ALLURA'S POV
The scorching sun beat down, though I stood comfortably under the umbrella held by Mr. Wang, my manager and personal secretary. Behind us, three guards stood stiffly, briefcases filled with gifts for the Dawson family clutched in their hands.
I surveyed the mansion. The lawn was slowly dying, the paint was cheap, and the windows were worn—clear signs of mismanagement. I pressed the doorbell. No answer.
"Patience, Mr. Wang," I replied to my manager's worried suggestion that they were not home. "Tasha is predictable. She never leaves the house on a Wednesday."
Suddenly, the door opened. It was Anna, the maid. Recognition dawned quickly—Samantha Rowling, CEO of Sky Trek.
"May I help you, Madam?" Anna asked, her voice wary.
"I am looking for Mrs. Dawson," I stated. "Please tell your Madam that I have arrived and that I bring gifts with me." I offered a small, brittle smile. That will bring her running.
Moments later, the door flew open, and Tasha herself appeared, beaming. She pulled me into a suffocating hug, her cheap, cloying perfume assaulting my nostrils.
"Samantha! Darling, what a lovely surprise!" she gushed.
"Tasha. You look wonderful." Liar.
She ushered us inside. The same Morocco silk curtains, the Baccarat Zenith Chandelier I had purchased, the Siberian bear fur rug—nothing had changed.
"Please, sit down," she urged. I sat; Mr. Wang and the guards remained standing. "I am absolutely sorry I hadn't planned for your visit, dear. I acted out of impulse the other day, and I truly hope you could say something good about me. You know I'm being dragged online..."
"Tasha, please," I interrupted, my voice sympathetic. "It's nothing. I'll clear it all up in no time. But for now, I came to apologize properly on behalf of my worker. I sincerely hope you won't take it to heart."
Tasha waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, I don't mind it, dear. But you need to mind your staff and ensure such nonsense doesn't happen any longer. The coffee was so cold, my front teeth almost felt out!"
"What a dramatic bitch," I muttered quietly.
"Pardon?" she asked.
"Oh, it was nothing, really," I replied.
Tasha nodded, then her eyes lingered approvingly over my clothes. "But dear, your outfit—that pure white suit and palazzo trousers, and the black Clark platforms—it looks absolutely exquisite on you," she complimented. "And your black signature purse fits perfectly."
I smiled, thanking her. I knew why the white appealed to her. Xavier had an unholy obsession with the color; he was the only member of his family who wore it to every occasion, and Samantha, the ever-obedient fiancée, had a tendency to follow his bidding to appease him.
"So, why are you truly here, Samantha?" she asked, her eyes already scanning my entourage.
"Well, I wanted to apologize properly," I said, "and also, you look exquisitely beautiful, and I enjoy having beautiful friends." I then subtly gestured to my guards.
Their eyes lit up, and Tasha's greedy gaze fixed on the briefcases as they were opened on the glass table: the 24-carat necklace, the handbag, the jade, and the diamonds. Tasha was ecstatic, immediately trying on the jewelry.
"Oh, Samantha! Is this the latest design? It's mesmerizing!"
"Yes, it is," I confirmed. "I had instructed my fiancé to get it for me, but I thought it would look even better on you."
We chatted for a while until I suddenly heard it—a distinct baby cry coming from upstairs.
Tasha instantly became tense. "No one," she said quickly, her eyes darting toward the ceiling. "Just a random... sound."
"It sounds quite distressed, Tasha," I commented gently, keeping my tone mild. "It's like a crying baby.
Before Tasha could fumble for another excuse, the library doors flew open. A middle-aged woman in a simple uniform—the wet nurse, rushed in, holding a tiny, wailing baby.
Tasha's façade shattered. "What is the meaning of this, Martha?" Tasha hissed. "I am entertaining a guest! Get that noise out of here! Make it stop!"
"Mrs. Dawson, I'm so sorry, but the baby won't stop crying," Martha pleaded, trembling. "He has a fever and he absolutely refuses to be breastfed. I don't know what to do."
I rose immediately, stepping toward the nurse with genuine concern. "May I?" I asked Martha softly. "I did a little bit of pediatrics in my private studies. Perhaps I could take a look?"
I took the infant. He felt hot and limp. "Tasha, call a doctor immediately," I ordered, my voice firm. "His temperature is quite high. I can help stabilize him, but he needs medical attention."
I gently loosened the baby's clothes and instructed Martha: "Fetch a lukewarm damp cloth, quickly. We need to sponge him down right away to lower the temperature. And do you have any infant electrolyte solution? He sounds dehydrated."
Under my direction, we began to cool the child. His desperate wails slowly subsided into whimpers.
Tasha watched, stunned, still fiddling with her new necklace. "Samantha... you truly are a lifesaver. I... I had no idea what to do." She was completely bought in, seeing only the kind, competent CEO.
"It was nothing, Tasha," I replied, handing the sleeping baby back to a relieved Martha. I stepped back, adjusting my suit.
A lifesaver? No, Tasha. I am a predator.
I offered a small, private chuckle that she thankfully missed.
RIIIINNNGG.
The sudden, loud chime of the front doorbell sliced through the quiet relief in the room.
Tasha frowned, annoyed by the new interruption. "Who could that be now?" she muttered, marching toward the door herself.
I watched her pull the heavy oak door open.
And then I saw him.
It was Magnus Dawson.
He stood framed in the doorway, his eyes sweeping the hallway. He looked tired and serious. His gaze swept past Tasha's shoulder and landed squarely on me.
He froze. His entire posture stiffened. He was staring directly at Samantha Rowling—the CEO of Sky Trek, the trending woman online.
The woman he had completely forgotten was his ex-wife, Allura.
Magnus was floored. His eyes, wide with shock and blatant admiration, didn't leave my face. He reacted purely on impulse, shoving Tasha slightly to the side as he stepped into the room.
"Anna, take this," he barked, handing his expensive briefcase to the stunned maid without breaking eye contact with me. He crossed the floor in three quick strides.
"Mrs. Rowling," he breathed, his voice thick with awe. He took my hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss onto my palm. "Magnus Dawson. It is an absolute honor. You are even more beautiful than last time we met at the gala."
Tasha looked utterly wounded, clutching the gifts and watching her husband's deferential treatment of a woman he had just met.
"Please, forgive my over-compliments," Magnus continued, his eyes crinkling. "And please forgive my behavior the other day. I understand it caused some... friction with your fiancé."
I withdrew my hand gently, allowing a soft, dismissive wave. "Mr. Dawson, please don't worry. Xavier is highly obsessed and protective of me. He tends to overreact to anything that might make me feel uncomfortable."
Tasha, her mouth hanging slightly open, was further humiliated when Magnus turned to her.
"Tasha," he commanded, his voice sharp, "go make us some tea. Quickly."
Tasha flinched, stung by being ordered around like a servant, especially in front of me. She opened her mouth to protest, but I intervened smoothly.
"Mr. Dawson, that is very kind of you, but I am afraid I must decline," I said, putting my hand on Mr. Wang's arm as a signal. "I have a very pressing appointment downtown, and I simply cannot afford to be late."
Magnus looked genuinely disappointed. "Ah, of course. Duty calls. But you must promise me you will stop by next time. I would absolutely love to treat you to a proper dinner."
I offered him a curt, polite smile. "Until next time, Mr. Dawson."
"Goodbye, Samantha," Tasha mumbled, her voice flat, still reeling from the past ten minutes.
Mr. Wang and the other entourage followed me immediately. Anna, looking thoroughly bewildered by the household drama, rushed to open the front door.
I walked straight toward the black van—a latest model Toyota HiAce Grand Cabin—parked outside. The three guards ran a thorough check of the vehicle's perimeter before one opened the door for me. I slid inside. I smiled, knowing I now had dirt on the Dawsons—the baby, which the media knew nothing about, Magnus's blatant attraction, Tasha's materialism—but the time was not ripe to use it yet.
A short while later, I stood in a private, lavish boutique, testing the weight of my wedding dress. It was a spectacular black gown, decorated with precious stones and a pearl necklace—a tradition of the Giovanni Mafia that dictated the bride wear black. Xavier was meant to wear a matching black suit, though it was highly unlikely he would comply; he wasn't the type to obey rules, he made them.
I twirled once in front of the ornate mirror, casting a dramatic pose. The photographer, a nervous young man, instantly snapped a picture.
"Looking good."
The low, resonant voice made me stop cold. No one would dare give me such a familiar compliment except one man: Xavier Giovanni, my groom and my ultimate benefactor.
"Thank you," I replied, but I didn't turn around.
"You haven't even turned to see who said it," Xavier noted, his voice moving closer. "What if you had just taken a compliment from a total stranger?"
I finally turned my head, my lips curling into a cold, playful smile. "No one would be brave enough to compliment me, Giovanni, given who my fiancé is. Not unless it's the man himself."
Clap, clap, clap.
He clapped his hands slowly, a signal that he was pleased with my calculated flattery. I watched him approach, dressed not in his usual bespoke gray, but in a custom-made black suit.
"You shouldn't wear black if you don't want to," I noted, my tone slightly surprised.
"Just trying to make my baby's day the most beautiful," he replied smoothly.
The photographer gasped softly, blushing furiously, clearly shocked by Xavier's unusual sentimentality.
Xavier wrapped his arm around my waist, his presence instantly radiating power. We held the pose, two figures of perfection: a flawless, powerful couple. In reality, we were powerful partners, each driven by a shared goal—power—but directed at entirely different opponents.
He kissed my temple, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and gestured to the photographer to take one more shot before silently gesturing for him to leave the room.
I turned in his embrace, a slight urgency in my tone. "I have to get out of this wedding dress, Xavier."
"It fits perfectly," he whispered, his grip tightening slightly. "I would love to see you in it all day."
"Don't be ridiculous," I retorted, the words a low whisper, audible only between us.
I walked out of the dressing room, back in my original outfit: a crisp white suit, flowing palazzo trousers, and a black structured top. A bold gold neckpiece and delicate golden string earrings completed the look.
Xavier was sitting on a plush velvet chair, his phone pressed to his ear. I knew he was making a call because of the hand signal he gave the manager, but his lips were unmoving, a sure sign he was merely waiting for a connection—or pretending to be occupied. The moment he saw me, a quick, weak smile flashed across his face. I knew it, I knew the tell-tale tightness around his eyes: it was completely ungenuine. He handed his black card to the bowing manager, who scurried away.
Moments later, we were outside the boutique. I had intended on buying only one black wedding dress—one for the civil entry. The traditional dress, I'd been told, was being provided by the Giovanni family, a garment supposedly woven from black silk—one of the world's most expensive—and embroidered with feathers harvested from seven hundred Indonesian black silkie chickens. But Xavier had bought everything on the rack; everything he seemed to deem fit for me, not the pieces I had actually liked.
We got into his Maserati, just the two of us, as he had earlier instructed Russo and Tank to have the property shipped directly to the mansion. The silence in the car was heavy as he fiddled with the ignition.
I broke the tension, unable to hold back the frustration.
"Why did you buy so many outfits?" I asked, my voice flat. "We were only there for the wedding gown. Besides, this isn't a formal occasion for you to spend such an absurd amount of money. It's only for a show."
For a brief, sharp moment, he looked at me, and I saw a flicker of raw hurt mingled with anger in his eyes. But whatever he felt, I wouldn't take back my words. He needed to be reminded, just as I constantly reminded myself, that I was nothing but a stand-in, and one day the real owner of this 'mask' would awaken, and we would go our separate ways.
He cleared his throat, the sound dry and abrasive. His tone instantly became cold and aloof, a familiar barrier snapping into place.
"We're not just going to a wedding, Allura." He stared straight ahead as he finally ignited the powerful engine. "We're also going to a funeral."
"A funeral? As in, in what manner?" I pressed him, a sudden chill running down my spine.
He didn't respond, simply pressing the accelerator and pulling the car into the busy street.
Hours later, we were home. I ignored him, walking straight to my room. He was followed by Russo and headed to his study, leaving Tank standing guard near the grand staircase.
When I entered my suite, the black wedding gown was already laid out on the bed like a silent, expensive shroud. Madison, the senior maid, and two others were busy placing the other dozen dresses into the walk-in closet.
Madison greeted me politely. "Ms. Samantha, I've instructed the staff to place the clothing in the closet only after a thorough inspection, as is standard practice."
I offered a brittle, automatic smile, but a deep, ugly unhappiness was gnawing at my heart like a huge dent. The concern on Madison's face and the faces of the other two maids was palpable. They could see the stress, the misery clinging to me like cheap perfume.
I didn't want their pity, and certainly not their sympathy. I could take care of myself.
"Thank you, Madison," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Please, all of you, leave the room. I need to be alone."
They filed out quietly. As the last one stepped across the threshold, I shut the heavy door, the sound a sharp, satisfying thud that seemed to reverberate across the vast room.
I walked straight to the bathroom. Underneath the vanity mirror, I located the seam in the wallpaper and removed a few cleverly disguised tile pieces from the wall. What was revealed underneath was my true masterpiece: a meticulously organized plan. It contained all the details of Tasha and Magnus's betrayal—their plans, their working schedule, and their known activities, all highlighted.
A new photograph was added to the center of the board. Thanks to the discreet zoom lens on my luxury watch, I'd been able to take a clear selfie of their newborn son during a brief moment outside the clinic last week.
I pinned the picture next to the 'Next Target' heading.
He might be innocent, I thought, staring at the tiny, unwitting face. He might have no relation to their scheme, but he has every right to be involved. He is a child born from their betrayal of me, and they are all going to get it.
I smoothed out the image of the child, my fingers trembling slightly not from fear, but from the cold, focused resolve building in my chest. The mask must stay on a little longer.