19 Meeting Sooner Than Expected

"Bastard! How dare he threaten me!" Bram snarled, slamming his phone onto the couch. His breath came in sharp bursts, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. "Where the hell did he get that video? The one with me and Marisha?" 

His fists tightened, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to act now, but if his enemy had that kind of intel, it meant he was being watched. He forced himself to stay still. Too risky. If his secrets got exposed, his wife would kick him out with nothing. But staying silent? That wasn't his style. 

"Irish..." he hissed. He knew her. That brat! He recognized her because Marisha had once been his father's mistress. And Bram himself had covered the tracks, ensuring Marisha's past never surfaced. 

"So now she wants revenge on Marisha? By threatening me? She thinks she's untouchable?" 

A bitter laugh escaped him as he stood, staring out the window with eyes burning with fury. 

"Fine. Let's see how far you can push this, Irish," he murmured coldly. "I'll stay quiet for now. But remember—once I make my move, you're the one who'll fall." 

With a twisted smirk, he sent a message to Marisha. Oh, you hate her, don't you? Then let this be your problem. 

Attached was CCTV footage. Irish paying someone to display the news headline of her parents' deaths at the party that night. The same night she first met Zayden. 

***** 

Irish narrowed her eyes at her phone screen, scanning the latest report from her men. Bram had stopped sending people to tail Zayden. No new moves, no suspicious activity. 

"So he can be scared after all," she muttered, a smirk playing on her lips as she leaned back into the rattan chair in the corner of her café. 

Her fingers toyed with a teaspoon while her gaze followed the waiters weaving between tables. The café buzzed with laughter and the rich scent of coffee. 

"Stupid old man," she whispered. "Halfway to the grave and still causing trouble." A quiet hiss escaped her. Irish knew Bram was rattled and that was a small victory worth savoring. 

She stood, smoothing the elegant lines of her blazer, then stepped outside. The warm evening air greeted her as she strode toward her boutique just a few buildings away. The moment she pushed open the door, the soothing scent of lavender enveloped her. 

"Good evening, Miss Irish!" a staff member chimed. 

Irish responded with a brief nod and a faint smile. "Did the dresses from last night's shipment arrive?" 

"Yes, Miss. They're on the center rack." 

She headed straight for the main display, fingers gliding over the fabrics satin, brocade, delicate tulle that shimmered under the lights. Each gown was her own design, intricate and elegant, just like her: beautiful, cunning, and dangerous. 

Drtttt!!! 

A notification lit up her screen. Zayden's name flashed across it. He was confirming tonight—the night she would surrender herself completely. 

Irish stared at the message, a smile tugging at her lips. Her pulse quickened. This was it. The moment she had planned for so long. 

Zayden was already hers, physically, emotionally, even in the darkest ways. She had uncovered parts of him even Marisha never knew, parts that made him feel seen, understood, needed. 

And now, it was time to seal that bond. With a child. 

She didn't need a ring. She didn't need vows. All she needed was Zayden's bloodline running through her veins. That alone would erase Marisha from his life forever. 

Her reflection stared back at her from the boutique's full-length mirror. A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips. 

"I think I need a few new pieces," she murmured, strolling down the aisle. Her gaze landed on a row of lingerie, delicate lace, daring cuts, all designed to tempt. 

Her fingers traced the soft fabrics, imagining Zayden's expression when he saw her in them. She plucked a red set from the rack, holding it against her body in the mirror. 

"This one will be perfect for tonight," she whispered to herself before handing it to an employee. "Wrap this, and add two of the latest designs. Make sure the colors complement my skin tone." 

She lingered in the boutique's soothing aromatherapy ambiance, circling the displays. But her steps faltered when sharp heels clicked against the floor behind her. 

"Irish?" The voice was hesitant but unmistakable. 

She turned, tilting her head with a faint, mocking smile. "Who's asking?" 

"Don't play dumb!" Marisha snapped, her breath uneven. "It was you, wasn't it? You're the one who had that news clip about your parents' deaths played at the gala!" 

"Me?" 

"I checked the hotel CCTV! I know you met my husband! Are you seducing him? Is that why he barely comes home anymore?!" 

Irish let out a soft, mocking laugh and stepped closer, her expression calm but venomous. "Wait, so you came here because your husband's been absent… and you're blaming me?" 

Marisha's face twisted. Shame, anger, fear, all warring at once. But Irish recognized that look. It was the same expression her mother had worn years ago, when this woman had humiliated her in silence. 

"So you were… my father's mistress?" Irish asked coldly. 

"Stop pretending! You knew from the beginning!" Marisha hissed. 

"Of course. How could I forget the woman who destroyed my family?" 

Irish circled her like a predator, her gaze sharp, every word a blade. 

"Funny, isn't it? You're here now, begging for answers, just because you're afraid of losing your husband. How does it feel, Marisha? Knowing someone younger could take the man you thought was yours?" 

"Was it you or not?! Don't lie! You should know, your café, this boutique, everything you owe it to me! That money came from me, not some insurance payout!" 

Irish smirked, a cold, triumphant gleam in her eyes. "Oh, I know about your blood money. And I also know the insurance never paid out, because Mama's best friend, a lawyer, checked for me. Your money was pennies, Marisha. Nothing compared to what you stole from me." 

"Ungrateful wretch!" Marisha jabbed a finger at her. 

"You're the ungrateful one!" Irish shot back, her face now inches away. "Your husband strays, and you come crying to the daughter of the man you once seduced? Begging, blaming, whining? You're pathetic!" 

"You—" 

"Get out." Irish's voice was a lethal whisper, years of vengeance simmering beneath. "Before I expose every rotten thing you've done. We've lived separate lives, don't start a war you can't win." 

"Yes, I was the one who had that photo displayed at the gala," Irish added with a mocking smile. "Just a little warm-up. But your husband? I have no idea. Or… would you like me to seduce him too? Just like you did back then?" 

She laughed, relishing the way Marisha paled, frozen in place. One step back, then the woman finally turned and stormed out of the boutique. 

Irish stood perfectly still, plucking the red lingerie from the rack again. 

"I loved seeing that look on your face," she murmured. "And one day… you'll wear an even better one." 

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