Chapter 2: Meeting the Devil Again

Amara's fingers curled into fists as she stood in the grand ballroom, her pulse pounding against her skin.

He's here.

Liam Hargrove.

The man who had once whispered promises in her ear, held her in the warmth of his embrace, and then—without hesitation—had taken everything from her.

A shiver ran down her spine. She knew this moment would come, but now that it was here, her carefully built composure threatened to crack.

She had spent ten years waiting for this. Ten years rebuilding herself in silence, forced to relive every painful memory while the rest of the world, including Liam, remained blissfully unaware.

And now, he didn't even know who she was.

Her nails dug into her palm.

How ironic.

A Face She Could Never Forget

The atmosphere of the gala was suffocating. The shimmering chandeliers, the polished laughter, the scent of expensive champagne—it all felt like a cruel mockery of her past life.

Amara's eyes locked onto him across the room.

Liam stood near the center, surrounded by influential businessmen and women, his tall figure exuding effortless authority. He was dressed in a classic black tuxedo, every inch of him the powerful CEO she once knew.

No, not "once." She still knew him.

She knew the way his brows furrowed slightly when he was uninterested in a conversation. The way he held his glass—index finger resting just slightly above the rim. The way his smirk never quite reached his eyes.

The difference was, this time, she wouldn't be fooled.

Liam's gaze swept over the crowd.

For one breathless moment, his eyes met hers.

Amara's heart lurched into her throat.

He didn't recognize her.

There was no flicker of surprise, no hesitation—just a brief glance before his attention moved elsewhere.

The realization hit harder than she expected.

How could he not remember the woman he had killed?

She swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to breathe. Of course he doesn't. To him, that life never happened.

But it did.

And she would never forget.

The First Move

Amara turned away, gripping the stem of her champagne glass. She had a choice to make.

She could walk away now, leave before he noticed her again, and pretend this night never happened.

Or—

She could walk straight into the fire.

Her fingers relaxed around the glass. She hadn't come this far just to run away.

Taking a slow, measured breath, Amara squared her shoulders and stepped forward.

The moment she approached the group, the conversation quieted slightly. A few people turned to look at her, and recognition dawned in some of their eyes.

"Ah, Miss Sterling," a woman greeted warmly. "Your work at the gallery last month was breathtaking."

Amara offered a polite smile. "Thank you."

Liam's gaze returned to her at the mention of her name. He studied her, his expression unreadable.

She held his gaze, waiting.

Finally, he spoke.

"Liam Hargrove," he introduced himself, offering his hand.

She nearly laughed. As if she didn't already know.

Carefully, she placed her hand in his. A brief handshake—nothing more. But the moment their fingers touched, a jolt of something unexplainable shot through her.

Liam's grip faltered for half a second.

Then, as if nothing happened, he let go.

"I don't believe we've met before," he said smoothly.

No, we have. And you destroyed me.

She forced a soft smile. "No, we haven't."

Liam tilted his head slightly, as if trying to place her.

"I see," he said. "Are you an artist?"

She nodded. "I am."

"I'd love to see your work sometime."

Amara bit the inside of her cheek. Would you still love it if you knew who I really was?

"I'm sure we'll cross paths again," she said lightly.

Liam studied her for a moment longer, his sharp eyes scanning her face. There was something about her that unsettled him—she could see it in the slight crease of his brow.

Good.

Let that feeling sink in, Liam. Let the unease settle deep into your bones.

Because soon enough, you'll know exactly who I am.

The Beginning of a Game

The rest of the evening passed in a blur.

Liam didn't approach her again, but she could feel his gaze on her throughout the night, as if something about her presence gnawed at the back of his mind.

Amara took it as a small victory.

But this was just the first step.

She wasn't here to admire him from afar. She wasn't here to relive old wounds.

She was here to make him pay.

And for that to happen, she needed to get closer to him.

Much closer.