Obsession for Revenge

Chapter Two : Obsession In Revenge

Christiana’s POV

They say obsession is addictive, my addiction started on a Thursday afternoon, in my sweatpants, with my hair tied up and revenge sitting heavy in my chest like a second heartbeat.

I was scrolling through social media like the nights before, where grief blurred my screen and guilt lulled me into sleepless spirals.

I had Vision, specifically a mission to seduce, steal and destroy.

My target was Bryan Adams.

The heir and CEO of Adams Petroleum and Gas. A f*cking billionaire, whose arms now wrapped around Bella Calamida at night, the same arms that should’ve thrown her into the same grave she helped dig for my mother.

Bryan Adams is a man whose money would keep her adored, protected, clothed in designer silk, and far above the trenches she belonged in.

His profile appeared at the top of the list, blue check gleaming like royalty. Clean, professional and curated. I clicked without hesitation.

Bryan Adams. CEO. Adams Petroleum & Gas. Houston.

He was just like every other billionaire , but he seems to like the media.

He posted financial facts that dripped power.

I scanned through his feed. Every image was a window into his life, his wealth, his ease.

Him shaking hands with oil barons and international dignitaries, at private luncheons with politicians, smiling in crisp navy suits.

At a gala, black tux, champagne in hand and the bit*h, Bella by his side.

She stood with her back straight, her chin slightly tilted, wearing that same rehearsed smile, the one she’d worn in one of my family photos when she used to call me “sister.”

She was nestled into the crook of his arm like she had earned the right to be there.

I wonder what Bryan Adams would think of her when he discovers she had slit my mother’s heart open with betrayal and walked away wearing pearls.

I felt my nails press into the velvet couch cushion. I didn’t even notice I was clenching until I saw the half-moon indentations on my palm.

He looked too good for her. 

His captions were brief, and straightforward, strictly business-focused.

“Q4 planning with global partners.”

“Energy summit in Abu Dhabi.”

“#TBT to drilling week with the crew.”

But here and there, I found hints of softness.

A beach bonfire with friends, casual, relaxed. A grainy photo of him holding a stray dog on a rainy sidewalk, crouched and smiling like a man who knew how to care.

A glass of bourbon in his hand, taken across a rooftop skyline, his eyes half-lidded, hair slightly ruffled, with the caption:

“End of a long week.”

That’s when I saw a very familiar background location in one of the more recent posts. A dimly lit selfie of a whiskey glass and a slice of lemon rind resting on a napkin. The caption read:

“My best Friday spot.”

My eyes widened, heart thudding with a strange mix of curiosity and satisfaction. I knew that bar, intimately. 

The background in the photo was too familiar to miss: the warm amber lighting, the matte black walls, the bronze-framed mirror behind the bar that always gave off a soft, golden reflection. I’d recognize that place in my sleep. 

The Black Barrel Bar.

It wasn’t flashy or loud like most bars downtown; it was buried in the quiet part of the city, discreet and understated.

Strictly for the high class people. The likes of me, before this calamity befell me.

Inside, everything whispered power. The kind that commanded silence and respect. Leather booths lined the walls, designed for private conversations and whispered deals. 

The scent of cigars and aged bourbon lingered in the wood, soaked into every surface. The wait staff wore black and moved like shadows. It was the kind of place where decisions were made, where empires shifted with a handshake and a sip of something twelve years old. 

Tony and I had been there a few times together. He liked the drinks, always ordered his scotch neat. I liked the atmosphere, the way you could disappear inside it, the way no one asked questions in a place like that.

I did my research on the Black Barrel Bar, scrolled through more photo posts from strangers, influencers, high-end nobodies. Each one, unknowingly, gave me confirmation. Bryan appeared in background after background.

His presence was consistent. Every Friday night, like clockwork, he was there. It was his spot and tomorrow was Friday.

I felt my lips curve into something almost dangerous as I leaned back against the couch. My vision is coming to life.

He wasn’t a distant billionaire in a penthouse. He was a man with a pattern, a habit, a weakness. He was reachable, predictable and real. The first move had finally presented itself.

“Found him, didn’t you?”

I turned sharply at the voice. I’d forgotten Tony had come by earlier to help me set up my new place. He was standing in the doorway now, arms crossed, watching me like he already knew exactly what I’d discovered. I’d chosen this apartment for the fact that it was far from the mansion, far from the reminders.

I wanted distance from anything that smelled like the life I’d lost, and Tony, as always, had been there, showing up when I didn’t ask but needed him most.

He stepped closer, eyeing the open laptop on my coffee table. His gaze narrowed just slightly, but his voice stayed light. “Took you long enough.”

“You remember this bar, don’t you?” I asked, ignoring the sarcasm in his tone.

Tony walked in slowly, dropped onto the couch beside me, and leaned forward to squint at the image. “Yeah. That’s The Black Barrel. I’ve seen him there once. 

That place is crawling with oil execs.”

I closed the laptop gently. “Perfect.”

Tony’s jaw tightened. “Christy…”

“Don’t,” I said quickly, already feeling the speech brewing behind his stare.

He sighed. “You’re applying to work for his company already, aren’t you?”

I nodded. “The executive office is hiring a new PA. Hopefully his PA.”

He leaned back slowly. “You’re serious about this.”

“I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

Tony was quiet for a while. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “I just… I get it, Christy. I do. But this … this is dangerous. This isn’t just burning a bridge. This is burning the whole damn city.”

“I’m not the one who lit the match,” I snapped. Then softened. “Tony… this is my justice. My mother didn’t get hers. My father… he doesn’t deserve redemption but Bella is thriving.”

I stood, pacing the floor slowly, my arms wrapped around myself like armor.

“She walked away from the wreck she caused and landed in silk sheets and champagne. That’s not fair. That’s not the world I want to live in.”

Tony stood too, stepping in front of me. “You think seducing her husband will bring your mother back?”

“No,” I whispered. “But it will bring Bella down.”

He looked at me for a long time. His eyes were sad. 

“Just don’t lose yourself in the process,” he said quietly as he went back into the kitchen.

I sat back slowly, my thumb resting against my lips, calculating.

The first move had just revealed itself.

The Black Barrel.