CHAPTER 93

WHO ARE YOU...

The morning light stretched lazily across the Vandell estate, slipping through the sheer curtains of the bedroom and painting faint gold on the walls. Abigail stirred beneath the blankets, her head heavy with the remnants of yesterday’s thoughts. She rolled to her side and found Luke already gone. The empty space beside her was still warm, proof he hadn’t left too long ago.

For a while, she lay still, letting her mind wander. There had been a subtle change in him since their last conversations about Obetta and the club. He was still Luke still commanding, still steady but there was an edge of wariness in his every move now, as though he could sense storms before they broke. Abigail hadn’t pressed him. She had learned by now that Luke opened up on his own terms.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She reached for it, blinking at the name flashing across the screen.

Maya.

“Morning,” Abigail answered softly, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Morning?” Maya’s voice crackled through the line, tight with disbelief. “Abby, do you know what’s happening downtown?”

Abigail sat up. “No. What?”

“Obetta. She’s at the Cruz boutique again. But Abi this time she looks… different. Not her usual smug self. She tried making a scene again, but it didn’t stick. People aren’t listening to her anymore. You should have seen her face.”

Abigail’s heart skipped. “Different how?”

Maya hesitated. “Angry. Desperate. Like she’s being cornered.”

A pause hung between them. Abigail thought about the last few weeks the quiet movements Luke had been making, the calls she knew he made late at night, the faint but steady assurance in his eyes when she asked too many questions. She didn’t know the details, but she was beginning to suspect.

“Maya,” she said slowly, “what if someone’s dismantling everything she’s been building? Cutting her off from all those people she brags about?”

Her friend gave a short laugh. “Then I’d say good riddance. But honestly, Abby… I don’t think she knows who’s behind it. That’s what makes it worse for her.”

Abigail chewed her bottom lip. For a moment, she almost wanted to feel pity. Almost. But then she remembered the venom in Obetta’s words, the cruel smirk she wore whenever she tried to belittle her, the way she had nearly ruined the gala with her stunts.

Pity wasn’t a luxury she could afford.

“I’ll come see you later,” Abigail murmured. “We’ll talk properly.”

“Alright. But Abby,” Maya added, her voice softer now, “be careful. If she’s losing control, she might get reckless. And reckless people are dangerous.”

Abigail nodded to herself, even though Maya couldn’t see her. “I know.”

By afternoon, Abigail found herself out with Maya. The boutique had calmed since the morning’s stir, but whispers lingered in the air like perfume. Shoppers moved in clusters, murmuring to each other, their eyes flicking to the corner where Obetta had stood not too long ago.

“She was shouting,” one woman whispered to another as Abigail and Maya passed. “Like a child throwing a tantrum. The manager didn’t even back her up this time.”

“She used to command rooms,” another replied. “Now people just roll their eyes. What happened to her?”

Abigail and Maya exchanged a glance. Neither spoke, but both knew what those whispers meant.

They spotted Obetta outside the boutique, leaning against her sleek car. She was dressed impeccably, as always, her black dress hugging her figure, diamonds glittering at her ears. But her poise had cracks now Abigail could see it in the tightness of her jaw, the way she clutched her phone as if strangling it.

When her eyes met theirs across the distance, Obetta didn’t smirk. She didn’t throw a barb or toss a mocking smile. She simply stared, her eyes flashing with a wild frustration, before sliding into the car and slamming the door behind her.

The engine roared to life, and the car sped off.

Maya let out a low whistle. “That’s not the Obetta I know. She’s rattled.”

Abigail hugged her arms around herself. The image of that stare clung to her mind, heavy and sharp. For the first time, she realized Obetta wasn’t just angry. She was afraid.

Meanwhile, back in her own home, Obetta paced the length of her room like a caged animal. The day had only deepened her sense of unease. She had tried to use the Cruz boutique as her stage again, the way she always did, expecting whispers and admiration, expecting the crowd to obey.

But they hadn’t.

Instead, they’d looked through her, some even smirking. And the manager who once scrambled to please her every whim had stood firm, citing “policy” when she tried to demand the boutique be cleared. Policy. She nearly spat at the word.

Her grip tightened on her phone. She had made calls all day, but every line was the same: silence, excuses, or outright rejection. She had always been feared. Even when she wasn’t loved, she was respected. But today she had felt neither.

“Who are you?” she whispered again to the empty room. “Who dares strip me like this?”

Her thoughts darted to Luke once more. It made sense it had to be him. But something in her gut told her no. This wasn’t his style. Luke crushed opponents openly, with the weight of his name and power. Whoever was behind this was moving in shadows, leaving her with no one to fight against.

And the not knowing it ate at her more than anything else.

Obetta poured herself another glass of wine, the red liquid trembling as she filled it too quickly. She sat by the window, staring out at the city beyond, her reflection glaring back at her.

She remembered Abigail’s face from earlier. That little glimmer of calm confidence she carried now. It burned her. Abigail was never supposed to rise to her level, much less walk beside her in public without shame.

Obetta’s nails dug into her palm. If Abigail thought for one second she was winning, she was wrong. Sooner or later, she would find out who was pulling the strings and when she did, she would tear everything apart.

By evening, Abigail returned home. Luke was already waiting, seated in the living room, a file spread across his lap. He looked up as she entered, his eyes briefly scanning her face before closing the file.

“You saw her,” he said simply, not as a question but as a fact.

Abigail blinked, caught off guard. “How did you know?”

“Because that’s exactly what I wanted you to see,” Luke replied, leaning back against the couch. “Her mask slipping.”

She sank into the seat opposite him, her heart racing with realization. “It’s you.”

Luke’s lips curved faintly, not in denial but not in confirmation either. “Don’t ask me how, Abigail. Just know she’s losing ground. And when people like Obetta start losing, they show you exactly how far they’re willing to go.”

Abigail thought of Maya’s warning from earlier. Reckless people were dangerous.

She nodded slowly, meeting his eyes. “Then I’ll be ready.”

Luke studied her for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his gaze. And then, quietly, he said, “Good.”

That night, as the city wound down into silence, two very different women lay awake.

Abigail, comforted by Luke’s quiet presence in the house, held on to the hope that whatever storm was gathering, she would weather it.

And Obetta, alone with her glass of wine and her fraying network, stared into the dark and whispered again to the invisible hand undoing her world:

“Who are you?”

But the silence offered no answer.