> I died loving him. I returned to destroy him. Aria Sinclair gave everything to Damon King — her love, her loyalty, her name. But when his betrayal shattered her world and drove her to her death, she swore one thing with her final breath: she would never love him again. Now reborn five years later with a new identity and sharper mind, Aria re-enters Damon’s life as a powerful investor bent on dismantling his empire piece by piece. But Damon isn’t the cold-hearted man she remembers. He's tormented by regret... and still haunted by her memory. As secrets unravel and passion reignites, Aria finds herself caught between the vengeance she craved and the love she once buried. Can she truly ruin the man who still owns her heart? Or will her kiss become his salvation instead of his downfall?
Lihat lebih banyakThe dress was murder red.
The kind of red that seduced and stabbed in the same breath. Ava Steele stood before the floor-length mirror in the penthouse suite of the Monarch Hotel, her reflection a contradiction — elegance carved from rage, beauty veined with vengeance. The silk clung to her body like it had secrets to keep. Just like her. She adjusted the neckline slightly, exposing one bare shoulder. Perfect. Soft enough to invite attention. Sharp enough to make Damon King regret breathing. Her lips curled upward. Not a smile. A warning. Tonight, she would face the man who destroyed her. Not as Aria Sinclair — the woman who once loved him enough to die. But as Ava Steele — the woman who came back to bury him. She turned from the mirror and reached for the delicate gold clutch on the dresser. Inside it: her new business card, an invitation to the gala, and a photo she hadn’t looked at in years. Damon’s smile. Her old wedding ring on his finger. She didn’t need to bring the picture. But pain was a useful fuel. It sharpened her intentions. --- The city glittered below as her heels clicked across the marble lobby of the Monarch. Every step echoed confidence she hadn’t possessed the last time she stood this close to him. Then, she’d been Aria — wife, lover, victim. Now, she was no one he knew. A ghost wrapped in glamor. The grand ballroom doors parted. Gold light spilled over her like molten power. She stepped in. Eyes turned. Men looked twice. Women whispered. She moved like memory — something familiar, something haunting. A dangerous déjà vu in the shape of a woman he once destroyed. A waiter passed. Champagne lifted. She took a glass, not for the taste, but for the weapon it could become if needed. The room pulsed with elite power: CEOs, politicians, media moguls. But her eyes only searched for one. Damon King. There he was. --- He stood near the stage, a dark figure in a tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie — as always, refusing to follow the rules unless he wrote them. His presence was still magnetic, still arrogant. But colder. More haunted. His eyes scanned the room like a man who had everything yet still searched for something lost. Good. She hoped he never found peace again. --- “Excuse me,” a voice purred beside her. She turned to see a tall, sharp-featured woman with ice-blonde hair and a couture dress that cost more than Ava’s rent used to. Recognition struck. Celeste Monroe. Damon’s former business partner — and the woman who had watched Aria fall without blinking. “You look familiar,” Celeste said, lips tight. “Have we met?” Ava sipped her champagne slowly, hiding the twist of amusement in her mouth. “Not yet,” she replied, her voice velvet. “But I’m sure we will.” She walked away before Celeste could ask more. The power of a woman reborn wasn’t in what she said — it was in what she didn’t need to explain. --- Then came the moment. Damon turned. His eyes locked with hers. And time fractured. --- Damon King didn’t believe in ghosts. But the moment his eyes landed on her, the air thinned like smoke after fire. His glass paused mid-air. Every sound in the room faded, as if the universe pressed mute just to force him to see her. No one else could cause that kind of silence in him. No one—except her. But it couldn’t be. She was dead. --- She stood across the ballroom, her figure outlined by the golden chandeliers above, all blood and silk and shadows. Her eyes were different. Sharper. Older. Colder. But something beneath them screamed familiarity. Screamed memory. His heartbeat — usually controlled, measured — stuttered like a lie trying to find its footing. He tried to look away. Couldn’t. She was speaking to someone, her lips curled into that half-smile that never reached the eyes. Aria’s smile used to start at her soul and bloom outward. This one bloomed in reverse — a petal of poison. Who was she? Who the hell was she? He stepped forward instinctively. --- Across the room, Ava felt his gaze like fire against her bare skin. She didn’t flinch. She held her ground, chin lifted, expression unreadable. It took everything in her not to scream. Not to let the weight of seeing him — alive, beautiful, unscarred by her absence — crush her spirit all over again. He looked older. Not in a tired way. In a colder, crueler way. The angles of his face sharper, the glint in his eye darker. But it was the same man who kissed her on courthouse steps and then signed away her life hours later. The man who buried her with silence. The man who would pay. --- They collided by the drinks table. A calculated accident. “New face,” Damon said, his voice deep, familiar, dangerous. “Have we met?” Ava turned to him slowly, eyes landing on his like fate coming full circle. “I don’t believe we have,” she lied with perfect ease. “I don’t usually attend events for men who believe they own the world.” He blinked, caught off guard. Her voice. It was like smoke through keyholes. Like velvet on a knife. Still — not Aria’s. Not exactly. “What brings you to tonight’s circus?” he asked. “I was invited,” she said, then let silence fall between them like a dare. He tilted his head slightly. “You remind me of someone.” “I get that a lot,” she replied. “Men always think I look like the woman they let slip away.” --- There it was. The flash of recognition in his eyes. Like a man hearing a ghost speak his name. His jaw clenched. She could see the thoughts tearing through him. But he couldn’t place it. Not yet. Not until she wanted him to. “Do you believe in karma, Mr. King?” she asked softly, brushing a finger along the rim of her glass. “I believe in power,” he said flatly. “Same thing,” she whispered. “One just wears prettier clothes.” She turned from him then, giving him her back without hesitation. And she knew—without needing to see—that he watched her walk away like a man haunted by something he couldn't name. The night air hit her skin like a slap — sharp, cold, and alive. Ava descended the marble steps of the Monarch Hotel slowly, refusing to look back. Not at the gilded ballroom. Not at the man who used to call her his world. Not at the city where her death had been signed, sealed, and quietly forgotten. Her heels echoed in the valet circle as she walked alone to the waiting car. No assistant. No entourage. Just silence — her preferred company now. The driver opened the door to the black sedan. She slid in, exhaling only when the door closed and the world outside disappeared behind tinted glass. “Where to, ma’am?” the driver asked. Ava looked out the window, eyes locked on the hotel behind her. “The last place Damon King expects me,” she said. “Kensley Media.” --- Inside the car, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her hidden files. "Project Thorn." Her entire revenge plan lived in that folder — encrypted, detailed, and months in the making. Kensley Media, one of the most powerful PR firms in Manhattan, was weeks away from collapse. Buried in debt. All it needed was a new investor to revive its image. That investor? Ava. The same Ava who once donated blood to keep Damon’s business afloat when banks wouldn’t touch him. Now, she would control his entire public image — and poison it from within. Because power wasn’t just in boardrooms or bank accounts. Power was knowing the whole world would turn against him... before he even realized she held the match. --- But that wasn’t what made her chest ache. It was his eyes. That split second when he looked at her like she was a memory slipping through his fingers. Like he missed her. Like he still loved her. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Her heart didn’t get to feel things anymore. Not for him. Not after what he did. --- Flashback — Five Years Ago “I would never betray you,” Aria whispered, clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart. Damon didn’t blink. “You already did.” She shook her head. “They set me up. Damon, I swear to you—” “You leaked the contract to the press. You gave them everything they needed to ruin me.” “I didn’t!” she cried. “Why would I destroy the man I love?” But he didn’t hear her. Or maybe he didn’t care. Within 24 hours, her name was smeared across headlines. Her access revoked. Her reputation torched. And Damon... walked away. No explanation. No protection. Just a single message: I hope the price was worth it. It wasn’t. It cost her everything. --- Ava’s fingers clenched around her phone now, back in the present. She never betrayed him. But someone did. And instead of standing by her, he buried her with the lie. The car stopped in front of a sleek, grey building with black glass windows. Kensley Media’s Manhattan HQ. Ava stepped out, heels hitting the pavement with finality. This was step one. Let him think she was just another pretty stranger with sharp words and a sharper smile. Let him wonder why he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Let him fall — slowly, deeply — into the illusion of her. Until he realized too late… The woman he let die is the same one who’s come back to destroy him.Ava sat cross-legged on her couch, the folder Damon had left her lying open across the coffee table. She’d gone over every page three times, her notes scattered beside it in uneven, frustrated scribbles.It didn’t make sense.Most of it was financial fluff—shareholder reports, transaction breakdowns, things that looked important at first glance but revealed nothing after hours of staring. She dug deeper, running her finger along the pages like the texture itself might give her answers.Then her eyes snagged on one sheet near the back. A single memo. Different paper stock, slightly off-white, as if it hadn’t come from the same stack.Her chest tightened.The memo was dated six months after her father’s “accident.” It referenced a transfer of assets between Blackwood subsidiaries, and scribbled in the margin—one word, handwritten in thick black ink: “Collateral.”Collateral.Ava’s pulse climbed. Was this the crack she’d been looking for? Or…Or had Damon put it there on purpose?She lea
The morning felt wrong before Ava even reached Damon’s office. His schedule was usually a fortress of precision—calls blocked to the minute, meetings stacked like dominoes. But when she laid the folder on his desk, he didn’t even glance at it.“Cancel the morning brief,” he said, flipping casually through a sheet of paper.Ava blinked. “Cancel—? Damon, that’s with—”“I know who it’s with.” He didn’t look up. “Push it. This instead.”He slid a different folder toward her. Lighter. Thin. A simple courier request, by the looks of it—deliver sealed documents to an associate uptown.It was the kind of task an intern would handle. Not his executive assistant. Not her.Ava hesitated, her hand hovering over the folder. “You want me to… personally?”“Yes.” This time his eyes lifted, catching hers. His face was neutral, but there was a flicker—something measured, deliberate. “I want you to make sure it gets there. No one else.”The weight of his gaze lingered just long enough to make her throat
Ava lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow of the city leaking through her blinds. Sleep wouldn’t come.She could still hear Damon’s voice in the lobby. “Do you enjoy that?” The way it slipped out of him—like something he’d been holding back for too long and lost control of.She should’ve felt triumphant. This was what she wanted, wasn’t it? To crawl under his skin, to make him unravel piece by piece until he was weak enough to crush.But instead of triumph, there was this strange knot in her chest.She pressed her palms against her eyes, groaning quietly. “Get it together, Ava…”Every time she tried to push it away, it came back stronger. The look on his face when Mr. Keane had smiled at her. That flicker of something raw—something not cold, not calculated. Something Damon Blackwood would rather die than show.Her heart gave a stupid, traitorous flutter, and she rolled over, burying her face in the pillow.She hated this. Hated that it felt like she was losing control of he
The bed was empty when Ava woke. The sheets beside her were cool, smooth, like Damon hadn’t even touched them after she’d fallen asleep.Her chest pinched. He hadn’t stayed.Dragging herself up, she slipped into a robe and padded downstairs. The house was still, too quiet. No clink of glass, no low rumble of his voice on a phone call. Just silence.On the counter, the coffee pot sat clean. Not even a trace of grounds in the filter. Damon always made coffee, even if he never drank much. Always.Her hand brushed the handle, hesitating.Movement caught her eye—by the door. His jacket was gone from the hook. But his watch lay on the table, the one he never forgot.She picked it up. Heavy. Cold. It still held the faint warmth of his wrist.Footsteps came from the back hallway. Damon appeared, crisp in a suit, tie knotted tight. He froze a beat when he saw her holding the watch.“Forgot something?” she asked, her voice softer than she meant.His jaw ticked, unreadable. He walked over, pluck
The bed was cold when she rolled over.Ava blinked into the pale light spilling through the curtains, her hand searching for him out of habit. Nothing. Just sheets pulled tight, like he hadn’t even bothered lying down on his side.She sat up slowly, head foggy, the hollow ache in her chest worse than any hangover. Her bare feet hit the floor, and for a second she just sat there, staring at the space he hadn’t touched.Downstairs, the house was quiet. Too quiet.She found the coffee pot still clean, no fresh coffee waiting like it usually was when he left early. His jacket wasn’t on the chair by the door. The faint hum of his office—always alive with noise—was gone.She poured herself a cup, the silence swallowing even the sound of the pour. Sitting at the counter, she wrapped both hands around the mug just to feel something warm.Every empty space seemed to scream his absence.The house had never felt this big, or this cold.The clock ticked past nine before she heard the garage door.
The door clicked shut, and Damon just stood there. His hand still on the handle, fingers stiff, like if he let go, everything inside him might spill out.The hallway was empty, quiet, but his chest felt too loud—heart slamming against bone, breath uneven. He backed up until his shoulders hit the wall. He pressed his palms to it like he needed something solid to keep from falling apart.“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not out loud. Not to her.I trust you too much.The words replayed in his head like a loop he couldn’t cut. It made his stomach turn. Trust was the one thing he never gave freely, not since he was old enough to understand how people used it against him. And yet, with her—it slipped. It fell out of him like a truth he couldn’t cage.Footsteps. Damon’s head snapped up. Marcus, one of his men, was walking down the hall, holding a file. He slowed when he saw Damon.“You good, boss?” Marcus asked, voice careful
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