Chapter 33
Torren Masarro, drunk, screaming outside his family’s crumbling headquarters, clothes stained, blood on his knuckles, trying to fight the guards dragging him away from the locked front doors.
“Let me in! This is my family’s–this is mine! You can’t—”
The video cut out as he tripped on his own rage and slammed into the sidewalk.
Three days later, I was discharged from the hospital.
Reporters swarmed like crows the moment the doors opened, cameras flashing, microphones thrust forward like weapons.
But I was ready.
I stepped out slowly, dressed in black, chin held high, face unreadable. Ephraim was already waiting by the car, shielding me from the chaos, and as we walked past the press, they went dead silent–just watching.
Click. Click. Click.
The woman they left to die had walked out of the fire. Unscorched.
We didn’t speak much during the drive.
But as we passed the shattered gates of Massaro HQ, I saw them–employees rioting, climbing the fence, breaking windows, setting fire to office chairs and banners bearing the family crest.
And then I saw him. Torren. Shirt half–torn, face puffy from bruises and tears, watching the building collapse from across the street.
He didn’t see me in the car.
But I saw him.
I lowered the window slightly, just enough for the air to kiss my lips, and whispered one word to no one in particular.
“Burn.”
Ephraim didn’t look away from the road. He just smiled faintly and said, “Already lit the match.”
**
5
The sea hummed softly in the distance, waves like whispers against the stone. I had never known peace could feel like this–warm sand under my feet, Ephraim’s hand laced with mine, and the sun breaking open the sky in blushing gold.
We had traded bloodstained towers and courtroom wars for something quieter. A villa on
He Left Me for Dead. Now He Beas Me for Mercy
111 07 7%
22:35 Sun, Aug 10
47%
the edge of the world, where no one screamed, and no one hunted us. Where I could finally breathe without flinching.
My body had healed.
But more than that–I had come back to life.
He proposed when the sky was still painted in the soft blue of dreams. No audience. No spectacle. Just us, the surf, and the world cracking open.
The ring shimmered like starlight–his mother’s diamond, reset in a thin band of rose gold.
“Marry me,” Ephraim said. His voice didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t waver.
And I said yes.
No hesitation.
No ghosts.
Only the man who had waited through every storm.
He brought my hand to his lips, kissed it, and whispered:
“No one takes you from me again. Not even death.”
The wedding was small–intentionally. No gilded guest lists, no socialites, no strangers.
Just those who had bled with us. Survived with us.
A cliffside chapel, wind tangling in my veil, and the ocean roaring behind us like a final absolution. I walked down the aisle alone… head high, back straight. I didn’t need a father to give me away. I had already given myself to survival.
Fleur was crying, dabbing her eyes beside our father, the duke, who looked like he’d been waiting his whole life to see me smile like this.
Ephraim’s parents were there, proud, emotional. His mother had sewn a piece of her own wedding gown into mine.
His best man–a retired general, sharp–eyed and gray–haired–had once led the raid that found me. He nodded at me as I passed, a silent salute.
When it was time for our vows, Ephraim didn’t read from paper. He looked straight at me. and spoke like no one else existed.
“You survived every betrayal,” he said. “You were hurt, humiliated, hunted. But you stood back up. And now I will spend the rest of my life proving loyalty still exists.”
My voice trembled when I answered, “And I will never again apologize for being powerful.”
We kissed as fireworks bloomed behind us–silver bursts over the sea, over our story, over the graveyard of every name that tried to bury me.
Chapter 33
2/4 98.5%
–
47%
X
The night wore a cloak of black velvet, and we danced under the stars. No orchestra. Just an old gramophone and Ephraim humming the tune against my ear.
I had never been so light in my life.
I had never felt so whole.
We didn’t talk about Torren. Or Ruby. Or the Massaros. Their legacy was ash in the wind. The world had turned without them.
And as the moon spilled across the waves, Ephraim pulled me closer, kissed my shoulder, and whispered,
“You’re home now, Therese. Finally.”
**
TORREN’S POV
I used to own this city.
Every skyscraper was a notch in my belt, every trembling intern a reminder of my power. Now?
Now I’m just another ghost in the park. Unshaven. Filthy. A bottle of cheap whiskey for warmth, a bench for a bed.
I tried to tell them. I screamed the truth. About the board. About the fucking betrayal. About how Therese turned everyone against me, how Ephraim was never just a bodyguard.
No one listened.
They stared at me like I was mad. Maybe I am.
Or maybe this is just what justice looks like when it puts on Therese’s face.
The bank froze everything.
Every cent. Even the accounts in Geneva I thought no one knew about. Blacklisted. Frozen out. Like I never existed.
The so–called friends? Rats on a sinking ship. Haven’t returned a single call.
Not even my goddamn assistant. The one who used to buy my suits and lie for me in
court.
Family? I spat on them long before they had the chance to spit on me.
Now they’ve vanished too. No one wants to be tied to Torren Massaro, the disgrace, the drunk, the devil who burned down his own empire with a smile.
I hear the dogs before I see it.
A billboard, gleaming bright above the traffic. There she is.
Therese Lambert, arm in arm with Ephraim, both dressed in white. Her eyes sparkle like vengeance. His smirk dares anyone to try.
Chapter 33
3/4 99.2%
22:35 Sun, Aug 10
47%
D X
New Hope Gala: A Night for the Forgotten Children.
Charity. Of course. What better way to salt the wound than to save the world with my money?
I stand up, clutch the bottle by the neck. My hand’s shaking. From the cold. From fury. From everything I should’ve said when she still looked at me like I mattered.
I hurled the bottle at the billboard.
It doesn’t shatter.
It bounces.
Hits me square in the face. Blood drips from my lip. I laugh. It sounds like gravel and grief. A mangy mutt wanders by. Sniffs. Lifts a leg.
Pisses on my shoe like I’m a piece of trash on the curb.
I don’t move.
RA
I just sit there, staring up at that perfect fucking photo, tears leaking down my face and into the cracks of my skin.
“I’m sorry, Therese,” I whisper to no one. “I was supposed to protect you. I was supposed to love you better.”
But it’s too late for prayers.
She’s dancing in diamonds now.
And I’m rotting in rags.
END
