FOUR

Florence's POV

I’ve been staring at this damn zipper for ten minutes.

The dress fits, technically, but it’s the kind of fit that makes breathing optional. It’s black, sleek, off-shoulder, and far too elegant for the occasion. Too elegant for someone who’s supposed to be working her way through vengeance. I shouldn’t care how I look tonight, but a little part of me does and I didn't like it.

I tugged again, twisting my arm backward at an unnatural angle.

“Mum,” I called out, breathless, “can you help me with this?”

No response came. I sighed and step into the living room. Mom was sitting on the couch, eyes fixed on a faded family photo like she’s time-traveling again.

But when she looked and saw me, really saw me, her face lit up, like a sun I haven’t seen in years.

“Oh Florence,” she breathed out. “You look so pretty.”

I blinked. “What?”

She stood, suddenly purposeful, her eyes almost seeming clear-headed. “Wait here.”

She rushed to her bedroom and returned with a small hair brooch, delicate silver, shaped like a leaf. I remember it, she used to wear it on birthdays and anniversaries.

She pinned it to my hair, her hands trembling slightly.

“There,” she said softly, smiling. “You look beautiful. Just like when I married your father…”

And then, as quickly as the light appeared, it disappears. Her face tightens and her hands fall.

“Your father,” she whispered, “he would’ve loved to see you tonight.”

I took a shaky breath. “Mom..”

“He would’ve loved it,” she repeats louder. “He would’ve said you looked like a star! But he’s dead, he’s dead, isn’t he? He didn’t even get to say goodbye, Florence! We just buried him like a stranger...”

I grab her arms. “Mum, It’s okay. I know, I know.”

And then the worst of it came.

She jerked away and stared at me, her eyes wide, panicked. “Wait… where is he? Where’s your father, Florence? He should be back by now.”

I forced a smile adapting to the situation almost immediately and with practiced ease. “He went out, remember? He said he’d meet us there.”

“Really?” she whispered.

“Of course. I’ll send him a picture so he doesn’t miss out.”

I lifted my phone, pretending to snap the photo, and my fingers shook as I pressed the button. My mother clapped softly, nodding like a child.

*******

By the time I stepped into the company’s hotel ballroom, I had rebuilt the mask.

The lights were too bright as the room was flooded with champagne and soft jazz. Men in sleek tuxedos, women in gowns worth more than my mother’s treatment plan. Everyone was laughing, networking, pretending they’re not just hungry wolves in expensive heels and custom shoes.

I spotted Anthony near the stage. In a maroon blue suit, sporting an indifferent expression. As usual, he looks like he owns not just the room but time itself.

I walked past a waiter and snatched a glass of champagne off the tray.

“Florence,” he said when I approached, voice as steady as a metronome.

I raised a brow. “Oh. You can speak outside of giving orders.”

His eyes flickered, but as always, he didn't rise to the bait.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Not particularly. But then again, you wouldn’t know much about enjoyment would you? You probably schedule your joy for every third Thursday between quarterly meetings.”

He sips from his glass and I caught corner of his mouth twitching, like maybe he found that funny but doesn’t have the muscles to show it.

I took another sip. The bubbles burn slightly or maybe that was the ache in my throat from earlier.

We walked through the room together, him composed, me pretending I was not one glass away from combusting into flames. He introduced me to a few clients, barely looking at me when he does, but I smile through it all, like a good little employee.

But the more I drank, the less the mask held. A third glass, then a fourth.

He was speaking to a CFO about quarterly targets. Uninterested, I rolled my eyes and wandered toward the balcony, glass in hand.

I didn't know how long I was out there before I felt him beside me again.

“You’ve had enough,” he said quietly.

I laughed loudly. “You don’t get to tell me when I’ve had enough.”

“Florence..”

“Fuck off,” I snapped, slurring slightly. “You don’t get to act concerned. Not you of all people, traitor.”

His brow lifted slightly. “I beg your pardon?”

I spun to face him, head swimming. “You’re the one who destroyed my family. My father died because of you. My brother rots in a prison in a country we don’t even know. And you, ” I jabbed my finger at his chest. “You walk around in your custom suits and silent stares like none of it matters.”

He said nothing, and so in my drunken state that was akin to silent acceptance and so I pushed harder.

“You think being cold makes you powerful? You think ignoring people makes you strong? No. It makes you heartless. It makes you..”

I stumbled, but he caught my arm just in time.

“Don’t touch me!” I shouted, yanking away.

Guests started to stare. Someone whispers my name, but Anyhow doesn’t flinch. He just leaned in, murmured something to one of the assistants, and escorts me through the ballroom like it’s just a quiet exit.

The elevator ride to the suite was silent. My chest heaves with everything I want to scream, and everything I want to destroy.

We got to a private room and when the door clicked shut behind us, I lost it.

“You want to know why I’m here?” I shouted. “You want to know what your company means to me?”

He watched me with an irritating calmness.

“I came here to destroy you.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re drunk.”

“I came here to ruin you, Anthony,” I spat out, voice shaking. “I’ve been planning it for five years. You destroyed my life, so I’m going to destroy yours.”

His expression didn't change.

But his voice, when it finally came, was quieter and much sharper.

“If I destroyed your life… what are you doing to me?"

I stopped in my tracks. Because the way he said it… it wasn't smug, it wasn't dismissive. It was something else and it made my blood boil.

And without thinking—without breathing—I closed the distance between us.

I grabbed the lapel of his suit and yanked him down, my lips crashing into his like a storm tearing through a city. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t sweet. It was anger and grief and the kind of heat that only grows in ruins.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, he kissed me back.

Then I gasped, shoving him away as my hand smacked across his chest.

“What the hell was that?” I hissed, eyes wide in horror. “You kissed me! You damn pervert!”

His brows raised, breath steady. “You kissed me first.”

“You’re lying.”

“No,” he said evenly. “You’re drunk, and angry, and so far buried in your own pain you can’t even see when you’re the one lighting matches.”

“Liar,” I snapped. “Thief. You should be used to making up stories.”

He just sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose like he was tired of me.

"If I'm such a bad person as you claim then what are you doing here?"

“I’m making it even,” I whispered. “And I haven’t even started. I will ruin your life just the way you ruined mine. And I won't rest until I have achieved it."