"In high society, the wine is always exquisite, and the people are always poison. Tonight, I was the most dangerous vintage in the room."
I stood near the marble bar, a vision in borrowed silk and manufactured confidence, waiting for the one man who could either ruin me or complete my revenge. Around me, the titans of the city played their trivial games of financial dominance. But my game was different: it was about blood. I was counting the minutes until my target arrived, rehearsing the lines that would draw him close.
Then, the ambient sound shifted. A soft, classical melody—something my father used to play on a cracked vinyl record—drifted through the air. Sweet, familiar, completely out of place in this glittering, corrupt mansion. It was the sound of a memory I had tried to erase.
I was fourteen again. Sunset spilled through the lilac cotton curtains across our living room, my mother humming the same melody from the kitchen. I tiptoed past my father, careful not to break the spell of ordinary happiness. My siblings' laughter echoed down the hall as I hurried to join them. Soon, the night came, and our mother called us to dinner. I dropped my toys, grabbed Luna's and Liam's hands, and led them toward the living room.
My father scooped them both into his arms for bath time, leaving me to follow my mother into the kitchen.
"Querido, come help me set the table," she said, handing me cutlery and napkins. I moved to the dining table, where my father and the twins were already seated—Luna perched on Dad's lap, giggling at some private joke.
I smiled at the memory, the music threading through my chest like an old, familiar ache. Then it all changed.
The front door had opened with a soft creak I'd never noticed before. At first, I thought it was the wind. But then the shuffling steps came—too heavy, too deliberate. A shadow crossed the hallway. My mother's humming stopped mid-note.
"Querido, hide—quick!" Her voice, urgent and trembling, cut through the warmth of the evening. Before I could ask why, she grabbed my hand and pulled me behind the couch. My heart slammed against my ribs, the laughter of my siblings now a distant echo.
From my hiding spot, I saw them—men I didn't know, faces I would never forget. Guns glinted under the low lamp light, and at the center, a man and a woman with knives, moving like predators. Words were exchanged, harsh and sharp, but I couldn't understand them. All I saw were my parents and my siblings caught in their grasp.
Gunshots shattered the room. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping this nightmare wasn't real. But the screams, the chaos—they were undeniable. A sharp pain of helplessness pierced me as I peeked, only to see my mother and siblings lying still, their warmth drained, their lives stolen in moments I would never forget.
The last thing I saw was her—the woman—leaning over my mother, a knife catching the light, her final act a horrifying punctuation. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything—but I was frozen. Fourteen. Alone.
I blinked and suddenly I was back at the wine tasting event, the memory snapping shut like a trap. My glass of Merlot trembled in my hand. The classical melody had ended, leaving the polished room in an echoing silence that felt sharper than any bullet.
I smoothed my dress, straightened my posture and puts on a poise smile, focusing on one thing and one thing only Mike Bradford, the owner of the biggest entertainment company in the whole of Los Angelos.
I signaled to one of the waiters for a refill of my wine, I turned to head towards my seat and bumped into someone spilling the drink on my dress.
"Are your eyes at the back of your head?" I snapped, my voice sharp as crystal, the kind of tone that warned anyone this wasn't a woman to toy with. I looked up, ready to glare.
The man froze, then looked down at the mess and back up at me. He was tall, impossibly composed, with dark eyes that seemed to size me up in an instant.
"I—I'm so sorry," he said smoothly, but there was an edge to his tone, a hint that he enjoyed this far more than he should.
I narrowed my eyes. Oh, I'll enjoy this too.
"Careful," I said, brushing imaginary specks from my dress, though the silk would never forgive the stain. "You don't get a second chance with me."
He smirked, a slow, infuriating twist of amusement that made my chest tighten despite myself. And you do realize you just made an enemy, right?
I clenched my jaw, matching his gaze. Enemies can be… interesting.
That brief, heated exchange—fire against fire—made one thing clear: Adrian Blackwood was no ordinary man. And somehow, I was already hooked.
I excused myself from the commotion, my silk dress now a casualty of someone else's carelessness, and took a quiet corner where I could observe the room without being fully seen. The chandeliers sparkled above, reflecting a thousand tiny lights, each one as deceptive as the smiles surrounding me.
Mike Bradford would arrive soon. That was my goal, my plan, my entire evening distilled into a single, perfect strike. But Adrian Blackwood—dark, infuriating, and dangerously magnetic—had just reminded me that even the best-laid schemes could unravel in a heartbeat.
As I watched the room, my eyes caught a server collecting empty wine glasses. It wasn't the waiter who serving drinks, but a woman whose name tag was nearly hidden beneath her collar. She looked up, and for a split second, our eyes met. Her expression was neutral, professional, yet a tiny, involuntary tremor ran through her hand. She had the eyes of someone who knew me before Lila existed. She was someone who remembered the house, the laughter, and the blood.
The danger wasn't outside waiting. It was already inside the gate, serving canapés.
I sipped my wine, tasting more than just Merlot; I tasted opportunity, danger, and the intoxicating thrill of a game I had only just begun. Somewhere beneath the poise and polish, the fourteen-year-old girl still flinched at echoes of music, of laughter, of blood.
But Lila—the heiress I pretended to be, the predator in silk—did not flinch. Not here. Not now.
Tonight was just the beginning of the hunt.