Winston blinked. “I wasn’t-”
“Don’t,” she snapped. “You said you loved me.”
“I do,” he said, too quickly. “But Scarlett-”
Alina’s voice dropped, lethal. “But nothing. You don’t get to mourn a woman you humiliated. You don’t get to ache when you’re the one who broke her.”
He flinched.
Across the room, Zacharias leaned in closer to me, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “They’re watching you like you built the night.”
I smiled. “I did.”
He spun me once more before pulling me flush against his chest.
“Scarlett?” he whispered.
“Yes?”
“If I ever loved anyone before you, I hope I forget it again. Because right now? I can’t imagine anyone but you.”
My throat tightened. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember that this wasn’t supposed to feel real. And yet–his arms, his voice, his devotion…
It did.
It burned.
And somewhere inside me, revenge twisted in confusion. Because it was supposed to be about power. Not this. Not love. Not again.
***
ALINA’S POV
I’ve never liked waiting. Not for dresses. Not for planes. And certainly not for Scarlett. But tonight, I waited. Patiently. Lipstick sharp. Heels cruel.
Because I had a plan, and I always win when I play with velvet gloves and a dagger under my tongue.
“Papa,” I said sweetly, curling my fingers around his sleeve like a daughter who still played piano on Sundays, “Would you mind asking Scarlett to speak with you privately? Something about the Royce inheritance. Very delicate.”
He didn’t question it. No one does when I smile like that.
And just like that, she was led away–my half–sister with her swan neck and
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floor. Where he always went when he wanted quiet and shadow.
Perfect.
482%會
I slipped past the guards like smoke, let myself into his private room without knocking. The heavy door thudded shut behind me.
He was there.
Sitting in his tailored slacks, shirt half–unbuttoned, dark hair messy like he’d run a hand through it too many times. The scent of something masculine and dangerous wrapped around the air–cedar and clove and Cuban smoke. A glass of scotch cradled in his palm.
He looked up, slow and indifferent, like I was another business offer he could
refuse.
“Zachy,” I purred, stepping into the haze with my hips swinging like a threat.
“Alina,” he said flatly. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
I pouted. “That’s what makes it fun.”
He watched me. Eyes unreadable. Cold and sharp.
But not uninterested.I sat across from him, crossing my legs, letting the slit of my gown slide up just enough to command attention.
“I thought you’d remember me by now,” I whispered, trailing my nails along the armrest between us. “I mean… I was the woman you were supposed to marry.”
He exhaled a slow cloud of smoke. “Were you?”
“Mmm,” I leaned closer, eyes locked on his, “You were obsessed with me. Don’t you remember Paris? The thousand roses you had delivered to my hotel room? The emerald necklace from Milan? The trip to Santorini where you said I was your forever?”
He didn’t flinch. Just sipped his drink. Cool as sin.
“I don’t remember any of that,” he said calmly. “But I’m sure it was… expensive.”
I giggled, feigning hurt. “You were so different then. Soft with me. Loyal. You said I made you feel like you could breathe again.”
“I don’t know if that was me,” he murmured, “or someone else’s fantasy.”
I touched his hand then. Lightly. Fingers brushing over his knuckles. His jaw tightened. But he didn’t pull away.
“I know you don’t remember, Zacharias,” I whispered, voice honey–slick and
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slow, “But we were in love. Deep. Mad. The kind of love people write operas about. Scarlett–she was just watching us from the shadows. She’s always wanted to be me.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Why does it feel like I shouldn’t trust you?”
That stung. But I didn’t show it.
Instead, I slid closer, tilting my face up to his, my lips barely an inch from his.
“You trusted me once,” I said. “Maybe your heart remembers what your mind forgot.”
Then I kissed him. Soft. Intentional. History reimagined. His hand flew up instantly, pressing against my collarbone–not tender. A push.
He stood sharply, stepping back. “Don’t.”
I blinked up at him. My throat burned, but I smiled. “You kissed me first, remember? That night on the yacht-”
“I don’t remember any of it,” he said, voice flat as ice.
Time to twist.
“You want to know why you ended up in a coma?” I said slowly, watching his eyes. “It wasn’t some accident. It was Scarlett. She did it.”
He blinked once. Hard.
“What?”
“She’s obsessed with you. Always has been. She couldn’t stand that you chose me. That we were engaged. She drugged you that night. You were supposed to fly with me to Greece–then hired someone to bump your car to accident. Scarlett doesn’t love you. She’s obsessed with you!”
He said nothing.
Perfect.
“She’s been lying to you since you woke up,” I whispered, stepping closer again. “She stole you from me.”
He didn’t move. Just stared through me, as if trying to piece together a puzzle someone kept rearranging.
Good. Let him spiral.
Let doubt plant its root.
“You don’t belong to her,” I said quietly. “You were mine first.”
His voice came back, flat and distant.
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“Get out, Alina.”
I froze. He didn’t yell. He didn’t even look angry.
Just… done. That scared me more than rage.
“You’re… You’re making a mistake,” I whispered.
“No,” he said, turning away. “I think I made it years ago.”
The door opened behind me–one of his guards, expression unreadable. He nodded toward the hall.
I straightened, smoothing my dress, my fury blistering just beneath my skin.
Fine!
Let him crawl back to her.
Let him play husband to a liar.
But when the final curtain falls, he’ll remember who the real story belonged to.
Me.
