Storms Never Die

Three Years Later

On a pitch-black night, thunder rolled across the New York City skyline, accompanied by streaks of silver lightning tearing through the gloomy clouds. Rain poured heavily, soaking the nearly deserted streets. Annabelle, with one hand gripping her worn umbrella and the other clutching her faded handbag, hurried through the storm. The moon peeked now and then through the dense clouds, providing the dimmest glow to guide her path. Streetlights flickered unreliably, casting eerie shadows that danced on the wet pavement.

She quickened her pace. Her shoes squished with each step on the waterlogged sidewalk. She was already late—so late that she had missed the last bus, leaving her with no choice but to walk home. Shivering and muttering prayers under her breath for courage and safety, she crossed an empty road, ignoring the red traffic light. The streets were deserted; there was no soul in sight, only the wrath of nature howling around her.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning lit up the street like daylight for a fleeting second, followed by a deafening thunderclap. Startled, Annabelle froze in the middle of the road, her heart skipping a beat. Before she could move, a luxury sports car came speeding toward her, its headlights slicing through the rain.

For a moment, everything slowed. She couldn't move—her limbs felt paralyzed. But the car's brakes screeched just in time, halting inches from her. The tires sent water and mud splashing all over her, knocking her backward into a puddle.

"Excuse me, are you blind?! Can't you watch it while crossing the road?!" The driver's angry voice tore through the storm.

Annabelle's face twisted with disbelief and anger. 'What the hell? How could he talk to me like this?'

She stood up, dripping in rain and mud, her umbrella lying broken beside her. "Don't call me blind when you can't even see the road while driving!" she retorted, equally furious. The cold had seeped into her bones, and now the humiliation completed her misery.

Kicking the tire of the car in frustration, she wiped her face with her already drenched handkerchief. "Just great," she muttered under her breath.

Inside the car, a man in a black suit gripped the steering wheel tightly, veins bulging on his hand as he suppressed his fury. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not in years.

"How dare you talk to me like that? Do you even know who I am?" he growled, stepping out of the car slightly.

Annabelle, already walking away, didn't even glance back. "I'm not interested in knowing who you are. You're not the President of America, nor the Vice President. Just a spoiled brat, playing with daddy's money. Huh!" she spat with disgust and continued her march through the rain, her silhouette fading into the storm.

Richard Barton stood there, livid. His face turned crimson, and the fury in his eyes could melt steel. No one had dared speak to him like this—especially not a woman who had crossed him once before. If only she knew who he really was.

"She has no idea who she just messed with," he muttered, watching her disappear into the dark.

"Hey! You, wait...!" he called out authoritatively.

The moment those words hit her ears, Annabelle halted.

The tone. The voice. The words.

It was the same. The same voice that echoed in the luxurious suite of Hotel Shelton Grand three years ago. Her heartbeat quickened. Déjà vu engulfed her senses.

That day, she had desperately wanted to run away from that voice.

But today... she wanted to turn back.

With a cautious breath, she turned slowly, her wet hair sticking to her face. As she looked up, a strong gust of wind blew her umbrella away. The car's headlights illuminated her soaked figure, and she raised her hands to shield her eyes.

When she lowered them, her gaze met his.

He was standing next to the open door of his sports car, a devilish smirk tugging at his lips. For a moment, he watched her silently—then something flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Shock. Calculation.

Richard Barton didn't get out after all. His smirk faded into something unreadable. He took out his phone, made a call, and spoke only one line:

"She is in New York."

Then, without another glance, he drove away, leaving a stunned Annabelle behind.

Early Morning – Annabelle's Apartment

"Hey, Anna, wake up, or we'll be late!"

Annabelle groaned and opened her eyes to find Hazel, her roommate and best friend, standing by the bed in a vibrant outfit.

"You're ready already?" Annabelle asked, rubbing her eyes.

"I came back at dawn," Hazel replied with a yawn, carelessly tying her hair.

"You need to sort out your priorities. Seriously," Annabelle scolded lightly, reaching for her phone.

"My life is meant to be colorful and wild. Unlike you," Hazel shot back, rolling her eyes, "who's stuck in a grey bubble of the past."

Annabelle didn't answer. She opened her phone and stared at a single photograph—one she hadn't deleted, no matter how much she wanted to.

Hazel noticed. "For God's sake, Anna. Move on already."

"I have moved on," Annabelle murmured, locking her phone with a gloomy expression and walking toward the bathroom.

As the cold water poured down on her, memories she tried to bury resurfaced. That one night. That one mistake that changed her whole life.

Three years ago, she woke up in a stranger's bed. Hotel Shelton Grand. Her head spinning. Her body aching. The horrifying realization of what had happened to her tore through her like a storm. She didn't just lose her virginity. She lost her sense of safety, of trust, of love.

Her only love back then had been Brian Miller. She was ready to confess everything to him, hoping—foolishly—that he would understand. But Brian already knew. And the way he turned on her, the venom in his eyes, shattered her heart more than the betrayal itself.

Now, only bitterness remained and its all because of her.

"I've moved on," she whispered under the shower, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. "But I will never forget. Not him. Not Brian. One day, they'll both pay for ruining my life. I'll make sure of it... at the right time," she murmured through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.

The icy water continued to pour over her, numbing her skin, but doing little to cool the fire raging inside her heart. Her teeth chattered as she stepped out of the shower, her body trembling slightly, lips tinged blue from the cold.

Hazel looked up from the dresser, frowning. "You took a cold shower again?" she asked, her tone a mix of worry and frustration.

"I'm fine. Let's eat," Annabelle replied stiffly, brushing her wet hair back and walking toward the mirror.

"You're way too harsh on yourself, Anna," Hazel muttered under her breath, grabbing the hair dryer. Without waiting for permission, she began drying Annabelle's hair—because she knew her best friend wouldn't bother doing it herself.

Annabelle didn't respond. Her eyes were blank, her expression unreadable. It was the same conversation they'd had countless times. Same words, same concern. And always the same outcome—nothing changed.

After breakfast, Annabelle quietly gathered her things and stepped out of the apartment, the early morning chill brushing against her skin as she headed to work.

Hazel, meanwhile, flopped back onto her bed with a sigh, her limbs heavy from another night spent clubbing with her new boyfriend. As she pulled the blanket over herself, she whispered to no one in particular, "She's going to burn herself out like this..."

But Annabelle was already gone, walking into the day like a storm cloud in disguise, carrying with her the weight of old wounds and a thirst for quiet revenge.

Elsewhere – A Grand Mansion

In the vast, high-ceilinged dining room of the Barton estate, golden chandeliers cast a cold, dignified glow over a long, polished oak table. At its head sat Richard Barton, his towering frame cloaked in a jet-black designer suit. His sharp jaw was tightly clenched, eyes fixed on the silent ticking of his limited edition Rolex. Every tick seemed to test his patience further.

A servant, standing by the corner with a silver tray, swallowed hard and dared to speak. "Boss... Mr. Duke will be here soon," he said in a hushed, trembling voice, the words barely above a whisper. His hope was simple—to ease the crackling tension that had turned the air heavy.

Richard didn't respond. Instead, he tapped his fingers on the mahogany table in a rhythmic, threatening beat. Then, in a sudden burst of fury, he slammed his clenched fist down onto the table. The resounding crack made the silverware jump and clatter, echoing ominously through the room. The servant visibly flinched and took a small step back.

At that precise moment, a carefree voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Richard, relax. I'm here, dude."

Jordan Duke appeared in the doorway, casually dressed yet undeniably charismatic, his signature crooked smile firmly in place. His arrival felt like a breeze through a battlefield. The servants almost sighed in relief as the palpable anger in the room softened slightly—Jordan always had a way of balancing Richard's boiling temper.

"You're five minutes late," Richard stated coldly, his tone clipped and unforgiving.

"I was at your work site all night. At least appreciate that I came back at dawn," Jordan replied, unfazed, walking to the table like he owned the place. He grabbed a slice of toast and filled a crystal glass with orange juice, completely at ease.

Richard lifted his fork, but midway to his mouth, he froze. His fingers tightened around the handle as if reconsidering everything in that split second. Abruptly, he placed the fork back onto the plate and rose to his feet, his chair scraping sharply against the floor.

"Let's go," he said curtly, already striding away.

"What? I haven't even eaten yet!" Jordan blinked in disbelief as Richard gripped the back of his collar and yanked him up to his feet, forcing him to follow.

By the time they were inside the sleek black SUV, Jordan had had enough. "Richard, what the hell is going on with you? Why are you acting like this? What exactly are you planning?"

Richard didn't answer. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his jaw locked tight.

"Is it about that girl?" Jordan pressed, his voice more serious now. "Why are you so obsessed with her? Did she even do anything to you?"

Richard's head slowly turned toward him, eyes blazing with a darkness Jordan hadn't seen in a long time. His voice was dangerously low, every word soaked in cold determination.

"She has to be in my mansion," he said slowly, deliberately, "with me... as mine."