Calm before the storm
Arielle sat alone in her private study, the walls covered in vision boards, timelines, and exposed secrets. Her empire was growing, but so were the cracks. And someone—someone she couldn't see—was starting to push back.
Her assistant entered, tablet in hand, face pale.
"Miss Arielle… there's been a breach."
"What kind of breach?"
"Emails. Photos. Files. Everything tied to Operation Red Veil has been leaked. Someone tried to expose the Monroe evidence. We managed to shut it down fast, but…"
"But someone knows what I'm doing."
Her voice was cold. Steady. Deadly.
She stood.
"Send a message to every digital forensics firm I trust. I want this ghost hunted."
"Yes, ma'am."
As the assistant left, Arielle walked to the window. Outside, the city pulsed like a predator's heart.
Someone had declared war.
But they forgot she'd already died once.
There's nothing left to fear.
Meanwhile – Monroe Jail
Camille's cell was white and sterile, but her mind was chaos.
She'd been locked up for fraud. Humiliated. Betrayed by everyone she once controlled.
But her rage? Untouched.
In the middle of the night, she wrote names.
Arielle. Lucien. The judges. The reporters.
She whispered curses. Swore revenge.
When the prison guard handed her a phone call, she didn't ask who. She just picked up.
A deep, distorted voice answered.
"She destroyed you," it said.
"Yes," she whispered.
"We can destroy her back."
Her heart thudded.
"What do you want in return?"
"Just watch."
The call ended.
She didn't know the name. But she knew the hunger.
Whoever that was… they hated Arielle more than she did.
Lucien's Penthouse – Midnight
Lucien had never been a man who lost control.
He commanded, conquered, and consumed. But he didn't crave.
Until now.
Arielle sat on the bed, wearing nothing but his shirt, sleeves rolled up, legs bare, typing on her laptop as if she didn't just hijack his thoughts.
"You're staring," she said without looking.
"You're glowing," he replied.
She smirked. "Get used to it."
He walked over and took the laptop from her lap, setting it aside.
"Lucien—"
"No more distractions."
He knelt in front of her.
Hands on her thighs.
Voice rough. "You kissed me back. Don't lie."
Her breath hitched. "I didn't say I didn't."
"Then say it now. Say you wanted it."
Silence.
Then:
"I did."
His hands slid higher.
"But I want more than kisses," she whispered, voice low, wicked.
Lucien's control snapped.
Their mouths met in a storm biting, desperate, possessive. She pulled him closer, legs wrapping around his waist.
The room blurred. The night stretched.
And in the heat of it, she forgot everything except him.
Arielle woke to an alert from her assistant.
Unknown woman at the gate. Says she knows you. Won't give her name. Only said, "Tell her I raised her from the ashes."
Her blood ran cold.
No one from her past should've known she was alive.
She dressed in silence. Lucien noticed the shift immediately.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," he said.
"I think I have."
He followed her down to the lobby, where a woman in all-black heels and a long coat stood by the glass.
Sharp eyes. Crimson lips. Calm as death.
Arielle stepped forward.
The woman looked at her and smiled.
"You wear your new name well."
Lucien froze. "New name?"
Arielle's voice was like a blade.
"Say it, and I'll break your jaw."
The woman tilted her head. "Still dramatic."
Lucien's eyes locked on Arielle. "What's going on?"
The woman stepped forward.
"Tell him, Arielle. Or should I call you by the name you left behind… Serena Vaughn?"
Everything stopped.
The room. The air. The lies.
Lucien turned to Arielle—no, Serena—his eyes unreadable.
"You're not who I thought you were."
She met his gaze.
"No," she said softly. "I'm worse."