MONACO. THE GRAND VANE HOTEL. 8:02PM.
Alessia Morel stepped out of the black car in a crimson evening gown so sharp, it looked like it had been stitched from sin itself. The night air was crisp, laced with the tang of sea salt, the weight of money, and the bitter edge of envy. Monaco always wore its wealth like a second skin — a glittering jewel stretched across the skyline — and tonight was no exception. High-rises blinked like lovers' promises, supercars purred low like lions in heat, and somewhere in the distance, the muffled chop of a helicopter kept quiet watch over the playground of the powerful.
She paused at the curb, lashes dark with smoke, letting the moment settle around her like a second dress. Letting him see her.
People turned.
Two women in fur coats whispered behind carefully manicured hands. A pair of men in tuxedos practically stumbled over each other. One sloshed half a glass of champagne just to steal another glance. Alessia didn't look at any of them. Her gaze was already fixed ahead — on the glass-and-gold fortress where he sat like a king among pawns: Killian Vane.
Even now, his name left a bitter taste in her mouth.
He took everything from me.
Her father's voice haunted her still, long after the ground closed over his casket. The house, the stocks, the family name — all wiped out with Killian Vane's pen stroke and a predator's smile, delivered a decade ago like a death sentence. Alessia remembered the bailiffs hammering at their gates, her mother's sobs echoing through the marble halls, the terrifying quiet as their legacy crumbled.
But grief wasn't on the menu tonight. Revenge was.
She crossed the grand marble lobby with that precise glide drilled into her at finishing school — back when she still had a name worth protecting. Heads turned again. The chandelier's cold light bounced off the diamond in her ear — the one she'd nearly sold to buy groceries once. Not tonight. Tonight, it was armor.
"Miss Léon," the maître d' greeted with a shallow bow. "Welcome to the Inferno Lounge."
She almost smiled at the name. Inferno. A den for devils. How poetic.
"Merci," she replied, her accent walking the line between Parisian elegance and old Monegasque money.
He inclined his head and gestured toward Table Nine. His table.
Alessia's pulse stuttered — the faint throb of an old wound trying to resurface. But she crushed it beneath the heel of ten hard years. She wasn't sixteen anymore. She was twenty-six, wrapped in silk and fire, and nothing could break her now.
Killian Vane was laughing when she spotted him. The man beside him nodded too quickly, eager to agree, while the blonde woman on his other side clung to his arm like something wet and spineless.
Alessia zeroed in on his face — the one that had ruined everything. A killer's face, infuriatingly beautiful. Tailored black suit, collar open, dark hair pushed back with careless perfection. He looked like a god who didn't care for worship but demanded it anyway. A wolf before the kill.
She walked up to the table, every step a silent declaration.
Killian looked up.
For the briefest flash — barely a blink — something in his pale eyes flickered. Recognition? She couldn't be sure.
Then he smirked, slow and surgical, and lifted his glass. "I didn't realize we were expecting company."
Alessia returned the gesture with a smile sharp enough to wound. "Consider me a gift," she said, sliding into the empty chair without so much as a pause.
The blonde's lips curled. "Excuse me, but—who are you?"
Alessia turned, her voice honey-coated venom. "The reason your champagne's gone flat."
A gasp. A sputter. Killian chuckled once, low and surprised. "You've got claws."
"You like claws," she murmured back.
His gaze lingered, assessing. The blonde bristled beside him like a toy no longer being played with.
Alessia reached for the untouched champagne glass, lifted it to her lips without breaking eye contact. "Alina Léon," she said smoothly, delivering the name she'd paid dearly for. "But that won't be what you call me."
"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"You'll call me dangerous."
The table went still. Even the background piano seemed to miss a beat.
Killian's smirk tilted, turning thoughtful. "Out," he said, not looking at anyone but her.
The others scattered — confused, annoyed, obedient. Within seconds, they were alone.
He leaned in slightly, elbows on the table, candlelight dancing in his eyes. "Why are you really here?"
She studied him for a beat, Monaco's glitter painting his silhouette through the glass. Tell him the truth? Not yet.
"Power," she said.
"You think I am power?"
"I know it."
He laughed, soft and low. A warning. "Nobody sits here for free."
Alessia traced the rim of her glass with one scarlet nail. "I'm not asking for free. I'm asking for a seat."
He looked her over like a puzzle. "You have no people here."
Because you made sure of that, she thought, but only said, "People are liabilities."
His eyes narrowed, intrigued. "You know the game."
"I was born in it."
He leaned back. "Interesting."
She forced her gaze to study him like he was just another mark. The lethal angles of his face. That perfect, still posture. He wore power like others wore silk. Even his cologne — something dark, addictive — clung to the air between them.
And for the briefest second, she saw the boy inside the monster. The street orphan who'd clawed his way to the top of Europe's food chain. Monaco had stories — how Killian Vane came from nothing, how he built his empire one bloody brick at a time.
And how that empire had crushed her family to dust.
She blinked the memories away before they consumed her.
"Walk with me," Killian said suddenly.
She rose without hesitation, following him through a hallway bathed in golden light. A new jazz tune drifted from the pianist's fingers — smoky, dangerous.
They entered a mirrored elevator. Killian pressed the penthouse button like it belonged to him. It did.
"Where are you from?" he asked once the doors closed.
"Does it matter?"
"To me."
Alessia let a smile tug at her lips. "Somewhere cold. You wouldn't survive it."
He stepped closer. "Try me."
She looked at their reflection in the mirrored walls. Crimson and black. Heat and shadow. A collision waiting to happen.
Maybe that's the point, she thought.
The elevator purred upward. Outside, the city shrank to a glimmer.
Killian spoke, quieter now. "You walked in uninvited."
"That's how legends are made," she whispered.
His jaw tightened — then the doors opened, spilling light into the space. The penthouse was pure wealth: white marble floors, gold-edged art, and windows that opened to a sea of stars.
Alessia stepped in first, head held high.
Killian followed, eyes tracking her every move.
"Now," he said, calm and sharp, "tell me what you want."
She walked to the window, letting the sea breeze brush her skin. Cold. Clean.
"I want what was stolen."
He poured himself a drink. "What was that?"
She turned to face him. "My name."
Silence fell like a curtain.
He stilled. "Alina Léon, right?"
She tucked her hair behind one ear, letting the scar show — faint, elegant, unforgettable. The one her mother left the night everything fell apart.
His eyes widened.
"Alessia?"
No masks. No lies. Just her name, hanging between them like a loaded gun.
"Hello, Killian."
He crossed the room in a flash, hands grabbing her shoulders. "You were dead."
"You made sure of that," she said, voice tight.
"I did what I had to."
"You signed my father's death sentence."
His jaw flexed. "He betrayed me."
"He trusted you!" she snapped. "He was a man!"
Killian let go, as if her skin burned.
Alessia stepped in, fury blooming. "You destroyed us. Now you ask why I'm here?"
He turned away, breathing hard.
She could see it — the crack. The guilt. The part of him he'd buried.
"Alessia…"
"No." Her voice cut like ice. "You don't get to say my name."
He looked down. "Then what do you want? Revenge?"
She moved close enough to feel his breath.
"No," she said quietly. "I want your heart."
His eyes flicked up, startled.
"And when I have it…" Her voice turned lethal, slow. "I'll break it so cleanly, you'll never know how to put it back together."
For a moment, he didn't speak.
Then — he smiled.
"Fair," he said. "But you'll have to earn it."
She blinked. "You think this is a game?"
He leaned in, until their foreheads almost touched. "Everything is a game."
And then — he kissed her.
Heat surged like a current through her spine. His mouth was fire, firm but almost reverent. And worse — her body responded. That traitorous, long-starved hunger.
She shoved him away, trembling.
"Don't."
Killian touched his lips, stunned. "You shouldn't have come."
She lifted her chin. "But I did."
He smiled — slow, feral. "Then welcome to my kingdom, Alessia."
A kingdom carved in betrayal. And one she would burn to ash.
Outside, the helicopter circled, blinking red over Monaco's velvet sprawl.
And down below, the city waited.
So did she.