Chapter 4 — A Caged Beast Still Bites, After All

The wind on the balcony was sharper than anything inside—cold, needling, and merciless.

It reminded Lena Shore of the northern sea currents she had studied for half a decade.

Even nature had a way of telling her truths:

Nothing soft survives without fighting.

She stood alone, the slice of cake untouched in her hand. The desert-like sweetness mocked her—too artificial, too polished, too celebratory for a night that tasted like humiliation.

Below the balcony stretched the city she once called home.

Skyscrapers pierced the sky like sharpened blades.

Neon lights flickered like restless predators.

Every street pulsed with ambition, greed, and feigned civility.

Eleven years ago, she left this city with innocence.

Tonight, it welcomed her back with claws.

“Miss Shore.”

The calm, respectful voice behind her tugged her from her thoughts.

Lena turned.

James Allen—chairman of the Global Oceanic Restoration Foundation evaluation committee—stood in the doorway. Silver-haired, tall, posture straight as a harpoon. He had the quiet pressure of a man whose presence could tilt a room without saying a word.

“Mr. Allen,” Lena greeted with a polite nod.

His eyes swept over her—sharp, evaluating, lingering on the scars on her fingers. Scars she earned in the open ocean, battling storms, scraping barnacles off rust-eaten buoys, repairing deep-sea monitoring equipment in zero-degree waters.

Real scars, not the kind bought by surgeons in this ballroom.

“I’ve reviewed your Z-7 strain field data,” Allen said without preamble.

“And the satellite monitoring reports of the restored section of the East Pacific.”

He paused. The weight of a scientist’s cautious excitement glimmered in his eyes.

“If scalable, your strain could be the biggest leap in marine restoration biology in the last twenty years.”

Lena’s breath hitched.

Years—years of scraping for budget, begging universities for lab space, sleeping in shacks near polluted bays, diving until her skin peeled—everything led to this moment.

“So,” Lena asked cautiously, “does this mean—”

“But,” Allen cut in, expression dimming,

“You know the Foundation’s grants are voted on by the board and primary sponsors.”

His eyes drifted toward the ballroom.

“After tonight’s incident… some sponsors are hesitant. Particularly SkyOcean Group. And their stance influences almost all the others.”

SkyOcean.

Ethan Grant’s empire.

Funny how everything she tried to escape from always circled back like a ghost with her name carved into its bones.

Her grip crushed the slice of cake in her hand. Cream burst out between her fingers, dripping onto the balcony tiles like melted wax.

Allen hesitated.

The old man looked at her with a mixture of sympathy and regret.

“I personally believe in your work, Miss Shore. But… business rules are business rules.”

He exhaled softly, then added:

“Unless you speak to Mr. Grant.”

Lena’s lashes lowered.

Her heartbeat didn’t even change.

“Unless,” she said lightly, “I go beg Ethan Grant.”

Allen didn’t confirm, but silence was answer enough.

He sighed deeply, patting her shoulder.

“You’re still young, child. Bending your head isn’t shameful.”

Lena watched him walk away.

Then she whispered to the empty balcony:

“I’ve knelt before.

Once.”

The memory stabbed her chest.

Seven years ago—

She had knelt…

For someone she believed in.

For a truth she didn’t betray.

For a father who died in disgrace because of a lie.

And for the boy she once loved—

the boy who became the man willing to watch her burn.

She tossed the ruined cake into a trash bin, wiped her hands clean, and walked back into the banquet hall.

The golden lights hit her eyes like a slap.

She inhaled sharply.

The scent of luxury, perfume, champagne, greed, and polished hypocrisy swirled together.

This city hadn’t changed.

But she had.

She headed straight toward Ethan Grant.

——

Ethan stood with a circle of foreign executives, laughter smooth, posture elegant, the perfect image of the young corporate king.

When he noticed her approaching, his smile dimmed—irritation flickering in his eyes.

“What now?”

His voice held the exact tone one used to dismiss a street vendor.

Lena stood tall, her expression blank.

“I need the Foundation’s sponsorship.”

The executives fell silent.

Some looked amused; some intrigued.

Ethan raised an eyebrow, took a leisurely sip of wine, and placed his glass down with deliberate slowness.

“So you finally remember you need help?” he said.

“Where was all that attitude earlier?”

Cecilia Howard—draped in diamonds and faux innocence—clutched his arm.

“Lena,” she drawled sweetly, “that’s not how you ask for favors. Shouldn’t you try begging? I’m sure Ethan would be generous if you… humbled yourself.”

Lena didn’t spare her a glance.

She looked only at Ethan.

“Name your price.”

The crowd stirred.

A ripple of excitement spread—like sharks catching the scent of blood.

Ethan tapped his fingers on the table, his lips curling.

“Not hard,” he murmured.

“In front of everyone here, apologize to me.”

He leaned closer, voice dripping poison.

“Say that you betrayed the research team seven years ago for money.”

A sharp gasp rolled across the hall.

Wendy Lang laughed with venomous delight.

Cecilia made a show of covering her mouth, pretending to be shocked.

“Oh Ethan,” she cooed, “that’s so cruel… but if she wants money that badly…”

Lena’s heartbeat slowed.

Her eyes softened—not with vulnerability but with clarity.

These were the eyes she once knew on Ethan:

Eyes that laughed as he tossed her his jacket on cold nights.

Eyes that glowed when they ran experiments side by side.

Eyes that softened when he whispered—

“I want a future with you.”

Those eyes now?

Cold.

Arrogant.

Self-satisfied.

She exhaled softly—and laughed.

Ethan’s brows furrowed. The sound was too calm. Too knowing.

“Ethan Grant,” Lena said quietly,

“You’ve really grown.”

A hush fell.

She took a single step closer.

Ethan shifted back half a pace, instinctive, almost fearful—

but he straightened quickly, pretending it didn’t happen.

“The incident back then,” Lena said clearly, sweeping her gaze across the hall,

“I didn’t do it.

Neither did my father.”

She lifted her chin.

“If you want an apology, then fine. Not today.

When I win a Nobel Prize in Environmental Science…

I’ll kneel at my father’s grave and tell him his daughter didn’t shame him.”

Then she reached out—

and tapped Ethan lightly on the chest.

“You,” she whispered,

“don’t deserve it.”

It was a soft touch, but Ethan froze as if she had stabbed him.

Because beneath that spot—

hidden under his suit—

was a scar.

A scar he once got shielding her during a lab accident.

A scar she once kissed.

A scar that once meant something.

She turned.

“Stop right there!” Ethan snapped, grabbing her wrist.

His fingers clamped down hard enough to bruise.

Gasps echoed around them.

“Lena Shore, don’t you dare walk away from me,” he growled.

“You think you’re still the genius everyone admired?

You’re nothing now!”

Lena glanced at his hand tightening around her wrist—white marks forming under his grip.

“Let go.”

“No.”

Ethan’s voice broke slightly.

“If you don’t apologize, you’re not leaving this hall.”

Cecilia fluttered to his side.

“Oh Ethan, don’t be angry… she’s just stubborn… let her go…”

But triumph gleamed in her eyes.

Lena didn’t struggle.

Instead, she gently patted Ethan’s hand with her free hand.

“You’re sure you want to stop me?”

“I’m sure,” he said, jaw tight.

Lena nodded once.

Then—

In a single fluid movement—

she twisted, shifted her weight, and flipped him over her shoulder.

“BANG!”

Ethan crashed onto the marble floor.

The sound cracked through the hall like thunder.

He sucked in a breath, pain searing across his back, humiliation burning hotter.

Cecilia screamed.

Executives stumbled backward.

Someone dropped a champagne flute—it shattered, echoing the shattering silence.

Lena stood over him.

Calm.

Cold.

Untouchable.

“You didn’t believe me seven years ago. Fine.”

“You block my way today. Fine.”

“But Ethan Grant—” she said,

“My patience… has limits.”

She turned.

Her heels struck the floor with rhythmic precision, each step like a hammer to the stunned hearts in the room.

Cecilia scrambled to her knees beside Ethan,

“Ethan! Ethan—are you okay?!”

But Ethan shoved her away violently.

His eyes locked on Lena’s retreating silhouette.

Anger surged.

Humiliation burned.

But beneath that—hidden so deep he barely felt it—

was something he refused to name.

Something that terrified him.

“Lena Shore…” he spat, trembling with fury,

“You’ll regret this!”

Lena pushed open the door.

Cold wind rushed in, sweeping through the ballroom.

Without looking back, she replied:

“I regret a lot of things already.”

Her voice drifted into the night.

“One more won’t hurt.”

She stepped out into the darkness—

leaving behind the hall full of gasps, shattered pride, and a man whose world was no longer predictable.

The door closed behind her.

Outside

the city waited.

Sharp. Silent. Restless.

She inhaled deeply.

A cage could hold a bird—

or it could forge its claws.

Lena had already chosen which one she would be.