TWO FACE FOR REVENGE

Susan POV.The atmosphere felt chilly, I could hear the sound of our heartbeats filling the dead silence that stung into the air. I tried to warn those tears, not to fall, not to make me feel miserable but I can't hold back anymore.Not after I heard this. Not after those hurtful words is coming out from someone I love most."Let's break up, Susan. This relationship can't work anymore" he repeat it. Now with a tone that brings determination with no hint of regret.The tears roll down my cheeks as I remind myself of what exactly is happening. My fiancee want to break up when our wedding is tomorrow! Who does that on the wedding eve?I grabbed onto him. "You can't do this, Mike. Tomorrow is our wedding day! We are getting married tomorrow, you can't just break up with me now!" He slapped my hands away and shot me a glare. "Don't you dare in your miserable life use those hands to touch me. I was just confused for a moment! That confusion made me thought I love you! Now I'm back to my se

Andrea’s POVFinally, I'm set to go! Isabel got me the exact gown I requested for and the guards has prepared those cars as well.The soft hum of the engine was the only sound inside the car. My heart beat in a rhythm that matched the city lights flashing by the tinted window.Tonight wasn’t just a gathering. It was the beginning of something far greater my return. Something that will determine my revenge.When the valet opened the door, the cool night breeze brushed my skin. I stepped out slowly, heels clicking against the floor, feeling the curious eyes of people turning toward me. For a brief second, I tasted power. I can now differentiate from being helpless and powerful, I will always go for something powerful. “Good evening, Miss Williams,” one of the ushers said, bowing slightly.I smiled faintly and entered the hall.The Empire Dinner sparkled with gold lights and champagne laughter. The scent of expensive perfume hung in the air, mingling with soft jazz. Every table was fil

​Then, boom, we hugged, her hand wrapping tightly around my waist.​The force of the push was strong enough that I instinctively wrapped my arms around her, holding her steady. It wasn't a gentle embrace; it was the sudden, jarring contact of two people colliding, yet the moment was anything but jarring to my senses.​Her body was pressed against mine, and I could feel the sharp intake of her breath against my suit jacket. Her hands, which had flown out to steady herself, were now clutching my waist. The delicate scent of her perfume—something floral and expensive, yet surprisingly subtle—filled my lungs.​For a long second, we remained that way, frozen in the doorway of the Rose Café. The world, which had already quieted for me when she walked in, now seemed entirely non-existent.​I was aware of every point of contact: the soft silk of her blouse under my hands, the steady beat of her heart, and the way her forehead rested against my shoulder. The intensity of it was intoxicating. I

​The boardroom felt suddenly empty, the polished black marble reflecting not the vibrant city outside, but a hollow victory. Andrea Williams was gone, and shambition in the e had taken the n the room with her. All that remained was the faint, expensive scent of her perfume and the palpable feeling that I had just traded a stable, predictable future for an exhilarating, high-risk gamble.​I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, my gaze fixed on the space where she had been sitting—the curve of the chair, the slight indentation left by her briefcase. Ryan was still gathering his papers, moving with the efficient, slightly exasperated rhythm of a man whose CEO had just used a multi-billion-dollar merger proposal as bait in a personal pursuit.​“You know, for a moment there,” Ryan said, his voice flat, “I almost believed you were serious about the ‘strategic alliance’ being the primary driver.” He slammed his briefcase shut. “It was a brilliant Hail Mary, I’ll give you that. The data was

​If Friday’s contract signing was the declaration of war, Monday morning was the first skirmish in the trenches.​We had set up a temporary armour quarters for The Momentum Group in a leased creative space in Shoreditch—a neutral ground between the emphasis-eng corporate tower in the City and Andrea’s more traditional headquarters in Mayfair. The space was industrial chic: exposed brick, polished concrete floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered no privacy, only transparency. It was designed to foster collaboration. Instead, by 9:00 AM, it felt like a gladiatorial arena.​I stood on the mezzanine level, holding a coffee that had gone cold, watching the interaction below. It was a masterclass in conflicting ideologies.​On the left side of the central glass table sat Zara Varma. She had arrived at 6:30 AM. Her workspace was terrifyingly sparse: a single ultra-slim laptop, a notebook aligned perfectly parallel to the table’s edge, and a bottle of water. She wore a charcoal suit