The message haunted her all night.
Still want revenge?
She told herself it was a prank. A cruel joke from someone at the party.
But deep down, she knew who it was.
Dante Moretti.
The name alone sent a shiver through her.
He wasn't a man — he was a question mark wrapped in danger.
By morning, Sarah tried to push it away.
She threw herself into damage control — calls to the PR team, family meetings, fake smiles for the press.
Her stepmother warned her not to "feed the scandal."
As if silence could erase betrayal.
But by afternoon, another message came.
> Meet me. 9 p.m. The Rosemont Hotel. Rooftop bar. Come alone.
No signature. No need.
Sarah stared at the words until her heart began to pound.
Every sensible thought screamed don't go.
Every broken piece of her whispered go anyway.
---
The Rosemont's rooftop was quiet when she arrived.
Cold wind. City lights like fire below.
She spotted him instantly — Dante, leaning against the railing, black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of scotch.
He didn't turn when she approached.
But somehow, she knew he'd been waiting.
"You came," he said.
"You invited me."
He looked at her then — eyes sharp enough to cut glass.
"Most people don't accept invitations from devils."
She gave a humorless smile. "Maybe I stopped believing in angels."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Good. They're overrated."
He offered her a drink. She took it.
Whiskey burned down her throat like liquid courage.
"Why am I here?" she asked.
"You tell me," he said. "You're the one who's angry."
"I'm not—"
He cut her off. "You are. You just hide it well."
Sarah looked away, jaw tight. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," he said simply. "What I want for you is different."
Her eyes met his. "And what's that?"
"Revenge."
The word hung between them like a loaded gun.
Sarah laughed, short and bitter. "Revenge doesn't fix what's broken."
"Maybe not," Dante said softly. "But it makes sure the ones who broke you bleed, too."
His tone was calm, but his gaze — it was fire and ice.
She swallowed hard. "Why do you even care?"
He stepped closer, and the space between them vanished.
"I don't," he said. "But I enjoy watching people realize what they're capable of when they stop pretending to be good."
The way he said it — low, certain — made her pulse skip.
Sarah forced a breath. "You think I'm capable of revenge?"
He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "I think you're capable of destruction."
Her heart pounded.
He was dangerous — and intoxicating.
"I should go," she said quietly.
"Then go."
She didn't move.
He studied her for a long moment, then reached into his coat and slid a small envelope across the table.
"What's this?"
"Proof," he said. "That Dominic and Vanessa's betrayal goes deeper than you think."
Sarah's breath caught. "What are you talking about?"
"Open it when you're ready to stop playing victim."
She stared at the envelope, fear and curiosity warring inside her.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked again.
He smiled — slow, dangerous. "Maybe I like broken things. Maybe I just want to see what happens when they stop pretending they're whole."
The wind lifted her hair. City lights shimmered behind him.
He looked like sin in a suit — and she was already falling.
Sarah clutched the envelope. "And if I open this?"
"Then the game begins."
She hesitated. "And if I walk away?"
His eyes darkened. "Then I'll find another way to keep you close."
Something in his voice made her shiver.
He meant it.
Dante turned to leave, but paused beside her, his breath brushing her ear.
"Careful, Sarah Windsor," he murmured. "Revenge has a price. And I'm very good at collecting debts."
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
---
Back at her apartment, the envelope sat untouched on her desk.
She paced.
Poured herself another drink.
Stared at it again.
Finally, she tore it open.
Inside were photos.
Not of the betrayal she already knew — but of money transfers, property deals, contracts.
All linked to Dominic and Vanessa.
All in her late father's company name.
Her stomach dropped.
They hadn't just betrayed her.
They'd stolen from her family.
Her hands trembled. Her vision blurred.
And in that moment, she knew.
Dante was right.
This wasn't about heartbreak anymore.
It was war.
Her phone buzzed again.
> You opened it.
Good. I'll pick you up tomorrow. Midnight.
She typed back before she could stop herself.
> Why?
Seconds later, his reply came:
> Because revenge looks better when you're wearing red.