals I trust with my life. I keep my phone in my hand the entire ride, fingers tapping idly against the screen, sending occasional location updates to my manager just in case.Because this? This feels like the kind of story that ends in a disappearance headline.The guesthouse is impressive in a quiet, understated way. Rustic wood beams, a sweeping stone terrace, and tall windows that reflect the gray morning sky. Inside, it smells like lavender a
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The moment I shut the door to my suite, I loosen my collar and finally let the smile fall from my face.I’ve been wearing it like armor all day—through the suffocating politeness, the backhanded compliments, the curt dismissal of logic from a spoilt heir with too much money and too little sense. The matriarch was composed, yes. Graceful even. But her silence when her son spat that sexist garbage…That silence said more than I liked.I sink into the armchair by the window, the city of Yerevan sprawled beneath me like a glittering mosaic. I should let it go. But the tension stays, coiled tight between my shoulder blades.With a sigh, I reach for my phone and dial.“Hey,” I say when my marketing manager answers. “I need you to pull up alternatives. If the Barsamians don’t get back to us, we need other options for that stone.”“You’re thinking they’ll back out?”“I’m thinking their prince of a son might poison the whole deal. I just want to be ready.”We talk logistics, pro
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The car ride back to the hotel is quiet.Not awkward. Not tense.Just… still.Cameron alternates between texting on his phone and staring out the window, one of his arms draped over the backseat with his fingers tapping out a silent rhythm against the leather. I watch the landscape blur by—stone buildings and narrow alleyways, ancient churches perched atop hills. The sky is beginning to burn orange at the edges, and for the first time all day, I feel the adrenaline ebb from my body like a tide retreating after a storm.I messed things up. I know I did.But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.We enter the hotel lobby without a word, both of us nodding politely to the concierge who greets us. The golden glow of the chandeliers bathes the space in warmth, but I feel anything but. My shoulders are still tight, my hands still restless.We step into the elevator together, side by side. The polished gold doors slide shut, enclosing us in a gentle hum of silence.I glance at him. “Yo
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚By the time we arrive, the estate looks like something out of an oil painting—ornate gates, lush grounds, cobblestone paths winding toward a home that could easily double as a museum. The sky has softened into a lazy afternoon haze, and I still haven’t fully shaken the image of that gun pointed at our driver. But Cameron and I are both dressed in our game faces now, and like good little liars, we smile.A housekeeper ushers us into a sitting room where the matriarch waits.She’s nothing like I expected.Older, yes, with the kind of face carved by time and quiet power, but there’s nothing soft about her. Her posture is steel, her eyes sharp behind thin, gold-rimmed glasses. She wears a high-necked black dress and sits with the kind of stillness that makes you feel like you’re the one being examined.“Mr. Lancaster,” she says to Cameron, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. “And Miss…”“Hawthorne,” I offer with a polite smile, extending my hand. She doesn’t take it. She j
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The door slams shut behind him.Cameron is gone.And I’m frozen.My pulse hammers so loud I can barely hear the silence that follows. That kind of silence that only exists when something horrible is about to happen. The kind that makes your stomach twist and your lungs forget how to breathe.I press a hand to my chest, trying to ground myself, but the cold leather of the seat beneath me feels more surreal than comforting.Outside, I can see them—Cameron’s tall frame moving like a slow fuse toward a man with a gun. A gun. Pointed directly at our driver, who still stands with his hands raised, eyes wide and pleading. The wind catches the hem of the driver’s jacket, and for a second, he just looks so human. So fragile.I curse under my breath and lean forward to get a better view. My fingers grip the edge of the headrest so tight they ache.What the hell is going on?This was supposed to be a business trip. Silk deals, rare jewels, Cameron flirting too much and me pretending
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The next morning, we hit the road.Our driver, an older man with warm eyes and an encyclopedic knowledge of Armenian history, doubles as a tour guide. As the SUV glides through the countryside, he tells us about the Barsamians—how their lineage traces back centuries, how they built an empire from silk and spice and sheer force of will.Aretha listens, chin resting in her palm, her gaze drifting between the window and me. I catch her watching me from the corner of her eye for the fifth time.“What?” I ask, smiling. “You’re staring.”“I’m calculating.”“Calculating what?” I stretch my arm along the back of her seat, not touching her but close enough that her hair brushes my fingers.“Whether this trip is worth enduring your company for another forty-eight hours.”“Ouch.” I clutch my chest with exaggerated pain. “You wound me. And here I thought we were starting to bond.”“I don’t bond with trouble.”“You sat next to me. That makes you complicit.”She snorts and turns back
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚Yerevan greets us with a soft haze over the mountains and the thick warmth of afternoon sun pressing against the tarmac. The capital feels like a secret whispered between the ancient and the modern—a city made of stone, sky, and silent stories.Several hours after we land, I expect we’d be whisked straight to our client. That’s what I signed up for. Business. Strictly business.Instead, we end up checking into a hotel nestled in the city center—a luxury boutique place that smells faintly of rosewater and cedar. I wheel my suitcase into a suite that could easily host a cocktail party, then march back out toward Cameron’s room, irritation simmering just under my skin.He opens the door already dressed in a crisp linen shirt and slacks, smelling like something expensive and maddening.“Why are we here?” I demand, arms crossed. “I mean—here, at a hotel? Shouldn’t we be heading to the client’s estate or... at least contacting them?”Cameron’s smile is entirely too relaxed for