Layla didn't plan to come home early. The meeting at the office had ended sooner than expected and she wanted to join her colleagues to get a drink when she discovered she didn't bring her clutch.
The scent of white lilies, her favorite, still clung faintly to the air in the penthouse suite, a ghost of the celebration that had ended barely an hour ago. Layla clutched her forgotten clutch, the smooth leather suddenly slick with a cold sweat she didn't recognize. The city lights sprawled beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering, indifferent tapestry to the unraveling of her world. She'd come back for this silly little bag, a beaded thing Ryan had gifted her on their first anniversary. Now, the sentiment felt like a cruel jest.
The clothes littered on the floor made no sense. A wine glass sat half-finished on the coffee table. That wasn't unusual but the second wine glass beside it? That was.
Her fiancé, Ryan, said not to disturb him when she was going out because he had work to do . He loved his space anytime he wanted to work so she didn't question it. But it wasn't silence that greeted her—it was a sound she couldn't unhear.
"Oh my god—Ryan."
Layla's breath left her body like a gut punch as a low moan drifted from the bedroom. A sound so intimate, so sickeningly familiar, that it stopped her breath in her throat. It couldn't be. Not here. Not now. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Disbelief warred with a rising tide of nausea. She took a hesitant step, the plush carpet muffling her movement, each inch forwards a betrayal of the blissful ignorance she'd possessed only moments before.
The bedroom door wasn't fully closed, a sliver of shadow and sound beckoning her closer, a siren call to her own destruction. Against her better judgment, against the desperate pleas of the last vestiges of her sanity, she edged forward and pushed it open slowly.
The scene that greeted her was a brutal, visceral assault on everything she held dear. Ryan was naked. His familiar back, the one she'd traced countless times with loving fingers, rose and fell in a rhythm that wasn't born of sleep. And beneath him, her best friend, Brielle. Brielle, with her easy laugh and unwavering loyalty, her hand splayed possessively across Ryan's lower back. A strangled gasp escaped Layla's lips, though it felt as silent as a falling feather in the vast expanse of her shock.
The bouquet of lilies she'd picked up on the way home slipping from her grip, petals scattering across the plush carpet.
Time seemed to warp and distort. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the tangled silk sheets, a testament to their shared intimacy, a stark contrast to the sterile perfection of the rest of the apartment. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of sex and the unspoken weight of betrayal.
Layla's vision blurred. The champagne she'd drunk earlier churned in her stomach, threatening to erupt. This wasn't a nightmare. This was real. The casual intimacy in Brielle's touch, the relaxed way Ryan's head rested against Brielle's hair – it spoke of a familiarity that went beyond a single, drunken mistake. This had happened before.
"Oh my God—Layla?" Brielle scrambled for the sheets. Ryan jerked away like he'd touched fire, his face draining of color.But Layla wasn't looking at their panic. She was still staring at where they were. What they were. Naked. Together.
She took a step back. Then another.
"No—Layla, wait—" Ryan was stumbling off the bed now, tripping on guilt and sheets.
"Don't," she said. Her voice came out thin. Hollow. Not hers.
"Layla, it's not what it looks like—"
She laughed. It came out wrong—sharp and broken.
"Really? So you're not inside my best friend right now?"
Ryan jumped off the bed. "You've been so distant lately, and I—this was a mistake. A one-time thing!"
"One time? This definitely doesn't look like that.You must surely take me for a fool to bring her to our bed and say it is a one time thing"
Tears clouded her vision, but she refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.
Layla looked at her best friend—the person who had once cried in her arms over every heartbreak, who had sat beside her for years of friendship, family, loyalty. She was looking at her with a faint smirk on her face. She obviously wasn't remorseful. Perhaps it was planned and intentional. She did not utter a word.
"You knew," Layla whispered, the betrayal cutting deeper than the sight itself. "You both knew." Neither of them denied it.
A cold fury began to simmer beneath the crushing weight of her heartbreak. Humiliation burned like acid. They had done this in their apartment, on their bed, hours after celebrating their future. The audacity, the sheer callousness of it, stole her tears and replaced them with a chilling resolve.
She turned and walked out. Not another word. She didn't want an explanation. Didn't want a fight. She trusted them. If someone had told her this would happen, she would call their bluff. Her legs are shaky, but her mind is hardening with each step. Revenge. The word echoed in the sudden silence of the apartment, a dark and seductive promise. They had shattered her world. Now, she would shatter theirs.
Funny how she had confided in her best friend about how Ryan had been distant for some time, and she convinced her it was because of his work. Brielle was very sure it was because of Ryan's busy schedule.
As she fumbled with the lock on the front door, a new thought, sharp and unexpected, pierced through her rage. Ryan's boss. Julian Blackwood. A man as enigmatic as he was powerful, with a reputation for ruthlessness and a gaze that could make even seasoned executives squirm. She'd met him a few times, at company events. He'd always been…observant. Distant. Almost predatory.
A dangerous idea began to form, a reckless alliance born of desperation and a burning need for retribution. Julian Black had his own reasons for his cool detachment towards Ryan, whispers of past grievances that Layla had never paid much attention to. Now, those whispers echoed in her mind, a potential weapon in her arsenal.
Leaving the penthouse, the city lights no longer seemed indifferent. They felt like a stage, waiting for her to make her grand, vengeful entrance. She didn't know how she would do it, or what it would cost, but one thing was certain: Ryan and Brielle would pay. And perhaps, just perhaps, Julian Blackwood could help her collect the debt. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, a mixture of fear and a strange, unsettling anticipation. The game had just begun.