Marisha's birthday party was grand and dazzling. The five-star hotel ballroom sparkled with hanging crystal lights that resembled stars, transforming the room into a fairytale kingdom for one night. Guests arrived in their finest attire, including socialites, business partners, and media ready to capture every smile and warm embrace from the hostess.
Marisha looked stunning in an ivory white gown adorned with lace and crystals. Her smile was sweet, her gestures graceful, and her words charming. She welcomed every guest warmly, including the orphans she had specially invited to strengthen her image as a woman with a golden heart. A section of the hall was arranged with food and entertainment just for the children.
"Happy birthday Mrs. Zayden. May you be blessed with a child soon"
"Marisha, you truly have a heart of gold. The world needs more women like you"
"Your compassion is inspiring. A real role model"
Those compliments came endlessly, as if the whole room had agreed to glorify her. But they only saw the mask. They didn't know what lay behind that sweet smile.
But Irish knew.
Irish stood not far from the center of attention, watching everything with cold detachment. She wasn't on the official guest list. She wasn't there to celebrate. She came with a mission, and this was the beginning.
She wore a blazing red dress with a daring backless cut that revealed her smooth back and alluring figure. The gown clung to her like a war flag flying high on a battlefield. Her hair was left loose, falling in soft waves. Her lips painted in bold red, clashed against her subtle, venom-laced smile.
She watched Marisha standing elegantly among the crowd, cameras flashing, media interviewing, adored by all.
And not far from her, Zayden was chatting with business associates. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, radiating a masculine aura that was impossible to ignore. Irish observed him intently. The sharp jawline, strong build, commanding presence. Zayden was the perfect combination of power and appeal. Every woman's dream.
Including Marisha's. But Marisha was wrong to think she could live peacefully. After destroying a family, seducing Irish's father, and pushing her parents to their deaths, she now stood there basking in glory as the legally wedded wife.
Irish took a deep breath. Her eyes shifted to the giant LED screen displaying a slideshow of Marisha and Zayden's romantic moments. Their laughter, their embraces, their kisses—all on full display for admiration.
Irish smirked.
"What if that screen showed the news of my parents' death instead, Marisha? You couldn't have forgotten the man who once warmed your bed, could you?"
Her voice was low, nearly a whisper, yet sharp enough to pierce through the cheerful air of the party.
She snapped her fingers with elegance. Instantly, the giant screen flickered. The slideshow of Marisha and Zayden vanished, replaced by a news segment from ten years ago—the death of Irish's parents.
The faces on the screen belonged to the father and mother she had lost—victims of the greed of the woman now frozen in shock at the center of her own birthday celebration.
Irish sipped her champagne slowly, her gaze never leaving the screen, then shifted to Marisha who now looked like someone stripped bare in the middle of a crowd.
"A cheap college slut like you dreaming of a happy life as a society wife?" Irish whispered with a mocking smile. She chuckled quietly, the sound dripping with unfinished revenge.
The guests started murmuring uneasily, whispers rising around the room, all eyes drawn to the screen.
"We apologize! That was a technical error!" The emcee rushed to the stage trying to defuse the situation. "We'll fix it immediately. So sorry for the inconvenience…"
The screen went black. Music resumed. Champagne glasses clinked again. But Irish knew, one person in the room would never be the same.
Marisha.
Her face had turned pale. Her eyes darted around, trying to find the source of the sabotage. Her hands trembled as she reached out to the event crew, demanding the screen be fixed, biting her lip to hold back panic. It all happened in mere minutes. But for Irish, it was the opening of a destruction symphony she had been composing for years.
Irish finished her champagne, spotting Zayden heading down a hallway toward the restroom. With elegance, she placed her glass on the nearest table and followed him, her heels tapping softly like a siren's call. This was her moment.
****