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Determined to stop the bullying, she vowed to make her family pay. Her disabled fiancé proposed a marriage alliance to help her fight back. What started as a deal turned into love--he adored her, and she discovered she was his savior all along! ===== "Janice, how vicious you could be! Do you even realize what you've done to your sister? " "I brought you back, gave you all you needed, and offered you a place to belong. Is this how you thank me? You're going to learn your lesson today!" Laurie Edwards snarled, her rage boiling over as the whip struck her daughter with a brutal, echoing crack. The sharp snap of the whip reverberated through the vast mansion, silencing the servants who stood as still as sculptures, not daring to utter a single word. Despite this, Janice Edwards remained stoic, her slight frame quivering as she clenched her teeth tightly, bearing the excruciating pain that seemed to rip through her skin. With Laurie's arm each swung, marking Janice's back with deep, crimson streaks, her face turning pale. Yet, her gaze remained steady, lit with a spark of resolve. Maybe she had become numb to such brutal punishments. "Now, apologize to Delilah." Panting from the exertion, Laurie stood with one hand resting on her hip, eyes blazing as she glared at Janice. "Why should I apologize when I've done nothing wrong?" Janice met Laurie's gaze, her voice firm, each word a defiance. Laurie's fury peaked as she saw Janice's unyielding stance. Gripping the whip tightly, she declared, "Then I will not stop until you apologize today." At that crucial moment, Delilah Edwards, Laurie's adopted daughter, clutched Laurie's arm, her eyes brimming with tears as she implored, "Mom! Please, no more hitting Janice. It's actually my fault--I never told her about my allergy to mango." "Delilah, your heart is too big. She nearly got you killed, yet here you are, defending her." Laurie sighed, patting Delilah's hand gently, warmth flooding her voice. "She's just malicious. In her desperate bid for attention, she gave you mango pudding, knowing well about your allergy. How utterly cruel, don't you think?" "But I swear, I didn't know!" Janice protested, tears welling up in her eyes as she faced the tight-knit pair before her. "I really didn't know about her allergy!" "Still making excuses?" Laurie snapped, landing another strike on Janice, her words icy and biting as the sting radiated across Janice's skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Ever since Janice had returned to her family, any dispute involving Delilah invariably ended with Janice taking the blame. No matter her arguments or the evidence she presented, it was always brushed aside as deceitful. When Delilah had a fall down the stairs, she had accused Janice of pushing her, and their parents had sided with Delilah without a second thought. Even though Janice was their flesh and blood, she seemed to hold a lesser place in their hearts than Delilah, the adopted one. In their eyes, perhaps she was nothing more than a schemer, always out to hurt Delilah to win some affection. Delilah cast a sympathetic look towards Janice. "Mom, I get where Janice is coming from. After all, I've take her place as your daughter for over a decade. If I were in her shoes, I'd probably feel bitter too. Perhaps if I leave, she'll finally feel at peace, and the family can mend." Her words, coated in a veneer of concern, were a clever ruse to cast Janice further into disfavor, and Laurie swallowed the bait wholeheartedly. Janice's heart sank deeper into despair, a silent tally of grievances against her family mounting with each passing moment. In an instant, a sharp whip snapped her back to the harsh present. She locked eyes with Laurie, whose gaze was frosty and filled with contempt. Laurie's voice cut through the air, icy and sharp. "Just look at Delilah, always so thoughtful and polite! If you were even half as considerate, I'd be over the moon. Yet here you are, denying your mistake, as if to piss me off on purpose." Janice stood her ground firmly. "I'll tell you once more, the pudding I handed her had no mango in it. If you doubt me, just check the grocery list!" "Why even bother to check? It's not like Delilah would deceive us about such things." Laurie, her faith in Delilah unshakable, saw no need to confirm the items listed for shopping. "Mom..." Delilah's voice trembled, her act delicately woven with vulnerability. "If it eases Janice's mind, then perhaps I did wrong her." "Delilah, please, don't cry. You don't deserve to suffer this way. I'll ensure that ungrateful girl is held accountable." Laurie's gaze hardened, her grip on her whip tightening, her authority palpable. "If you don't want to apologize, that's entirely up to you. In three days, Efrery will host its first fashion design contest. If you give your design draft to Delilah, I'll let this go." Again? Those icy words pierced Janice, sending a deep shiver through her being. Throughout the year, she had tirelessly given in, desperate for a sliver of her family's acknowledgment and praise. From the start, the bedroom had been hers by right. But they coaxed Janice into surrendering it, saying Delilah had grown attached to its comforts. Even her rightful identity as the Edwards family's daughter had been obscured, all to safeguard Delilah's pride. The list of such sacrifices stretched endlessly. To stay with this family and gain their favor, Janice had given up more than she cared to admit. But now, Laurie was pushing her to give up her design draft for the fashion contest, her future hanging in the balance. "Say something," Laurie urged as Janice remained silent. "Have you lost your voice?" "Mom, please," Delilah interjected, gripping Laurie's arm, shaking her head. "Janice is competing too. What will she do if she hands over her draft to me? Though I feel confident about winning, I..." She paused, coughing weakly, her frame quivering as though she might faint. "I don't think my health allows it." "She caused you harm, it's only right she makes amends." Laurie locked eyes with Janice with a penetrating stare. "I'll ask you one last time--are you giving up the draft or not?" Janice's chest tightened as she took a deep, uneven breath. "Mom, aren't I your daughter too?" she asked, her voice breaking slightly. "You claim to be my daughter, but you disregard my wishes?" This overt display of favoritism broke Janice's heart completely. She closed her eyes, her voice barely a whisper. "I'll let her have the draft." A sly smile flickered across Delilah's face. While Janice was often too yielding, her design skills were top-notch. With Janice's draft in hand, clinching first place seemed all but guaranteed. "You do have a conscience after all," Laurie remarked, one eyebrow arched as she nonchalantly flung the whip aside and offered Delilah a warm smile. "With Janice's design draft, you can stop stressing about the competition. Just relax and enjoy the award when it comes." "Thanks, Mom," Delilah responded, her face lighting up with a joyful grin. Yet, shortly after, a timid look crossed her face as she glanced at Janice. "But won't Janice resent me for using her draft?" "Would she even dare?" Laurie's voice turned frosty as she fixed a stern gaze on Janice. "If she harbors any resentment, she'll find herself out on the streets. The Edwards family don't keep the ungrateful around, family or not." "What if Janice accuses me of stealing her design?" Delilah's voice was tinged with worry. "Then I will ensure that every bit of her involvement is obliterated, crediting you alone." Laurie's harsh words stunned Janice, her heart sinking deeper into despair with each moment. Had her year of endurance and compromise been in vain? "Huh!" Janice scoffed, a bitter laugh breaking through as the final remnants of her hopes disintegrated, leaving her utterly disillusioned with the family. Chapter 2 Fighting Back "What's so funny, Janice?" Laurie tilted her head in confusion. "I laugh at the absurdity of my own foolishness, how time and again I've surrendered, only to feed your boundless greed," Janice answered, her laughter tinged with a sharp, mocking edge. "Greed? Isn't it your duty, as an elder sister, to make concessions for Delilah?" Laurie's retort came wrapped in a veneer of self-righteousness, unaware that the spark of hope in Janice's eyes had long been extinguished. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Janice declared with determination, "I kept stepping back, hoping my sacrifices would kindle even a spark of affection from you. But my efforts were in vain, dismissed and trampled upon as if they were nothing but failures." Her voice rose, reverberating with force around the room. Janice rose from the floor, her posture now reflecting a mix of defiance and strength. "You promised me a life of opulence upon my return to the Edwards family. Yet, what have I received? Not even the courtesy of a decent meal. Tell me, beyond using and crushing me, have you ever acted with a shred of humanity?" With her hands clutching her chest, Janice continued, "I am your own daughter! Have you ever, even once, called me 'sweetie'?" Her laugh then broke through, hysterical yet filled with sorrow. Laurie frowned, her voice icy as she responded, "Isn't this all because you want to hear me call you 'sweetie'? Fine. Sweetie! Is that what you wanted?" With a sharp, almost manic laugh, Janice shook her head. "Mrs. Edwards, your pathetic attempt at fake love is almost entertaining." At that moment, her laughter ceased abruptly, her eyes turning cold and piercing. "I no longer crave your affection. As of today, I sever all bonds with the Edwards family." "This is outright rebellion!" Laurie exclaimed, her fury palpable as she grasped the whip again and lashed out at Janice. However, Janice intercepted the whip effortlessly, her expression steely and resolute. "Do you still want to hit me? Once, I was your daughter, and I tolerated a mother's discipline. But now, we share no bond. By what right do you raise your hand against me?" A sly smirk twisted Janice's lips, her previously gentle demeanor now replaced with a rebellious edge. She wrested the whip from Laurie, giving it a casual flick through the air. "You hit me just now. It seems only fair to return the favor." "What are you going to do?" Laurie staggered back, her expression one of shock as Janice turned from a docile victim into a figure of daunting courage. With a deafening snap, the whip struck Laurie's body, leaving a fiery sting in its wake. "How dare you hit me!" Laurie cried out in pain, her rage reaching a boiling point. "You won't get away with this!" "Janice, how could you hit Mom?" Delilah exclaimed in shock. Janice cast a chilling glance at Delilah, sending shivers down her spine. Delilah couldn't shake off the unsettling feeling, pondering the drastic change in Janice. "If you're so concerned about her, why don't you take the hit for her?" Janice snapped, her words cutting through the air. With that, the whip lashed out, striking Delilah sharply. "Ah!" Delilah shrieked as the lash connected, a wave of intense pain overwhelming her thoughts. She couldn't believe this. Janice must have lost her sanity to strike her. "Janice, stop this madness! I won't allow you to harm Delilah!" Laurie roared, rushing to encase Delilah in her arms, disregarding her own agony. But Janice was relentless, her whip mercilessly striking Laurie again and again. Laurie's cries of pain echoed through the room, her body quaking, her eyes rolling back as if she were about to pass out. Yet this agony was nothing compared to the suffering Janice had gone through for a year. She was holding back right now. Otherwise, Laurie would have already succumbed. "Janice, please, stop! You're killing Mom! It's all my fault. Hit me if you must, but please..." Delilah pleaded, her words cut off as Janice yanked her from Laurie's protective embrace. "Janice, let go of Delilah!" Despite her own suffering, Laurie was still worried about Delilah. What a "great" mother she was! "Aren't you allergic to mango?" Janice snorted, a sinister smile playing on her lips. "What the hell are you doing? You better let me go right now! Dad's going to be back any minute, and when he hears what you did to Mom, he'll rip you apart!" Delilah's heart thudded in her chest, her trembling hands frozen by her sides as she gaped at Janice in horror. "Then I'll make sure you're gone before he can lay a hand on me." Janice seized a mango pudding from the table and pressed it against Delilah's lips. Delilah twisted and writhed, but Janice's grip was like steel, leaving her choking as the pudding was thrust down her throat. "Stop, Janice! You'll kill her!" Laurie bellowed, her voice laced with terror. "Someone, please! Stop this madness!" Reacting to Laurie's cries, the servants quickly closed in on Janice. Without a moment's hesitation, Janice whipped out the lash, cracking it in the air with a sharp snap that struck a servant harshly. "Take one more step, and you're fucking dead!" she declared, her eyes glinting with a chilling resolve that froze the servants in their tracks. They exchanged looks of disbelief. Was this really the same girl who had always absorbed her suffering in silence? "Delilah, please, talk to me!" Laurie crawled towards her, tears streaming down her face. "Don't scare me like this!" "Mrs. Edwards, perhaps it's time you witnessed how your dear daughter handles her allergic reactions." She sneered and strode out of the room. This place no longer felt like a home. The servants gathered around, their expressions a mix of concern and confusion. They were unaccustomed to seeing such a bold display of defiance from Janice, who was usually so meek and accommodating. The memory of Janice beating Laurie and forcefully feeding Delilah mango pudding hung heavily in the air, a chilling reminder of the ordeal. Chapter 3 A Deal Janice stepped out from the Edwards family's mansion, her gaze drifting slowly over the silent, empty street. Despite the residual pain that clung to her, a peculiar lightness blossomed within her chest. Reflecting on her year with the Edwards family, she acknowledged the suffocating nature of her existence there. Driven by a deep-seated desire for family warmth, she had willingly shackled her own desires, hoping in vain for a sliver of their affection. Sadly, all she encountered was sheer apathy and relentless demands. Janice cast one final glance at the mansion, its walls exuding a haughty splendor, a silent testament to aristocratic pride. "Let's see how long your greatness lasts without me around," Janice muttered under her breath, turning her head away. As she took a step towards her new freedom, a voice unexpectedly halted her. "Miss Edwards, you truly are full of surprises." Janice spun around. Before her, guided by a bodyguard, was a man seated in a wheelchair. His features were arrestingly handsome--the sharp contours of his face striking, his presence effortlessly commanding the light around him despite his seated position. However, he was a man marked by a disability. This very disability had led Delilah to scorn him, compelling the Edwards family to bring Janice back to take Delilah's place in an arranged marriage to him. "Mr. Green, what exactly are you implying?" Janice's voice was sharp, her eyes narrowing with a palpable intensity that suggested imminent danger. Aiden Green, with a slight lift of his brow, regarded her with a curious expression. "I must admit, I'm taken aback. I didn't expect you, typically so docile, to reveal such a formidable side. It's quite unexpected." "Have you been watching me?" Janice's tone grew colder, her fists tightening subtly as she braced herself for any necessary confrontation. Unruffled, Aiden signaled with a subtle gesture for his bodyguards to hold their positions. "Considering you are my fiancee, I believe it's rather normal for me to take an interest in your affairs, wouldn't you agree?" "Yes," Janice conceded, softening her posture as she stepped closer to Aiden. "But are you truly prepared to accept me as your fiancee? I remember well your previous demeanor towards me--it was rather dismissive, even bordering on contemptuous." "That was in the past," Aiden replied, his voice halting as he locked eyes with Janice, whose gaze no longer bore traces of vulnerability. In that moment, he perceived a change in her, as if she was a completely different person. "I now believe you are indeed suited to stand beside me." Janice's smile danced in the evening breeze, her hair fluttering like silken threads. Her smile, though beautiful, carried a frosty undertone. "Mr. Green, let's cut to the chase. What are you really after?" Aiden raised his eyebrows, intrigued. The changes she had undergone were even more significant than he had imagined. "Let's make a deal," he suggested smoothly. "Alright, go on," Janice urged, her eyes locked on his with resolute poise. "You've severed ties with the Edwards family. Once Connor is back, he won't let this slide." Aiden's voice was low and captivating. "I'm in a position to shield you from their backlash and offer the support you need to chase your ambitions. You loathe them now, don't you? You're out for retribution, I guess?" Janice's eyes narrowed, a spark of recognition flickering within. Aiden had pierced right through her facade. The Edwards family had presumed that bringing her back was a charitable gesture. However, she would prove them wrong. She would show them how ignorant they were and what immense wealth and prosperity they had missed. "And what is it that you want?" she inquired, her voice steady. "Let's go register our marriage tomorrow." Aiden's words made Janice momentarily stunned, but then her lips curled into a smile. "Deal." Chapter 4 No Allergies? The Edwards family was now shrouded in an oppressive and somber air. With Connor Edwards, Laurie's husband, back, a palpable tension had settled in, stifling enough that the servants didn't dare to make a sound. Connor's fury was barely contained as he pounded his fist on the table, his voice a menacing growl. "Unbelievable! Hitting her mother was bad enough, but forcing Delilah to eat mango pudding too? Was Janice crazy?" Laurie urged, "Connor, you have to stand up for Delilah. We took Janice in, clothed her, fed her and provided shelter, yet look how she repays us. Such actions could tarnish our good name if word spreads." "She will return and apologize," Connor vowed, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. He turned to address the butler. "Where is Janice now? Get her back to me." "Aiden Green has taken her away." "What?" Connor was taken aback. "Aiden Green? What in the world is happening?" The butler shook his head, his own confusion evident. "Mr. Green's timing was suspicious. He only appeared after Janice's outburst. Maybe there's something going on between them." A cold realization dawned on Connor as he pieced the events together. Janice's boldness probably stemmed from her association with Aiden. "She thinks she's untouchable with Aiden in her corner. Does she think that worthless man's support allows her to act however she pleases?" At that moment, Bartley Carter, the family doctor, descended the staircase. Connor and Laurie, momentarily setting aside their brewing anger, turned to him with concern. "Bartley, how is Delilah doing right now?" "Miss Edwards merely had a scare, nothing of grave concern." "What? That doesn't make sense!" Laurie frowned, her face a mixture of shock and concern. "She ate an entire mango pudding." Bartley hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing in bewilderment. "What's so bad about eating a whole mango pudding?" "She has a mango allergy." "That's not the case. Miss Edwards has no such allergy." Stunned, Connor and Laurie exchanged bewildered looks. Delilah wasn't allergic to mango? Did Delilah really throw an unfounded accusation at Janice? "Bartley, are you absolutely certain about Delilah's lack of allergy?" Laurie pressed on, seeking confirmation once more. "Absolutely. If she were truly allergic, consuming such an amount would have necessitated an emergency hospital visit," Bartley affirmed with professional confidence. Recognizing Bartley's expertise and dedication, Connor and Laurie nodded in acceptance of his diagnosis. "Thank you, Bartley," Connor remarked gratefully. "I'll ensure the consultation fee is transferred to you later." Bartley acknowledged with a nod. "If there's nothing further, I shall take my leave now." Connor asked the butler to see Bartley out. Turning around, he found Laurie immersed in contemplation, her gaze distant and unfocused. "Could it be that Delilah faked her allergy just to set Janice up?" Shaking her head slightly, Laurie responded, "I'm just relieved Delilah isn't truly allergic to mango. By the way, now that Janice is with Aiden, what do you think we should do?" "Ha! As if Aiden was willing to protect her without our backing. She'll be crawling back soon enough, begging to be forgiven!" Connor predicted with a sneer. Laurie nodded in agreement. Janice had been cruel, but at the end of the day, she was nothing more than an ungrateful girl, not worth wasting another moment on. With these thoughts stirring in her mind, she ascended the stairs to Delilah's room. "Mrs. Edwards, you need to stand up for Delilah." As Laurie stepped through the doorway, a middle-aged woman dressed in a maid's uniform grasped her hand. It was Daryl Quimby, the devoted servant of the Edwards family. As soon as she saw Laurie, Daryl began to complain, "I've looked after Delilah since she was a child, treating her like my own daughter. To see her endure such pain cuts me deeply. Although Janice is your own flesh and blood, she is ungrateful. Despite all the love the Edwards family has showered upon her, she struck you and nearly took Delilah's life. It's utterly reprehensible." "Daryl, please, try to calm down. I assure you, I won't let this slide. Janice may be my own daughter, but I won't overlook her actions." "Delilah is incredibly fortunate to have such a loving mother." Laurie smiled. "I'm the one who's truly fortunate to have Delilah as my daughter." She moved deeper into the room and approached Delilah, who lay frailly in the bed. A pang of concern tightened her chest at this sight. "Delilah, my dear, how are you feeling?" "I'm feeling a lot better now, Mom. Bartley just confirmed that I'm not allergic to mango." Tears streamed down Delilah's face as she put on an act of guilt. "Mom, do you think I set Janice up?" Laurie shook her head. "No, sweetheart. I believe you, dear. This must have been a simple misunderstanding. Plus, it's a relief to hear you're not allergic to mango. I would have been really worried otherwise." A faint, wistful smile flickered across Delilah's face. "Mom, maybe it would be best if I left. Janice's sudden madness today scared me. She must hate me so much. If I'm gone, she'll probably be happier, and things might be more peaceful for the Edwards family." "Delilah, you have such a big heart." Laurie sighed, feeling sorry for Delilah. "Even after all this, you're thinking about Janice's feelings. If only she could see the goodness in you like I do. After today, I cannot see her as my daughter anymore." "Mom, Janice is a poor girl..." "Let's drop the subject," Laurie replied sharply, waving her hand with an air of finality. Her expression soured at the mention of Janice's name. "Focus on your rest. You know, the fashion design competition is in three days. When you clinch the first prize, I'll appoint you as the vice president of our company." "Mom, you're the best." Inside, however, Delilah's thoughts took a scornful turn. How delightfully gullible the Edwards family was, swayed by mere sweet nothings. Poor Janice had not only given her design to her but had also been ousted from the Edwards family. Delilah believed it wouldn't be long before she seized control of all that belonged to the Edwards family. The upcoming fashion design competition was no ordinary event. Hosted by Routique Fashion, a titan in the industry known for setting the global fashion trends, the event was a spectacle in its own right. Among the luminaries of the fashion world was JE, a name spoken with utmost reverence. Regarded as a visionary among her peers, JE's creations were deemed masterpieces, setting the standards for all aspiring designers. Yet, JE remained shrouded in mystery, never once stepping into the public eye. Rumors abounded, and some fanatics even dangled a million-dollar bounty for a real-life encounter with the elusive designer. The Edwards family had long been leading figures in the fashion world. Laurie, as a celebrated designer, held considerable sway over industry trends. Her role as a judge at the imminent competition only cemented their family's influential legacy. Chapter 5 Why Is She Here? At the designer competition venue, Delilah, adorned in a sumptuous ensemble, strolled through the hall, exuding confidence and vivacity. Her presence commanded the attention of many. Recognizing her potential victory, acquaintances swarmed around her, eager to ingratiate themselves. It was an open secret that Laurie, a towering figure in the world of fashion design, meant that the competition's grand prize was almost certainly destined for Delilah. Winning would not only affirm her talent but also secure her a prominent position within Edwards Group's fashion division. "Miss Edwards, you are absolutely radiant today! Surely, this exquisite outfit is your creation?" "Indeed, Miss Edwards' flair for design is a beautiful echo of her mother's legacy--truly captivating. Even her casual outfits set her apart. I have no doubt that her entry for today will leave us all spellbound." Delilah held her head high with an air of pride. She was looking forward to the jealous stares that would follow her anticipated triumph. "Thank you, I am deeply honored. My mother's mentorship has been invaluable." Nearby, Laurie listened with a smile, her heart swelling with pride. "It's your innate talent too, Delilah. Without it, even the finest mentorship would falter." "By the way, Mrs. Edwards, I heard your other daughter will also be in the competition. Why haven't we seen her yet?" someone asked. Laurie's demeanor hardened, and she replied sharply, "I have only one daughter, Delilah. Who are you referring to?" The crowd fell into a hushed silence. Although the true daughter of the Edwards family had not been publicly acknowledged, rumors had circulated. Laurie's feigned ignorance took everyone aback. Laurie's brow furrowed, her voice laced with contempt. "You must be mistaken. Are you talking about that girl who can't even sketch a simple design? She has no place here in this competition." The crowd exchanged looks, piecing together Laurie's harsh dismissal as a blatant denial of her own flesh and blood, favoring her adopted daughter as the heiress. However, they didn't care whom the title belonged to. They just needed to know who was cherished by the Edwards family. "I heard JE is supposed to make an appearance at today's event. Being a judge, you must have heard something about that, Mrs. Edwards?" "Wait, JE is going to be here?" Laurie's eyebrows shot up, her voice laced with surprise as she processed the unexpected news. The thought of JE attending ignited an excited thrill deep within her. Her design firm had hit a snag on a challenging project, but JE's presence could effortlessly draw in enthusiastic collaborators. "Mrs. Edwards, you didn't know?" Regaining her poise, Laurie answered with a gracious smile, "Well, I really shouldn't say." Her answer was tactful, skillfully masking her unawareness while implying that she was privy to secrets she couldn't divulge due to confidentiality constraints. "Mrs. Edwards, if there's ever a chance, we'd love for you to introduce us to JE!" "Of course," Laurie agreed amiably. Soon, a lively crowd gathered around Laurie, exchanging trivial niceties. They were all driven by the same ambition--to forge a connection with a luminary in the fashion design industry through Laurie. A wave of pride washed over Delilah. The more prominent Laurie became, the more she, as her daughter, would shine. If Janice happened to witness her reveling in this glowing admiration, adored like a queen, she'd absolutely be burning with envy, wouldn't she? Delilah's eyes suddenly snapped to a familiar silhouette. Was that Janice? What was she doing here? Had she come to submit another design for the competition? ...... What happens next? 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I signed a 14-page contract without reading the fine print. I should have read the fine print. The listing promised great pay for "working with exotic creatures." What it didn't say was that I wasn't hired to care for the monsters behind those seven doors I was hired to breed with one. On day four they strapped me to a table and the man who hired me pressed a needle to my stomach. "You agreed to all of it when you signed," he smiled. "And I need your womb." They've spent years collecting from every species in this building, preparing for the one part they couldn't manufacture. Me. Every girl before me died, broke, or vanished. The only one trying to keep me alive is the very monster I'm meant to survive. ——————————————————— Chapter 1 — Crystal's POV Position: [not specified]. Location: Saint-Barthélemy, on-site housing provided. Compensation: €4,500/month. Start date: immediate. Requirements: female, single, good health, experience with caregiving preferred. Good fertility. Nature of work: daily care and interaction with exotic creatures. Interested applicants reply to this address only. I'd found it buried in a local forum between an ad for a retired fisherman's boat and someone selling homemade coconut oil, and I'd screenshot it before it could disappear, the way things on that forum tended to do. I read it for the fourth time, and it didn't get any less suspicious. The waiting room was trying hard to impress. White leather chairs, a marble coffee table, and a massive aerial photograph of Saint-Barthélemy's coastline. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Checked my phone, read the listing again. "Weird listing, right?" The woman two chairs over was watching me. Mid-thirties, tanned, the kind of sun-bleached hair that came from actually living near the ocean She nodded at my phone. "No company name, no job title. Just 'exotic creatures' and a salary that's too good to be real." "We might be considered crazy for coming here." "Honey, half the island applied. That money?" She whistled low. "I've got two kids and an ex who thinks child support is optional. I'd scrub dragon cages for that number." I almost laughed. But before I could open my mouth, the door at the end of the room opened, and a voice cut through. "Crystal Le Grand?" I put my phone away so fast I nearly dropped it. The woman who stepped through was the kind of beautiful that made you immediately aware of every flaw on your own face. Her badge was saying ‘Anaïs’. Tall, dark hair pulled into something effortlessly perfect, sharp cheekbones. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. "That's me." I stood and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you. I love your shoes, are those…" "Follow me, please." Anaïs turned on those shoes I wasn't allowed to compliment and walked back through the door. I followed, hand still half-raised, smile dying on my face. She was the assistant to the facility's owner, and she had the interpersonal warmth of a tax audit. She led me to a small office, gestured to a chair, and opened a folder without looking at me once. "I see here you were previously married. Is that correct?" "Correct." I smiled tightly. ‘Best’ decision I never made. I was twenty-one and stupid and in love, and he had a smile that made me forget nobody had ever taken care of me without a price tag. "And your current relationship status?" "And your current relationship status?" "Single. Very, very single. The marriage was annulled, so technically I was never even married. Fun little legal detail." My now ex-husband vanished and left a stack of credit card statements with my name on them. Debts I didn't know existed, signatures I stupidly signed without looking. Now I understood why he'd been in such a rush to walk me down the aisle. Not in the name of love, but because he couldn’t wait to max out credit cards in his wife's name. Anaïs wrote something without looking up. The pen moved in short, precise strokes. Her nails were clean and unpolished, trimmed to exactly the same length. "Your credit history shows some irregularities. Can you explain?" "Student loans. You know how it is." I laughed. Anaïs didn't. Everything about this woman was controlled — posture, breathing, the way she held her face like a mask. Student loans my ass. I've got about four weeks of savings, a mountain of debt, and a disabled brother whose care I help pay for. "Menstrual cycle. Regular or irregular?" I blinked. "Regular, but that's kind of a…" "Clothing size?" "Eight. Sometimes ten if it's European sizing, which, honestly, always feels like a personal attack." "Professional experience?" "Nursing. Two years at Hôpital de Bruyn before I took a break." Before my fiancé convinced me to quit. "I'll take care of us, baby. You deserve better than nightshifts and bedpans." Turns out what he meant was he'd strip away every safety net I had, then vanish. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel — he's disabled. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No one." Anaïs's pen stopped moving. She looked at me and something shifted across her features. Quick, controlled, barely there. Surprise and something sharper underneath it, almost like satisfaction. Then it vanished, and she was writing again. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No. Caleb was my whole social life, which, again, is a red flag. I'm seeing all the red flags now." Anaïs closed the folder, excused herself, and returned two minutes later with him. Albert Bernard, the owner of this company, walked into the room. Tall, obscenely handsome, the kind of man whose jaw looked sculpted rather than grown. He shook my hand with both of his and smiled like we were already old friends. "Crystal! Anaïs tells me you're perfect." "She… Really? She didn't seem…" "Wonderful! Tell me about your sex life." I choked on nothing. "My what?" "Your sex life. Active, dormant, somewhere in between?" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I ask because I want you to be comfortable. Some of the work here is intimate in nature: not sexual, but physical, close-contact, and I need to know your boundaries won't make you a liability." I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Albert tilted his head like a man watching a fish try to climb a tree. "I'll go first, since you look like you might swallow your own tongue. I'm bisexual, and the last person I was with told me I had the emotional availability of a desk lamp. Your turn." Surprisingly, It worked. Something about his absurd candor cracked the seal. I was still stiff when I found myself talking: "Dormant. Dead, actually. My ex killed any interest I had in men, and honestly, at this point the only physical contact I want is the kind where nobody asks how I'm feeling afterward." Albert listened with his chin on his fist and nodded like everything I said was fascinating. The contract was three pages. I should have read every word. I read the salary line, the housing clause, and the duration — twelve months, renewable — and I signed. Albert clapped his hands together. "Anaïs, transport! We leave now." “H-Hold on, what?” “Why wait? You’re gonna have so much fun there!” Anaïs stood, and as she passed Albert's chair, his hand swung out and slapped her across the ass — casual, proprietary, the sound sharp in the small room. She didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Just kept walking. I stared. My mouth opened, closed. Two attractive adults, I told myself. Clearly a thing between them. Who am I to judge? God knows I wouldn't mind someone who looked like either of them doing that to me. I tried to forget the look on the other candidates' faces when Albert enthusiastically told them to leave because the position was closed. Outside, a black SUV waited with the engine running. Anaïs took the wheel without a word; Albert held the rear door open for me with a little bow that was either gentlemanly or mocking, hard to tell with him. I climbed in, and the leather seats were cool against my thighs. Nobody spoke. Anaïs drove like she'd made this trip a hundred times, eyes fixed ahead, and Albert scrolled through his phone beside me. The drive took us to the island's far eastern edge, where the roads narrowed to dirt and the vegetation thickened until the ocean disappeared behind a wall of green. The facility sat at the end of a gravel path — low concrete, no signage, built like something designed not to be found. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a strange undercurrent, something organic and faintly mineral, like wet stone in a cave. Albert walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide. "Your schedule will be straightforward — feeding rounds three times a day, health checks once in the morning, and the rest of the time is yours to spend with the residents. Think of it as..." I was trying to listen, I really was, but then we passed a corridor junction and I saw the monitor. A security screen mounted high on the wall, showing a dark chamber in grainy night vision. Something massive was moving inside: too many limbs, too fluid, and a thick muscular appendage uncurling against the reinforced glass, ridged suckers pressing flat against the surface. My vision tilted. The corridor stretched and compressed, fluorescent lights bleeding into long white smears. My knees folded, and the last thing I registered before the dark swallowed everything was the cold of the concrete floor against my cheek. ——————————————————— What did she really sign? Read Monstrously Yours Now!

Dad had no clue my stepbrother's finger was deep inside me while he was driving up front. Hidden behind a wall of cardboard boxes, the guy I hated most was giving me the hottest, most forbidden pleasure I’d ever felt. When a muffled whimper escaped me, Samir slammed his palm over my mouth. “You’re such a naughty girl, Becca,” he growled against my ear. “One more sound and Dad will hear us.” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say to Dad with growing agitation. “You seriously expect my brother and me to share one tiny back seat for the next two days? Samir’s fucking huge!” “Language!” Mom snaps. She’s carrying the twins—my three-year-old half-sisters—one on each hip, so I bite back the next round of curses. “Listen, Becca, I know it’s not ideal, but—” I scoff and shake my head. Not ideal. Yeah, no shit. Samir and his freakishly long legs and I have to squeeze into one seat in the third row of Dad’s black Tahoe because the rest of the space is jampacked with the boxes of fragiles and valuables. “This is seriously unfair.” I grit my teeth with frustration and fist the hem of my oversized vintage T-shirt, just barely resisting the urge to take my flip-flop off and hurl it at my stepbrother’s beautiful head of dense, dark brown waves. “Why can’t I ride with you, Mom? The girls get their own seats!” Car seats that is, which take up the entirety of the backseat of Mom’s white Lexus sedan. I dart a look at her front passenger seat, piled high to the ceiling with our overnight bags, leaving no room for me. “You’re living it up in luxury while I have to cram in with this—” asshole, I finish silently as I point at Samir since Mom gives me the Mom Glare that makes me instantly snap my mouth closed. Samir gives me a challenging look as he rocks back on his slides and shoves his hands in the pockets of his gray sweatpants. I try really, really hard not to let my eyes drift below his chest to check if what people say about gray sweatpants is true. I fail. He smirks, and it takes everything in me not to give him my middle finger. “Oh yeah, because road-tripping with two toddlers is so luxurious,” Mom says sarcastically. Fair point. Meera and Amelia might look like angels in their matching yellow sundresses with white bows in their adorable brown pigtails, but they’re actually little hellions when they’re unhappy, and their piercing cries will make your ears want to bleed. I would literally do anything for them. Throw myself in front of them to protect them from anything and everything. But when it comes to road-tripping with them for two days straight… Between Dad driving with Samir and me behind Mom with the girls, I’m not sure which one of them drew the short stick. Samir might be just as annoyed as I am with the seating arrangements, but he doesn’t argue like I have been. He just folds his six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound frame to climb in, his broad back stretching the limits of his red University of Arizona T-shirt— a taunting reminder that he applied to and got into the same university I did. That's why our parents decided to relocate to Tucson. We can save money by continuing to live with them, which means I’m stuck with Samir for at least another four years. Fuck my life. Samir makes room for me to slide in next to him—well, not really next to him. Only one of my ass cheeks actually fits on the seat left between his hip and the boxes stacked on my right. I’m practically sitting on top of Samir while Dad arranges the last of the boxes, effectively creating a cardboard wall between us in the back and him up in front. Thirty-five minutes into the drive, my right ass cheek starts losing feeling with all of my weight resting on it. I try to scooch as far away from Samir as possible. My step-brother and I have never gotten along. After his mom, Veda, and my dad, Kevin, got married, they moved us into a new house when I was fourteen. Samir has hated me ever since, as if it was somehow my fault that his mom wanted to get married and move halfway across the country when my dad got a job promotion. Being forced to spend the next two days half on top of Asshole Samir’s lap takes the cake. The only reason we aren’t already screaming at each other is because Dad will sic Mom on us whenever we stop for gas and snacks. She might be the Best Step-Mom Ever—but her Mom Glare is seriously terrifying. I curse under my breath as I squirm for the thousandth time, trying fruitlessly to relieve the pressure on my side, but there’s literally nowhere to go. Samir grunts when I accidentally-on-purpose elbow him in the gut when I try to reposition myself. I squeal in surprise when he roughly grabs me around the waist and settles me fully on top of his lap with my back to his chest. “What are you doing?” I hiss, trying and failing to wiggle off his lap. The last thing I want is to be forced to touch him any more than I already have to, yet now he’s got me sitting on his lap like a little kid taking pictures with some old dude playing Santa Claus at the mall. Samir groans and exhales in relief as he man-spreads his legs to fill my tiny vacated space. Then he whisper-snaps, “Goddamnit, stop it!” when I again elbow him in the stomach. My eyes flare wide with shock and minor panic when he wraps his large hand around the front of my throat and flattens me back against his solid chest. We may be known to fight like the devil, but not once has he ever laid hands on me. I go freakishly still when he tightens his grip, applying a tiny amount of pressure to the sides of my neck, and bands his other arm around my stomach. “I’m just as uncomfortable as you, Becca, but tough shit,” he says against my ear, his minty breath fanning my cheek. “For once, stop being a brat and making things worse with all your damn huffing and puffing. Got it?” He loosens his grip when I try to nod, then finally lets go. I gulp for air, my heart beating erratically in my chest. It’s supremely discomforting sitting stock-still on his lap for the next two hours until we make our first pit stop at a gas station. I nearly fall out of the Tahoe and sprint into the store to get away from Samir and the fluttery feeling in my belly. I don’t know what to think about the fact that he never once removed his corded arm from around my stomach or that he absentmindedly rubbed his thumb up and down my side the whole time. ... Soon after our parents finish topping up the gas in their vehicles and letting the girls run around, we get back on the road. Samir only pulls me back on top of him when Dad climbs into the driver’s seat. Neither of us wants him to know that I’ve been sitting on Samir’s lap this whole time. “Everything ok back there, kids?” Dad shouts to be heard over the highway noise from the front. The cardboard wall of boxes is tall enough that we can’t see each other in the rearview mirror, so he doesn’t clock the exaggerated eye-roll I give him. “Sure, Dad. We’re having soooo much fun braiding each other’s hair and talking about our crushes, right Samir?” Goosebumps rise along my arms when Samir whispers so that only I will hear, “I’m having fun.” He doesn’t sound the least bit sarcastic, and I shoot him a questioning look over my shoulder. Several hours later, my h!ps are killing me from sitting in the same position for so long. I do my best to keep still after Samir barks at me to quit squirming again, but it’s a losing battle. Dad’s cringey Dad-rock music is blasting from the front. I shout for him to pull over so I can stretch. But Mom, whom dad’s following at a safe distance, says the girls are finally napping and doesn’t want to risk waking them by stopping the car. I tried to argue, but Dad cranks the volume to an ear-splitting level, cutting off my attempts. I grind my teeth and have half a mind to accidentally kick a hole in one of the boxes of breakables. “What’s wrong?” Samir asks with a tone I haven’t heard from him before as he rvbs his thumbs up and down the outsides of my th!ghs. “My hips. They ache like they do when I’m about to get my per1od. I need to stretch my legs, but there’s no room,” I say with a pout. “Put your knees up on the seat,” he says, flexing his own hips beneath me. I turn to stare at him over my shoulder, bunching my brows with confusion. “On the seat? How?” He pats the sliver of space between the seatbelt buckles on either side of him. “Feet here.” Then he taps the edge of the seat. “Knees here.” Samir directs me to slip off my sandals. With a firm grip on my hips, he slides me forward and helps me scoot each foot up onto the seat. My face heats as I realize I'm sitting reverse-cowgirl style on his lap. He then pulls me back against his chest. “Now drop your head back on my shoulder,” he says with a low rumble. I obey, mouth going dry. A shaky breath escapes me as he grips my hips and lifts my lower body into a deep bridge position. Every muscle in my torso stretches. The ache in my hips eases instantly. I close my eyes and moan. "Fuck, Becca..." Samir curses under his breath, his nose brushing the column of my neck, then pushes with more force to extend the stretch. Up and down. Flex and release. We hold the position for almost a minute before his arms start to shake. I might be smaller than him, but I’m no featherweight. While Samir has stayed strong from years of lacrosse and working out five days a week, I’ve spent the last four years glued to my keyboard, uploading song covers and originals to my YouTube channel. Still, I don't think holding me up like this is easy for him. “I’m good now,” I lie, slightly embarrassed. Samir grunts and drops me back onto his lap, though he doesn’t loosen his hold on me. I’m more than a little aware that I’m still sitting on him reverse-cowgirl style, but for some strange reason, neither of us moves to re-adjust our positions. After years of nonstop arguing and fighting, this is the longest we’ve gone without getting on each other’s nerves, which is in and of itself slightly unnerving. “Thanks,” I whisper after a while. He nods, the dark stubble on his cheek tickling mine with the movement, sending a slight shiver up my spine that I know I need to tamp down and ignore. We sit in silence for several more minutes, listening to Dad’s off-key singing of Kryptonite. His long finger slowly flex around my round hips with each bump on the road that jostles my weight. I squirm when the ache starts back up, and he asks me,“They still hurt?” he asks. “Yeah. Sorry.” He hesitates for a moment, then slides his hands around me. “Arch your back and lift your hips a few inches,” he whispers, a faint raspiness to his voice. He tugs my T-shirt up and slips his hands under my leggings. His thumbs press into the aching muscles at my waist, rolling firmly. My lips part in a rush of air, and an involuntary moan slips out as he rolls his thumbs in small circles, increasing the pressure on my stiff muscles. Suddenly, Dad’s voice cuts through the music. “Becca? You okay back there? Sounded like you moaned.” I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Samir’s hands stop instantly, remaining perfectly still against my bare skin. “Just—just stretching, Dad,” I squeak out, my voice embarrassingly high. A suffocating beat passes. Then Dad grunts and turns the volume back up. Samir exhales a long, slow breath against my neck. His fingers start moving again, slower this time, and completely deliberate. “S...Samir,” I moan breathily. Pleasure unfurls through me as his fingertips dig in, melting the ache from my body. I roll my lips between my teeth to cut off my next moan in case Dad might hear. I try to peek at him through the rearview mirror, but the stacked boxes completely block my view. I can only hear him crank up the volume when a Metallica song starts. Samir exhaled too. His breathing has changed, either, especially when he buries his face in the crook of my neck, pressing his lips against my skin, making the hair on the nape of my neck stand on end and my spine tingle. Suddenly, he pulls his hands out of my leggings, and I whimper at the loss of heat, instantly embarrassed. God, I can't believe I was moaning while his hands worked out my sore muscles. He was just trying to be helpful for once, and I had to go and freak him out with my weird reaction. I can only imagine how much worse it is for him. But then Samir hooks his fingers into my waistband and pulls it down an inch. His soft lips brush against the shell of my ear. “Good girl, lift your hips for me again.” And God help me — I do...

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To exact revenge, she struck a deal with the cold, ruthless head of a powerful family. After their plan succeeded, he cornered her against a wall, his voice almost pitiful. "I helped you take down those people. Don't you think you owe me some time alone?" She froze, stunned. Had their alliance turned into something else? ===== "You've weathered countless storms over the years. Welcome home, Arabella." At the celebratory dinner, a young man in a perfectly tailored suit found himself unwilling to look away from Arabella Stanley. She possessed an otherworldly beauty, her sharp features sculpted with precision and wrapped in an aura of cool detachment. Her piercing eyes revealed nothing of her inner thoughts, and when she spoke, her voice carried the same arctic chill. "I'm leaving now." Joshua Willis, the young man, seized the moment without hesitation. "Allow me to drive you home." Arabella offered no resistance. The car glided through the night. The city lights blurred past as Joshua stole glances at her profile. "When do you plan to return to the company? Our empire continues to flourish." Their partnership had begun years ago through a chance project, and Joshua had witnessed Arabella's brilliance firsthand. He had persuaded her to join forces, and together they had forged a company that now dominated the entire industry. Arabella maintained her measured tone. "I'll decide when the time feels right. For now, I simply want to reach home." "Understood completely. You must be eager to reunite with Daisy. She's undoubtedly thriving. I've been directing all the premium projects to your aunt's husband throughout these years." Joshua's grin widened as he angled for recognition. Arabella and her twin sister Daisy Stanley had lost their parents at the tender age of six, and their aunt Meagan Tucker had stepped in to care for them both. Arabella acknowledged him with a subtle nod. "I appreciate that." Her delicate fingers found the cherry blossom pendant resting against her throat, clicking it open to reveal a treasured photograph of herself and Daisy. Arabella's expression remained stoic in the image, but Daisy's smile blazed with pure joy. Studying her sister's radiant face, Arabella felt an unfamiliar warmth soften her features. After their parents' tragic death, Arabella and Daisy had become each other's entire world. Daisy had always been their family's ray of sunshine, illuminating every room she entered. At twelve, Arabella had been handpicked by the government for a classified operation that consumed seven years of her life. Now that the mission had concluded, she could finally return to Daisy. She had forwarded nearly every government paycheck to her sister, ensuring Daisy lived in comfort and security. Joshua's eyes widened in amazement as he witnessed Arabella's smile. The legendary ice queen was actually smiling? His curiosity about Arabella's sister intensified dramatically. The car approached an upscale residential community, where each house boasted its own meticulously maintained garden. The vehicle glided to a stop in front of a house. This was the home Arabella's parents had bequeathed to them, now shared between Meagan and Daisy. The estate glowed with warm light, alive with the sound of cheerful laughter. Daisy seemed to be flourishing beautifully. With that thought in mind, Arabella preserved her gentle smile as she crossed into the front yard. A weathered doghouse sat in the corner of the property. Someone knelt beside it in the shadows. Through the dim evening light, Arabella couldn't distinguish the person's features, but she watched them scooping food directly from the bowl placed on the ground. Why would someone be eating beside the doghouse? Concern creased her brow as Arabella approached cautiously. The figure appeared startled and scrambled quickly into the doghouse. Arabella's bewilderment deepened. Then a soft, trembling voice drifted from within the shelter. "Please don't strike me again. I won't make any mistakes. I'll be so much more careful..." That voice belonged to Daisy. Arabella's heart shattered instantly. She lunged forward, pulling the figure from the doghouse. Even in the pale moonlight, she recognized her beloved sister immediately. Daisy stared back, her eyes swimming with disbelief. "You..." she breathed, as though she feared her mind was playing cruel tricks on her. "Daisy, is that truly you?" Arabella's voice trembled with disbelief. When Daisy nodded weakly, a glacial fury erupted within Arabella, her eyes igniting with volcanic rage. "Bella..." Daisy whispered, still trapped in shock. "You've actually come back?" The moment felt impossibly surreal to Daisy, like a vision conjured from desperate longing. Arabella, sensing something terribly wrong, reached out to touch Daisy's forehead. Her skin burned with fever. Before Arabella could process this discovery, Daisy crumpled into her arms like a broken doll. Arabella cradled her sister, whose body felt heartbreakingly frail and ice-cold despite the raging fever consuming her. Arabella's heart crystallized into something harder than diamond. The front door of the house suddenly burst open with violent force. "Daisy, you worthless creature! It's been several minutes, and you're still not finished eating? Get inside immediately and wash those dishes!" Meagan's voice sliced through the night air like a bl**e. Arabella pivoted slowly, her predatory gaze locking onto her target. Meagan had transformed dramatically over the years. Once haggard and perpetually exhausted, she now radiated wealth and privilege, adorned in an expensive designer coat and gleaming jewelry that caught the porch light, presenting herself as the very embodiment of refined elegance. Meagan's bl**d turned to ice under Arabella's lethal stare. "You... Arabella? When did you arrive?" "What have you done to her?" Arabella advanced with calculated steps, her voice dropping to a menacing whisper. Meagan instinctively retreated, unsettled by the predatory intensity burning in Arabella's eyes. But she quickly rallied her confidence, reminding herself that Arabella was still just a young woman. She twisted her lips into a cruel sneer. "Daisy shattered a dish, so I administered appropriate punishment. You've been absent for years. Do you possess any understanding of how challenging life has been here? I never allowed her to starve or sleep without shelter. If you weren't my brother's daughters, I wouldn't have wasted my time with either of you." In one fluid motion, Arabella's hand shot out and seized Meagan by the throat, her expression transforming into something carved from arctic stone. Meagan ga**ed desperately, clawing at Arabella's iron grip. "Let... me... go..." "This is my house," Arabella declared, her voice carrying the finality of a death sentence, her eyes radiating lethal intent. "You forced Daisy to perform menial labor. You made her sleep in that doghouse like an animal. You possess remarkable audacity, Meagan." In the warm light streaming from the house, Arabella finally saw what Daisy had been consuming. It was the leftover food. Holding her sister, who felt as weightless as a dying bird and appeared ghostly pale and utterly drained, Arabella felt her heart shatter into countless pieces. Her precious sister had endured this nightmare! "Meagan," Arabella said, her voice saturated with deadly promise, "when you moved into our home, you swore a sacred oath that you would care for Daisy." Meagan bristled at Arabella's bold use of her first name, the disrespect cutting deep. But she shrank backward when she witnessed the murderous gleam dancing in Arabella's eyes. Arabella had always been fundamentally different from other children. She was cold and fearlessly bold. When Arabella had lived here, Meagan had performed the role of a dutiful aunt, though barely meeting even the lowest standards. But the moment Arabella departed, Meagan had seized absolute control, systematically crushing the gentle-spirited Daisy beneath her cruel authority. She had never imagined Arabella would return to witness her crimes. "I did take care of Daisy! She made a mistake, so I disciplined her accordingly. What's so terrible about that?" Meagan's words died in her throat as Arabella's grip tightened mercilessly, making her feel as though death itself was reaching for her soul. "Arabella?" The violent commotion finally drew the attention of the people inside. Meagan's husband and daughter noticed the deadly confrontation unfolding at their door. Through the wide open front door, Arabella observed them living luxuriously in a spacious and magnificently decorated villa, with a table overflowing with exquisite delicacies. The people inside wore expensive clothing that spoke of comfort and abundance. Meanwhile, Daisy had been sleeping in a doghouse, consuming leftovers. Arabella's eyes burned with unshed tears as the devastating truth crashed over her with overwhelming force. Chapter 2 Can You Check Who Made The Payment Khloe Tucker was fuming. "Let go of my mom, Arabella! Back then, she offered to take care of you and Daisy out of kindness. Is that how you repay her? You show up after disappearing for years, acting like you're some kind of hero? What, did you run off, get pr**nant, and have a kid or something? What a joke!" Khloe threw Arabella a nasty glare, but deep down, she actually hoped Arabella might stay. Having her back would mean more help around the house. But Arabella's eyes had already gone cold. Without saying a word, she entered the house and kicked the dining table hard. Dishes flew everywhere, crashing onto the floor and shattering into pieces. Before anyone could react, Arabella grabbed two vases and hurled them straight at Khloe and her father. They hit them squarely, and bl**d started trickling down their faces as they screamed in shock. Her voice was ice. "You've got one day. Get out of my house." Without waiting for a reply, she stormed out with Daisy in her arms. She flagged down the first taxi she saw and rushed her sister straight to a hospital. Back at the villa, chaos broke out. "Mom! That psycho actually attacked me!" Khloe sobbed, staring at the scratches on her face in the mirror. "What if I'm left with scars?" Meagan's fury boiled over. "She's gotten way too bold after all these years! If she shows her face again, she won't be so lucky. We're not nobodies anymore. We've joined hands with Norman Group. There's no way she can stand against us!" She gave Khloe a comforting pat. "Don't worry, honey. I'm taking you to a hospital right now." *** At the hospital, the doctor examined Daisy and frowned. "Her leg's been broken for a while, and she's covered in bruises. Some of her teeth are missing too. What kind of sister lets this happen?" Arabella's voice was low. "It's my fault." Her bangs fell over her eyes, hiding whatever she was feeling inside. The doctor, noticing how quiet she was, spoke gently. "I've done what I could for now. But if someone's been hurting you two, you need to report it. Keeping quiet won't fix anything." Arabella gave a small nod and moved to stand beside Daisy's hospital bed. Daisy, now nineteen, looked heartbreakingly fragile. Her thin frame looked like it couldn't support itself, and her wrists seemed more like twigs than limbs. Her short hair was uneven, dry, and choppy, like someone had taken scissors to it without a second thought. Arabella gently lifted the blanket, and her heart dropped. Daisy's skin told a horrifying story. Old whip marks crisscrossed her legs, and dark burn spots marred her arms. Each scar screamed of cruelty. Arabella's breath caught, and before she could stop them, tears rolled down her cheeks. "Bella..." Daisy's voice was barely a whisper. Arabella immediately reached for her hand. "I'm here," she said softly. "I... missed you," Daisy murmured, her voice hoarse. Arabella clutched her hand like a lifeline. "I missed you too. I thought if I worked hard, I could give you a better life. But I was wrong. I never should've left you alone. I swear, I'm not going anywhere again." The warmth in Arabella's voice seemed to melt Daisy's tension. Slowly, her expression softened. After making sure Daisy was settled, Arabella went to sort out the payment. "The charges have already been covered," the nurse said with a kind smile. Arabella blinked. "What? Who paid?" Joshua crossed her mind, but she quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way he knew about this yet. "Can you check who made the payment?" she asked. The nurse gave an apologetic shake of the head. "Sorry, that information's private. Maybe a family member helped out?" At the word family, Arabella's face turned to stone. She gave a short nod and walked off without another word. If someone had helped, she was going to find out who. Meanwhile, down the corridor, Meagan strolled beside her daughter, Khloe, who was fresh out of the emergency room with her face patched up. "I'm not letting Arabella walk away from this," Khloe snarled, bitterness burning in her voice. "Calm down," Meagan said sharply. "You'll reopen your stitches if you keep flaring up like this. Be more like your sister--grace under pressure." That seemed to cheer Khloe up. A smug smile tugged at her lips. "As long as my sister keeps shining, that's all that matters. She's the youngest dancer in the Griridge Troupe now. Daisy really thought she could outshine her? She was delusional. That broken leg was karma, if you ask me. And if my sister finds out how Arabella treated me--oh, she'll tear her apart." "She's got a big show coming up," Meagan reminded her. "Let's not distract her. One step at a time." She tapped Khloe's nose lightly, but then her expression stiffened as she spotted Arabella ahead. Khloe saw Arabella too, and just the sight of her brought back the sting of humiliation. Her rage boiled over. Without thinking, she grabbed her studded handbag and swung it with all her strength toward Arabella's back. Arabella's instincts kicked in. Just as she turned around, a tall man came into view. With quick reflexes and strong arms, he grabbed the bag mid-air by its strap, stopping it like it was nothing. The sudden pull made Khloe lose her balance, and with a startled scream, she fell to the floor. Chapter 3 Grab Your Things And Come With Me "Khloe!" Meagan hurried to her daughter's side, helping her up while shooting a vicious glare at the man who had shown up out of nowhere. "Who the h**l are you? Arabella's new guy or what?" The man didn't bother responding. His sharp eyes gave nothing away, cold and unreadable, like the still, deep sea that hid its danger. Then he began walking toward Meagan, each step loud and heavy on the hospital floor. Meagan instinctively took a step back. Her ch**t tightened, making it hard to breathe. Deep down, something told her this man wasn't just any stranger--he was trouble. Trying to mask her unease, she snapped, "Arabella, you'd better think twice before crossing us again. You and your sister were lucky we let you stay at all! If you ever want back in, come crawling, and maybe we'll consider it." Yanking Khloe's arm, Meagan stormed off. Arabella stood silently, watching them go. Let them stay? That house was legally Daisy's and hers. She glanced at the man and caught sight of a pi**ol, just for a second, before it disappeared beneath his jacket. Her eyes narrowed slightly. Who was this guy? He turned and looked directly at her. Arabella finally saw his face--handsome as h**l, rough around the edges, and those icy eyes didn't blink or soften for anyone. He gave off a vibe that screamed danger--Arabella had never felt anything like it. No surprise Meagan bolted--anyone with sense would have. "Arabella Stanley," he said. His tone was calm and low, but there was a chill in it that made her skin prickle. Arabella glanced him over. "You're the one who paid for my sister, right?" He gave a faint nod. "You're quick. Grab your things and come with me." Arabella's brows drew together. "Excuse me?" Who even was this guy, showing up with mystery and attitude? Before things got tenser, another man stepped in--less intimidating but equally serious. "Miss Stanley, allow me to explain. This is Mr. Asher Gordon. His father and your dad served together in the military. Before his father passed away, he asked Mr. Gordon to watch over your family. Mr. Gordon only recently returned from service and has been trying to track you down since." That explained the military presence, the icy calm... the way he moved like someone trained for war. Arabella studied Asher again. He didn't seem threatening now, but just closed off, like someone with a wall too thick to climb over. She stayed calm. "You got anything to back that up? Anyone can say that." Asher reached into his pocket and pulled out a weathered photo. It showed two men in dusty uniforms--one was definitely her father. The other looked a lot like him. She stared at it for a long moment before replying, "I'll think about it." "Fair. Let's exchange numbers," Asher replied without any small talk. Arabella added his contact. His WhatsApp display was just a solid black box. Funny enough, hers was the same. A strange little coincidence, she thought. Then the assistant added her as well. "Dominick Powell, Mr. Gordon's right hand. Reach out if you need help with anything, anytime." Arabella gave a nod. "Got it." With that, the two men walked off, and Arabella made her way back to Daisy's room. Shortly after, two silent, suited bodyguards appeared at the door--they were clearly sent by Asher. Arabella didn't ask questions. She got to work helping Daisy clean up--changing her into fresh clothes and gently washing her hair, trying to fix its brittle, uneven mess. But when she saw the scars and ci**rette burns covering Daisy's body, her eyes welled up again. Holding back her tears, she carefully rubbed her homemade cream onto the wounds. Then, without wasting a second, she opened her laptop. She had to find out what had happened to Daisy while she was gone, so she hacked into the villa's security system. Sadly, what she saw made her sick to her stomach. It wasn't long after Arabella left that Daisy was thrown out of her own bedroom and made to sleep in a doghouse. The cheerful, lively sister Arabella remembered didn't smile anymore. She saw footage of Daisy juggling multiple part-time jobs, only to get ha**ssed and pushed around. Even so, she kept working hard and made it into one of the top universities. But during her very first semester, she ended up with a broken leg. She was studying dance, and just like that, the injury shattered everything she had dreamed of. The pieces fell into place too easily. Khloe's sister, Elissa Tucker, was in the same class. Arabella's gut told her that leg injury hadn't been some fluke. After that, Daisy barely left the house. She was treated like hired help, scrubbing floors, cooking meals, and still sleeping out in that d**n doghouse. Yet every time Daisy texted her, it was the same lie. "I'm doing fine. Don't worry about me. You just take care of yourself." Arabella's vision blurred. While her sister was being broken piece by piece, their aunt's family was thriving. Their business had taken off, thanks to a lucrative deal with the Vanguard Group. Khloe, a middle school dropout, was suddenly a digital influencer. Elissa was famous and popular in the college. Meagan was rubbing shoulders with high-society ladies, and her husband had become some corporate hotshot. Arabella clenched her jaw and slammed her fist against the table. She didn't even feel the sting. Every bit of success she had worked for... had only served to feed that vile family's greed. And the one person she had sworn to protect had suffered in silence the entire time. Chapter 4 This Revenge Is Mine To Carry Out Arabella took a slow breath, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and her eyes turned cold, like a fire had been snuffed out and replaced with ice. Her fingers gripped her phone tightly as she made a call. "That major project--it hasn't been handed over to the Tucker Group yet, right? Cancel it. Completely." Her voice was calm but firm. "And get to the Griridge Hospital. Now." On the other end, Joshua sounded startled. "Arabella? What's going on?" "You'll see when you get here. Bring a few things with you." True to form, Joshua didn't waste time. Less than half an hour later, he rushed into the hospital, and the moment his eyes landed on the girl in the hospital bed, he froze like a statue. She looked so much like Arabella--same face, but all color drained, bruised, battered, her body wrecked like it had been thrown away and forgotten. Joshua's fists clenched. "Who did this? Tell me who it was. I'll make them pay, I swear it!" That was the sister of a preeminent figure... and they treated her like this? Arabella didn't flinch. "I'll handle it myself. Slowly," she muttered, picking up a pair of sc**sors from the table. Before Joshua could react, the sc**sors had already cut through her long, silky hair. The strands dropped to the floor in silence. He stared, stunned. "Arabella... you're not actually..." "I am," she said. "This revenge is mine to carry out." Joshua swallowed hard, goosebumps rising on his arms. The way she said it--it was clear. H**l was coming for someone. Arabella glanced at him. "Also, what do you know about the Gordons?" "The Gordon family?" He immediately straightened. "They're legendary. Way beyond the top elite families. Super wealthy, but incredibly discreet. I've only ever worked with the right-hand man of their current CEO." "You mean Dominick Powell?" Arabella asked casually. Joshua's jaw dropped. "Wait, you know Dominick? Don't tell me... are you saying the Gordons were involved in what happened to Daisy?" Arabella gave him a blank stare before calmly explaining Asher's connection and what he had said earlier. Joshua slapped his thigh, clearly overwhelmed. "Asher Gordon? If it's really him, then yeah, no one's faking that. He leads the family. Rumor has it he's ex-special forces, quiet as a ghost, but deadly. If someone crosses him, they don't get a second chance." Arabella didn't react. She just stared at the floor, her thoughts turning in circles. Then she spoke, steady and cold. "You should head out now. Also... sell my villa." Joshua hesitated. "That place... that's your parents' home. Are you sure?" Arabella looked over at Daisy's fragile frame. "She was tortured in that house. There's no comfort left there. Just get rid of it." Her voice cracked slightly. "And if possible, find a buyer who's impossible to deal with." Joshua gave her a long look, then nodded. "Understood. I've got a bunch of properties lined up. If you ever need a place, it's yours." "Thanks." She didn't look up, and Joshua, sensing she needed space, quietly slipped out the door. Left alone, Arabella gently held Daisy's hand and murmured, "I swear, everyone who hurt you... I'll make them pay for it tenfold." That night felt endless, and sleep didn't come. The next morning, Arabella stood quietly outside a dance studio at Griridge University's dance department, listening through the open door. "Elissa, things have been so dull without that pathetic girl around," someone inside snickered. "I know, right? No one to fetch us coffee, no one to mess with. It's no fun without a punching bag," another chimed in. Peering through the glass window, Arabella spotted Elissa in the middle of the dance studio. Years ago, Elissa had been just a pale, skinny kid. Now she was dressed in a flowing white dance outfit, all elegance and grace, like something out of a dream. Surrounded by classmates, Elissa flashed a gentle, modest smile at the comments. "Guys, don't say that. Let's not be mean." "You're too kind, Elissa," Joyce Lambert, her good friend, scoffed. "That girl sponged off your family for years. If it were me, I'd have thrown her out of your house on day one." Arabella narrowed her eyes slightly. Calling it their house? Seriously? That place belonged to her and Daisy. Elissa and her family were the ones living off of them. Elissa tilted her head, her voice syrupy sweet. "She's my cousin, after all. Her parents passed away. If we didn't take her in, she would've had nowhere to go." Her fake compassion earned gasps of admiration from the crowd. What a generous soul, they all seemed to think. The loud chatter in the dance studio instantly stopped the moment Arabella walked in. "Daisy?" Joyce blinked in surprise. She stared at Arabella, stunned. She looked the same, but... something about her felt different now. Chapter 5 Got Yourself A Su**r Daddy The dance studio fell silent, as if someone had hit pause. Every single eye was locked on Arabella, but she acted like she didn't see a thing and confidently made her way to the back, where she began stretching like it was just another day. Joyce's jaw clenched. "Daisy, you've got some nerve showing up out of nowhere like this!" Joyce barked, marching over and swinging a sharp kick at her. "Just because we've gone easy on you doesn't mean you're not taking orders from us!" But Arabella moved with ease, dodging the kick without breaking a sweat. Joyce lost her balance and hit the floor face-first with a loud, painful thud. "You dodged me?" Joyce screeched in disbelief. Her face turned red with fury as she raised her hand to s**p Arabella. But just like before, Arabella slipped out of reach like a shadow. Joyce's swing caught nothing but air, and she stumbled forward, grabbing her lower back with a wince. "D**n it!" "My bad," Arabella said gently, her voice almost too soft to catch. Joyce wanted to explode, but something about Arabella's calmness made her hesitate. She didn't dare swing again. Instead, she snapped, "What are you just standing there for? Get over here and help us stretch already!" "So, Daisy's really back," she thought smugly. "Still the same pathetic errand girl." Arabella's gaze briefly darkened, but she gave a polite nod like an obedient student. She knelt beside Joyce and began helping her with leg stretches. Joyce smirked. "You look even sadder than before. Honestly, it's pathetic." But then, a painful scream cut through the air. Joyce's leg jolted, and she broke into a cold sweat, grabbing her thigh. "My leg... what the h**l? Did you snap my leg?" The class crowded around her in a frenzy. "Is she alright? Someone call for help!" "Look, the teacher just walked in!" Their panic was cut short as the teacher entered the room. Arabella still had Joyce's leg in her hands. Calmly, almost casually, she gave it a subtle twist. "Ah!" Joyce screamed even louder, nearly in tears from the pain. "What's going on in here?" The teacher frowned, scanning the chaos. "My leg! It feels broken... I can't--" Joyce wailed, then blinked in confusion. Just seconds later, she could move it again. "Wait... what?" "You look fine to me." The teacher shot a look at Joyce--one that wasn't exactly sympathetic. She had seen enough of these girls' antics over the years. "I don't care what drama you're cooking up on your own time, but today's important. The Griridge Troupe selection is happening. The dean and senior faculty will be here shortly, so I expect everyone to act like professionals." "I swear, I..." Joyce began, trying to protest. "That's enough." Elissa cut her off, stepping forward with an easy smile. "Let's not waste more time. Joyce, calm down." Elissa's tone made it clear--this wasn't the time to pick fights. Joyce had no choice but to bite her tongue and swallow her anger, though her glare at Arabella could have burned through steel. The teacher clapped her hands, and class began. During the last twenty minutes, a few other teachers showed up to observe. By the time class ended, the room was filled with a mix of nervous energy and excited chatter. "God, I really hope I get picked. Dancing alongside Elissa would be a dream come true." "Elissa, don't forget us when you're famous!" someone teased. Elissa gave her signature angelic smile. "Of course not. You're all my people." Then someone dropped a name that made the entire class go silent. "They say Isabella might be watching today." Gasps rippled through the room. Even Elissa blinked in shock, her breath catching. Isabella Wallace was the icon of modern dance. Her performances were legendary, her choreography unrivaled. Just being seen by her could open doors. "If Isabella notices me, that's it. That's my breakthrough," Elissa thought, her gaze sharpening with quiet ambition. But then someone spoke up, disrupting the mood. "I saw Daisy dancing earlier. Honestly, she wasn't bad at all." Joyce scoffed loud enough for the room to hear. "Daisy? Please. She's pathetic. No way she'd get picked." Turning her attention to Daisy, she said, "Hey, what are you still doing here, anyway? Go get our lunch. You remember our order, right?" Without a word, Arabella nodded and walked off, her tall frame moving with a silent elegance despite the slump in her shoulders. "Ugh. Even the way she walks is irritating. Does she actually think she's all graceful or something? What a complete eyesore!" Joyce sneered. By the time Joyce, Elissa, and the rest of their group showed up at the cafeteria, laughing and cracking jokes, Arabella already had their meals prepared. Her eyes quietly scanned each of them--calm, blank, giving nothing away. But in her mind, she was taking note of everything. Joyce, whose father ran the Lambert Group, was spoiled beyond belief and filthy rich. Next to her was Kenzie Marsh--the meek, glasses-wearing music student who practically worshipped the ground Elissa walked on. And behind them, the two guys were followers, plain and simple. They were all muscle without a mind. Joyce looked at the food Arabella had bought and narrowed her eyes. "Well, well. Where'd you get the cash, huh? Got yourself a su**r daddy? I thought you were broke, freeloader." Joyce kept running her mouth but still dove into the food--everyone was starving after dancing all morning. However, midway through eating, something went terribly wrong. Joyce coughed violently, bl**d trickling from her lips as she clutched her throat, her eyes wide in panic. The others followed suit, gasping, hands around their necks, as if something sharp was tearing through their throats. "It burns--what's happening?" they wh**zed, struggling to speak as pain ripped through them. Elissa stared at her in disbelief, still holding her throat. "Daisy... what did you do?" "That little bi**h's getting revenge!" Joyce screamed, losing it completely. "You think Elissa letting you tag along means we'll go easy on you? You're dead!" Furious, she flung her food tray at Arabella, while the two boys beside her instinctively lunged forward, ready to grab her without hesitation. Chapter 6 Do You Have Any Proof The students nearby were numb to this kind of chaos. "Alright, that's enough," Elissa said, her voice sounding gentle on the surface but hollow beneath it. She stayed comfortably seated, not bothering to step in--after all, she never did when things got ugly. Meanwhile, Arabella, calm and collected, didn't even flinch. When the tray came flying her way, she calmly reached up and caught it in one smooth motion. The momentum flipped the tray's course, and it slammed straight into one of the two boys' faces. The food, laced with slivers of glass, sliced across his skin, and bl**d trickled down his cheek in thin, terrifying lines. "S**t! That hurts!" he cried out. One look at the bl**d was enough, and he collapsed in panic, completely out cold. The other guy didn't back down. Snarling, he reached for Arabella's hair, yanking it hard. "You think you're tough, Daisy? Huh?" His fist flew toward her face, but Arabella caught it mid-swing like it was nothing. His expression froze. She slowly twisted his arm until his knees buckled. "Ahhh! It hurts--stop, please! I'm sorry!" he howled, his face turning as pale as chalk. The second she let go, he hit the floor and curled into himself, sobbing in pain. One of the girls considered helping, but after seeing Arabella in action, she backed off without a word. What a bunch of clowns. Arabella stared at them, her gaze sharp and cold, like she was looking at tr**h. "Have you lost your fu**ing mind?" Joyce screeched, still in denial. Her hands shook as she picked up a chair and hurled it with all her strength. Arabella shifted her weight, spun, and kicked the chair right back--slamming it into Joyce's head. Bl**d splattered instantly. Elissa jumped up in horror, shrieking, "Oh my God!" The cafeteria exploded with shouts. "She's gonna k**l someone! Go find a teacher!" "What is wrong with her? Is she high or something?" "Honestly, she's kind of a badass..." "Shh! Don't let anyone hear you say that!" Thirty minutes later, the university president's office was a pressure cooker. The fight was way too intense to sweep under the rug. Daisy, Elissa, and the rest of the group were hauled in for questioning. Joyce and the others had been bandaged up, but their egos were just as bruised. Elissa looked ready to cry, still rubbing her sore throat like it had swallowed fire. She was furious, terrified the damage was permanent. "Call your parents," the president ordered Arabella sharply, trying to make sense of the madness. "Now." Joyce jumped in before Arabella could speak. "She can't. Her parents are dead!" she sneered. "She's been mooching off Elissa's family for years. No morals. No manners. Just expel her already!" Taken aback, the president looked Arabella up and down. "So, what exactly happened?" Joyce didn't miss a beat. "She put glass in our food. She tried to hurt us and then went berserk. She needs to face consequences!" Arabella didn't even blink. Her voice came out calm and cold. "Do you have any proof? And while we're at it--did I even lay a finger on you first? Pretty sure your side started swinging." "Liar!" Joyce snapped, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. Arabella turned her gaze to the president, cool and steady. "Why don't we pull up the cafeteria security footage?" Silence dropped like a stone. Joyce's face stiffened, and her jaw clenched tight. "We only hit her because she gave us food full of glass! She deserved it!" Arabella tilted her head slightly. "Where's your proof that I put it there?" she asked softly. "Because I have proof of something else." She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen. A video began to play. The footage was damning. It showed Joyce and her gang shoving a sandwich filled with glass into Daisy's mouth. As Daisy's lips b**d, they laughed like it was some sick joke. It was raw and unforgivable. Arabella's ch**t tightened as she watched it, the pain as fresh as the day she found it on Daisy's phone. Even the president's face shifted. He turned to Joyce and her friends with a sharp, icy glare. For a split second, panic flashed across their faces. Trying to smooth things over, Elissa quickly said, "Sir, yeah, Joyce went too far, and we're really sorry. But Daisy was talking tr**h first--Joyce just lost her temper." Arabella raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Is that so? Well then, I'll just upload this little clip online and let the public decide who the real victim is." "Absolutely not!" the president barked. "Miss Stanley, if that video gets out, it'll drag the university through the mud. Let's not blow this out of proportion. Apologize to each other, and we'll call it even." Joyce looked outraged. "What? She beat the crap out of us! Why should we just let it go?" Her friends chimed in, just as outraged. Meanwhile, Elissa leaned toward the president and whispered with a sweet smile, "My dad's set to donate $1 million to the school. Just thought you should know." The president's expression shifted. His tone changed. "Daisy," he began, "what they did was wrong. But your response was excessive. This could've been handled differently. You can either apologize now and move forward, or you'll be expelled. And if you upload that video, trust me, public opinion won't be on your side. That would be reckless." Arabella stared at him. So that was what this was. Now she understood why Daisy had been stepped on for so long. These people weren't protecting students--they were protecting their pockets. Joyce, smelling victory, leaned back with a smug grin. "Daisy, you really thought you had the upper hand? You're nothing but a parasite clinging to Elissa's family like a leech. Don't act like you matter. You want to stay here? Then get on your knees and l**k my shoes clean. Maybe, just maybe, I'll let you off the hook." Joyce looked at Arabella like she wasn't even human. Elissa didn't say anything at first, but the fire burning behind her calm expression gave her away. Her throat still hurt, and what bothered her more was the embarrassment. Deep down, she wanted to lash out at Arabella. But on the outside, she just let out a quiet sigh, like she was more hurt than mad. "Daisy, I honestly don't know what happened to you," she said. "But if you can't apologize to us, then pack your things. You're no longer welcome in my home." The president didn't bat an eye. "That's enough. You're done here. Pack up and get out." He waved Arabella off like she was a fly in the room before turning to Elissa with a tight smile. "You're injured. Go rest. We'll take care of everything." Joyce smirked, finally feeling like the universe had balanced itself. With their heads held high, they all moved to strut out like they had won a prize. "Quite the scene," came a calm voice from the doorway, all eyes turned. Arabella raised an eyebrow. How was he here! ...... What happens next? 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It was supposed to be just an experiment. Touch the subject, measure the response, write it down. 🔬 Then I stopped dreaming about escaping — and started dreaming about him. 😳 Now every night it's the same: dark water, the weight of him, tentacles sliding over my hips and holding me exactly where he wants me while I beg in a language I don't speak. I wake up soaked, furious, reaching for something that isn't there. 🔥 I tell myself it's whatever they keep injecting into my arm. It isn't. The truth is worse — every morning I wake up disappointed it stopped, and every night I go back hoping it won't. 💋 I came here to feel nothing. He's the first thing in years to make me feel everything — and he hasn't even properly touched me yet. 🤫 ——————————————————— Chapter 1 — Crystal's POV Position: [not specified]. Location: Saint-Barthélemy, on-site housing provided. Compensation: €4,500/month. Start date: immediate. Requirements: female, single, good health, experience with caregiving preferred. Good fertility. Nature of work: daily care and interaction with exotic creatures. Interested applicants reply to this address only. I'd found it buried in a local forum between an ad for a retired fisherman's boat and someone selling homemade coconut oil, and I'd screenshot it before it could disappear, the way things on that forum tended to do. I read it for the fourth time, and it didn't get any less suspicious. The waiting room was trying hard to impress. White leather chairs, a marble coffee table, and a massive aerial photograph of Saint-Barthélemy's coastline. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Checked my phone, read the listing again. "Weird listing, right?" The woman two chairs over was watching me. Mid-thirties, tanned, the kind of sun-bleached hair that came from actually living near the ocean She nodded at my phone. "No company name, no job title. Just 'exotic creatures' and a salary that's too good to be real." "We might be considered crazy for coming here." "Honey, half the island applied. That money?" She whistled low. "I've got two kids and an ex who thinks child support is optional. I'd scrub dragon cages for that number." I almost laughed. But before I could open my mouth, the door at the end of the room opened, and a voice cut through. "Crystal Le Grand?" I put my phone away so fast I nearly dropped it. The woman who stepped through was the kind of beautiful that made you immediately aware of every flaw on your own face. Her badge was saying ‘Anaïs’. Tall, dark hair pulled into something effortlessly perfect, sharp cheekbones. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. "That's me." I stood and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you. I love your shoes, are those…" "Follow me, please." Anaïs turned on those shoes I wasn't allowed to compliment and walked back through the door. I followed, hand still half-raised, smile dying on my face. She was the assistant to the facility's owner, and she had the interpersonal warmth of a tax audit. She led me to a small office, gestured to a chair, and opened a folder without looking at me once. "I see here you were previously married. Is that correct?" "Correct." I smiled tightly. ‘Best’ decision I never made. I was twenty-one and stupid and in love, and he had a smile that made me forget nobody had ever taken care of me without a price tag. "And your current relationship status?" "And your current relationship status?" "Single. Very, very single. The marriage was annulled, so technically I was never even married. Fun little legal detail." My now ex-husband vanished and left a stack of credit card statements with my name on them. Debts I didn't know existed, signatures I stupidly signed without looking. Now I understood why he'd been in such a rush to walk me down the aisle. Not in the name of love, but because he couldn’t wait to max out credit cards in his wife's name. Anaïs wrote something without looking up. The pen moved in short, precise strokes. Her nails were clean and unpolished, trimmed to exactly the same length. "Your credit history shows some irregularities. Can you explain?" "Student loans. You know how it is." I laughed. Anaïs didn't. Everything about this woman was controlled — posture, breathing, the way she held her face like a mask. Student loans my ass. I've got about four weeks of savings, a mountain of debt, and a disabled brother whose care I help pay for. "Menstrual cycle. Regular or irregular?" I blinked. "Regular, but that's kind of a…" "Clothing size?" "Eight. Sometimes ten if it's European sizing, which, honestly, always feels like a personal attack." "Professional experience?" "Nursing. Two years at Hôpital de Bruyn before I took a break." Before my fiancé convinced me to quit. "I'll take care of us, baby. You deserve better than nightshifts and bedpans." Turns out what he meant was he'd strip away every safety net I had, then vanish. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel — he's disabled. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No one." Anaïs's pen stopped moving. She looked at me and something shifted across her features. Quick, controlled, barely there. Surprise and something sharper underneath it, almost like satisfaction. Then it vanished, and she was writing again. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No. Caleb was my whole social life, which, again, is a red flag. I'm seeing all the red flags now." Anaïs closed the folder, excused herself, and returned two minutes later with him. Albert Bernard, the owner of this company, walked into the room. Tall, obscenely handsome, the kind of man whose jaw looked sculpted rather than grown. He shook my hand with both of his and smiled like we were already old friends. "Crystal! Anaïs tells me you're perfect." "She… Really? She didn't seem…" "Wonderful! Tell me about your sex life." I choked on nothing. "My what?" "Your sex life. Active, dormant, somewhere in between?" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I ask because I want you to be comfortable. Some of the work here is intimate in nature: not sexual, but physical, close-contact, and I need to know your boundaries won't make you a liability." I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Albert tilted his head like a man watching a fish try to climb a tree. "I'll go first, since you look like you might swallow your own tongue. I'm bisexual, and the last person I was with told me I had the emotional availability of a desk lamp. Your turn." Surprisingly, It worked. Something about his absurd candor cracked the seal. I was still stiff when I found myself talking: "Dormant. Dead, actually. My ex killed any interest I had in men, and honestly, at this point the only physical contact I want is the kind where nobody asks how I'm feeling afterward." Albert listened with his chin on his fist and nodded like everything I said was fascinating. The contract was three pages. I should have read every word. I read the salary line, the housing clause, and the duration — twelve months, renewable — and I signed. Albert clapped his hands together. "Anaïs, transport! We leave now." “H-Hold on, what?” “Why wait? You’re gonna have so much fun there!” Anaïs stood, and as she passed Albert's chair, his hand swung out and slapped her across the ass — casual, proprietary, the sound sharp in the small room. She didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Just kept walking. I stared. My mouth opened, closed. Two attractive adults, I told myself. Clearly a thing between them. Who am I to judge? God knows I wouldn't mind someone who looked like either of them doing that to me. I tried to forget the look on the other candidates' faces when Albert enthusiastically told them to leave because the position was closed. Outside, a black SUV waited with the engine running. Anaïs took the wheel without a word; Albert held the rear door open for me with a little bow that was either gentlemanly or mocking, hard to tell with him. I climbed in, and the leather seats were cool against my thighs. Nobody spoke. Anaïs drove like she'd made this trip a hundred times, eyes fixed ahead, and Albert scrolled through his phone beside me. The drive took us to the island's far eastern edge, where the roads narrowed to dirt and the vegetation thickened until the ocean disappeared behind a wall of green. The facility sat at the end of a gravel path — low concrete, no signage, built like something designed not to be found. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a strange undercurrent, something organic and faintly mineral, like wet stone in a cave. Albert walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide. "Your schedule will be straightforward — feeding rounds three times a day, health checks once in the morning, and the rest of the time is yours to spend with the residents. Think of it as..." I was trying to listen, I really was, but then we passed a corridor junction and I saw the monitor. A security screen mounted high on the wall, showing a dark chamber in grainy night vision. Something massive was moving inside: too many limbs, too fluid, and a thick muscular appendage uncurling against the reinforced glass, ridged suckers pressing flat against the surface. My vision tilted. The corridor stretched and compressed, fluorescent lights bleeding into long white smears. My knees folded, and the last thing I registered before the dark swallowed everything was the cold of the concrete floor against my cheek. ——————————————————— What happens the night the dream stops being a dream? 🫣 Read Monstrously Yours Now! 🐙🔥

💍 I spent three months restoring the Kingston family heirloom—every crack, every loose stone, fixed by my own hands. Tonight, I saw another woman wearing it on the red carpet, smiling next to my husband. His only explanation? “She just borrowed it for one night.” ------------------- Chapter 1 Borrowed for One Night At 9:20 p.m., Arabella Wayne took off her magnifier and rubbed her tired eyes. A vintage sterling silver cuff lay open on the workbench. Its surface was badly worn, and the faint pattern etched into it was almost impossible to make out. She brushed away the debris and was about to call it a night when her phone buzzed. Her workshop assistant, Brooke Moore, had sent her a screenshot, then followed it up with a message. Brooke: [Arabella, don't freak out yet.] Arabella stared at the message, her brow tightening before she tapped open the image. It showed a brightly lit charity gala, complete with a grand staircase, a red carpet, and press cameras flashing. Maxwell Kingston stood at the center of the photo in a black tuxedo, straight-backed and composed. Beside him stood a woman in an emerald designer gown. Her hair was swept up, showing off the elegant line of her neck, and her camera-ready smile was perfectly practiced. The moment Arabella saw what was on the screen, her finger froze. The bridal diamond tiara on the woman's head, the filigree drop earrings at her ears, and the ruby choker at her throat were all unmistakably familiar. Arabella knew every piece so well that she didn't need to zoom in or take a second look. The third diamond at the back of the tiara had a setting Arabella had repaired by hand. One of the rubies had once had a hairline crack, but Maxwell's grandmother, Alma Kingston, hadn't wanted it replaced, so Arabella had painstakingly remounted it instead. The longer Arabella stared at the photo, the more her expression cooled. Meanwhile, Brooke's messages kept coming. [The group chats are blowing up.] [They're saying that woman is Mr. Kingston's new girlfriend.] [Some people are saying the bridal jewelry set was reserved for the future Mrs. Kingston.] [Arabella, are you okay?] Arabella didn't reply. She zoomed in until she saw Maxwell's hand lifted behind the woman, as if he were shielding her while guiding her forward. The image pulled Arabella back to the Kingston family dinner last year. Alma had opened the rosewood jewelry casket, patted Arabella's hand, and said, "Restore this set for me first. When you and Maxwell finally have a proper wedding, I'll put it on you myself." Arabella had only smiled and let the subject drop, while Maxwell sat right beside them, hearing every word without saying a thing. The restoration had taken three full months, and Arabella hadn't cut a single corner, not even on the last loose stone, because it was the Kingston family's antique bridal jewelry set. For the first time in their three years of marriage, every hour Arabella spent restoring that set had made her feel a little more like Mrs. Kingston in truth, not just in name. Now, that same set sat on another woman's head. Arabella's phone rang. It wasn't Maxwell, but the landline from the Kingston mansion. She stared at the number for a moment before answering. Freddy Bally, the Kingston family's butler, was on the other end, his voice as steady as ever. "Mrs. Kingston, Mrs. Alma Kingston would like you to come home." Arabella gave a quiet laugh. "At this hour?" Freddy paused, then lowered his voice. "You've probably seen what's going on online. Mrs. Alma Kingston wants you to come home and help smooth things over." Arabella's expression went flat. She leaned against the workbench, though her tone stayed light. "Smooth what over?" "That she lent out the bridal set at the last minute, and Mr. Maxwell Kingston only showed up at the gala as an escort. That's all. "Mrs. Kingston, please come home. The family needs you there. Otherwise, this will only get harder to explain." Freddy spoke quickly, as if he had rehearsed every word. Arabella almost laughed. "Where's Maxwell?" Freddy went quiet for a second before replying, "He hasn't come back yet." Arabella understood then. Maxwell didn't have to come back or explain himself. She was the one the Kingston family expected to come home and clean up the mess. Arabella ended the call, grabbed her car keys, and headed for the door. Even as she was walking, Brooke's messages kept coming. [Arabella, where are you going?] [Don't handle this on your own.] Arabella finally replied: [Back to the Kingston mansion.] After a moment, she sent one more message. [I want to see what part they expect me to play this time.] ***** The Kingston mansion was lit up from end to end, every window bright against the night. Arabella had barely stepped out of her car when voices drifted from the living room. She pushed open the front door, and every head in the room turned toward her at once. Alma sat in the center of the living room, looking tense. Beside her, Maxwell's mother, Margaret Kingston, wore a tight frown, while the gala photo still glowed on the tablet on the coffee table. Arabella stopped in the doorway without changing her shoes. The first thing she saw was the rosewood jewelry casket by the sofa, open and half-empty. Her chest tightened at the sight. Margaret spoke first, her voice still gentle. "You're back." Arabella didn't answer. Her attention stayed on the jewelry box. "Where's the set?" Margaret's smile stiffened. "Arabella, now isn't the time. Things online are already a mess." Arabella finally turned to her. "I asked where it is." Alma cleared her throat. "I had it sent out for cleaning." Arabella gave a small nod and walked in slowly. She stopped beside the casket, looked down for a few seconds, then lifted the burgundy velvet lining. A long blonde hair was caught beneath one corner. It wasn't hers. Her hair wasn't that long. The room went silent. Margaret stiffened. "What do you think you're doing?" Arabella held up the strand of hair and looked straight at her. "I restored this set." "Of course we know that," Margaret cut in at once. "That's exactly why we asked you to come back and talk this through. "The story is already everywhere, and no one knows this bridal set better than you do. You're the best person to explain it." "The best person?" Arabella almost laughed. "You mean I'm supposed to play the gracious Mrs. Kingston, act reasonable, and help cover for all of you. Is that it?" Margaret choked on her response. Alma's face hardened as well. "Arabella, get a hold of yourself first. I'm the one who approved lending out the bridal set." Arabella turned to her. "You approved it?" "There was a business contact at the gala, someone Maxwell owed a favor to." Alma's tone stayed calm, but every word carried weight. "Her mother needed something eye-catching for the event, so I lent her the set for one night. What's the problem?" Arabella's mouth curved faintly at that. When Arabella was restoring the set, Alma had sat beside her, running her fingers over the stones and telling her how generations of Kingston women had worn them. Back then, Alma had warned her to handle every piece with care. But now, the set had ended up on another woman, and all that care had been dismissed with a casual "just for one night." Before Arabella could speak, footsteps sounded at the door. Maxwell had returned, and the air in the room shifted the moment he stepped in. Margaret stood at once, as if she had finally found someone to lean on. "You're finally back. The mess online is—" Maxwell lifted a hand, cutting Margaret off before turning to Arabella. Arabella was already looking at him. Before Maxwell walked in, Arabella had imagined every possibility. Maybe he would call. Maybe he would come home and explain first. Maybe he would at least tell her the bridal set hadn't been his idea. But the first thing he noticed was the strand of hair in her hand. His brow tightened. "Why are you holding that?" Arabella looked at him, then suddenly smiled. "That's the first thing you say to me after coming back?" Maxwell studied her face, his expression darkening. "Arabella." "Don't call me that." Arabella dropped the strand of hair back into the empty casket. "Tell me first why that bridal set ended up on another woman's head." Maxwell took off his coat and handed it to a nearby maid, his voice even. "She only borrowed it for one night." The living room went still, and Arabella looked at him for several seconds without saying a word. Arabella thought, 'He said it so lightly, as if the set I spent three months restoring were just a dress someone could borrow from a boutique.' Arabella gave a small nod, as if it had finally clicked. "So that's what it was to you. Do you know I've never even worn that bridal set?" Maxwell's brow drew together. "What are you getting at?" "What am I getting at?" Arabella took a step forward. "Alma told me that set was meant for me, and you put it on another woman. "You walked the red carpet with her and let the press photograph you together. Then I come back here, and all I get is that it was some harmless favor." Her eyes slowly reddened. "Maxwell, what am I to you?" Maxwell's face darkened. "You're making this into something bigger than it is." Arabella let out a short laugh. "Bigger than it is?" She grabbed the half-empty casket and set it down hard on the coffee table in front of him. "Take a good look and say that again. "You hand it to another woman for the night, and to you, that means nothing. Is that what you're saying?" Maxwell stared at her. His throat moved, but his voice stayed hard. "It's just jewelry." "Just jewelry?" Arabella's eyes finally filled with tears. "Yes, jewelry doesn't feel anything. But I do. My dignity does. And so does this marriage." Margaret shot to her feet. "Arabella, watch your tone." Arabella turned sharply to her. "Then what tone should I use?" Her eyes were red as she faced Margaret. "Should I thank you instead? "Thank you for remembering to call me back after all this, just so you could teach me how to save the Kingston family's image?" Alma's face changed too. "Arabella, that's enough." "No, it isn't." Arabella turned back to Maxwell, each word clear and sharp. "Who is that woman?" Maxwell's mouth tightened. He didn't answer. Arabella pressed, "You won't even tell me?" Maxwell's answer was flat. "You don't need to know." Arabella went completely still. Even now, he didn't think she deserved a straight answer. She slowly straightened. In that moment, something in her seemed to go quiet. The anger that had been burning in her all night vanished all at once, leaving behind only a cold, hollow silence. Arabella looked at Maxwell and nodded. "Fine. Then I don't need to know." Maxwell frowned. "Arabella." She ignored him and headed upstairs. Margaret jolted in surprise. "Where are you going?" Arabella didn't stop. "To pack my things." Maxwell's expression shifted. He caught up to her in a few strides and grabbed her wrist. "What are you doing now?" Arabella lowered her eyes to his hand on her wrist. That was Maxwell all over. He kept his distance whenever it suited him, but the moment she tried to leave, his first instinct was never to explain. It was to stop her. The thought almost made her laugh. The next second, she shook off his hand. "Don't touch me." Maxwell clearly hadn't expected her to shake him off with that much force. His hand hit the stair railing, and his expression hardened. Arabella stood on the step and looked down at him. Her eyes were still red, but her voice was steady. "Maxwell, you let another woman wear that bridal set today and made a fool of me in front of everyone. "Don't expect me to keep covering for you the way I used to." With that, she turned and went upstairs. Maxwell stayed where he was, watching Arabella disappear upstairs as his expression darkened by degrees. Behind him, Margaret grew anxious. "Why are you still standing there? Go after her." Alma set her cup down with a heavy thud. "Let her have her tantrum." But Maxwell didn't move. He only stared at the door Arabella had slammed shut upstairs, his fingers slowly curling into a fist. For the first time, it hit him that Arabella might not be throwing a tantrum this time. Chapter 2 Don't Expect Me Back After Arabella went upstairs, she locked the bedroom door behind her. The lock clicked softly. It wasn't loud, but the living room downstairs fell silent at once. Maxwell stood where he was, his expression dark enough to chill the room. Margaret reacted first. She hurried to the foot of the stairs and called up in a strained voice, "Arabella, open the door. We can talk this through." Upstairs, there was no response. Alma sat on the sofa with a grim expression, a pearl bracelet resting at her wrist. "Let her throw her fit. With that temper of hers, she won't stop until she learns the hard way." Margaret grew more anxious. "Mom, this isn't the time. Everyone downstairs is watching, and it's still trending. If she makes another scene now..." "So what if she does?" Alma lifted her eyes. "Do you really think she's going anywhere?" Maxwell stood at the foot of the stairs. At Alma's words, his brows drew together. A second later, suitcase wheels rolled across the floor upstairs, followed by the sharp scrape of a drawer being yanked open. Maxwell's expression changed, and he headed upstairs at once. Margaret called after him, "Maxwell, calm her down first. Don't let her walk out at a time like this." Maxwell didn't look back. He reached the bedroom door and knocked twice. "Open the door." There was no answer, so he knocked again, his voice dropping lower. "Arabella." When silence followed, Maxwell looked down at the doorknob, waited two seconds, and turned it. The door opened. The lock hadn't fully caught, as if Arabella had never truly meant to keep him out. He stepped inside and found the bedroom in complete disarray. The closet doors stood open. Clothes were strewn across the bed, and every drawer of the vanity had been pulled out. Arabella was crouched on the floor, rummaging through the hidden compartment in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. She didn't even look up as she asked, "Why are you in here?" Maxwell's gaze fell on the pile beside her, and his expression darkened even further. Her passport, ID, several bank cards, an old hard drive, and a black leather design notebook were spread out on the floor. They were the things that mattered to her most. This wasn't a moment of anger or a dramatic gesture. She was truly preparing to leave. Maxwell stood in the doorway. His throat worked once. "Why are you taking those?" Arabella finally looked up at him. "You can't tell?" "Arabella." "Stop saying my name." She lowered her head and shoved the design notebook into her bag, moving fast. "I heard you the first time." Maxwell crossed the room in a few strides, crouched beside her, and pressed a hand over her bag. "Put those back." Arabella looked up at him. Her eyes were still red, but the hurt in them had turned to ice. "You still think you can tell me what to do?" A sharp smile tugged at her lips. "Maxwell, do you get some kind of satisfaction from ordering me around?" His jaw tightened. "I don't have the patience to argue with you right now." "I do." Arabella tightened her grip on the bag and tried to pull it back. "You had plenty of patience for everything else tonight, didn't you? "Lending out the bridal jewelry set, walking the red carpet and pushing the whole thing off the trending lists. So why are you standing here acting like I'm the one testing your patience?" Maxwell's hand tightened over the bag. "I told you. We deal with the mess online first." "And I told you," Arabella said, meeting his eyes, "I'm not dealing with it for you." They stayed locked in place for several seconds before Maxwell was the first to let go. He straightened, his voice low and cold. "Are you really going to take this that far tonight?" Arabella pulled the bag into her arms and rose to her feet. "So now I'm the one taking it too far?" She tilted her head, her tone light but edged with sarcasm. "So that's what this is now? I'm taking it too far? Let me guess. I'm irrational, immature, or just making trouble for you." Maxwell said nothing. Arabella nodded as if she had expected no other response. "Of course. That's all the Kingston family has ever had to say about me." With that, she turned to the vanity and pulled open the bottom drawer. Maxwell stayed where he was until he saw her take out a brass key, old and worn bright at the head. His brow twitched. "Why are you taking that?" Arabella turned the key once between her fingers, her faint smile almost disappearing. "So you do remember." Something in his expression changed. It was the key to the workshop Arabella had owned before they got married. On their wedding day, she had tossed it to him and said she wouldn't need it anymore. She had asked him to keep it for her. At some point, she had quietly taken it back and placed it in the vanity drawer herself, and he had never even noticed. Now that she was taking it with her again, the meaning couldn't have been clearer. Maxwell's voice went hoarse. "You're going back to the workshop?" "Is that a problem?" she shot back. "That place hasn't been opened in two years." "I'd still rather stay there than spend another night in this house." Arabella's reply came too quickly, too lightly, with a sharp edge beneath it. Maxwell's face sank completely. "Arabella." "Am I wrong?" She looked up at him. "If I stay here any longer, you'll be handing out the last things this family is supposed to protect and still expect me to smile like nothing happened." Maxwell's expression turned dangerously dark. "That's ridiculous." "Ridiculous?" Arabella closed her hand around the key and headed for the door. "Fine. Let's see which one of us is being ridiculous." She walked out of the bedroom, and Maxwell followed. Downstairs, Margaret looked up and saw the bag in Arabella's hand. Her face changed at once. "What are you doing?" Arabella ignored her and went straight to the living room. The rosewood jewelry casket was still on the coffee table, and she opened it again without hesitation. Margaret tensed. "Arabella." Arabella had already lifted the burgundy velvet lining and was searching underneath with quick, purposeful movements. Maxwell had just come downstairs. The moment he saw what she was doing, something shifted in his eyes. "Don't touch that." Arabella heard him, but she didn't stop. A second later, her hand froze. Beneath the burgundy velvet was an empty slot, not large, but impossible to miss. Arabella stared at it as every trace of emotion slowly drained from her face. Margaret stepped forward and tried to close the casket. "That's enough. What exactly are you trying to prove?" Arabella looked up, her voice soft and cold. "What was in here?" Margaret's expression stiffened. "Nothing." "Nothing?" Arabella let out a quiet laugh. "Then why are you so nervous?" Maxwell stepped forward and reached for the casket. Arabella pressed it down with one hand and looked up at him. "So you knew something was missing too?" Maxwell's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Arabella stared at the empty slot, and the memory hit her all at once. The missing piece was the bridal hair pin. According to an old Kingston family custom, the piece hidden beneath the lowest layer of the bridal jewelry set was neither the main pin nor the hair fork. It was a filigree bridal hair pin made to anchor the tiara, its delicate circular clasp echoing a wedding band and symbolizing commitment. Back then, Alma had made a point of telling Arabella that this was the one piece that was never loaned out. Only the woman who had truly become a member of the Kingston family was allowed to wear it on her wedding day. Arabella slowly lifted her head, and her eyes reddened little by little. "She wore that too?" Margaret's composure finally cracked. "Arabella, stop this. It's just an old piece of jewelry." "Just an old piece of jewelry?" Arabella laughed until her eyes were wet. "So I was never allowed to wear it because it was some precious family heirloom. "But the moment some outsider puts it on, it's suddenly nothing more than an old trinket. Is that how this works?" Margaret was left too stunned to speak. Alma set her cup down with a sharp clink, her voice dropping. "Enough. Tonight is already messy enough. Do you have to drag the entire Kingston family into chaos?" Arabella turned to her, eyes red. "Am I the one doing that?" Alma stared at her as Arabella pointed at the casket, every word sharp and clear. "Did I put the Kingston family's bridal jewelry set on another woman's head? "Did I make the entire internet watch the Kingston family turn into a joke? And after all that, you're still expecting me to stand here and act like none of this happened?" The living room was so quiet that even the maids seemed to be holding their breath. Standing off to the side, Maxwell watched Arabella with a grim expression. He had rarely seen her like this. There were no tears and no hysterics. The hurt had cut so deep that every word she spoke came out calm and painfully clear. Arabella looked at him and softly called his name. "Maxwell." His throat worked once. "Put the casket down first." Arabella seemed not to hear him. She only kept her eyes on him. "You said she only borrowed it for one night. Then tell me why the bridal hair pin is missing too." Maxwell went silent, and that silence was worse than any answer. After holding it in all night, Arabella finally felt the last of her restraint snap. She shut the jewelry casket with a sharp click. The sound wasn't loud, but it still made Maxwell flinch. Arabella looked at him and forced a faint smile. "I get it." She pushed the casket toward him. "I don't want this set anymore." Margaret froze. "What did you just say?" Arabella didn't look at her. "And I don't want to be Mrs. Kingston anymore." The moment she said it, the entire living room fell silent. Alma's hand clenched around the pearl bracelet at her wrist. The string snapped, and pearls scattered across the floor. Margaret's face drained of color. "Arabella, have you lost your mind? Do you even realize what you're saying?" "I do," Arabella cut in. "I've never been clearer than I am tonight." She picked up her bag and reached for her suitcase. Maxwell finally moved. He crossed the room in a few strides and grabbed her wrist, his voice low and hoarse. "Take that back." Arabella lowered her eyes to his hand. All at once, the anger inside her seemed to drain away, leaving behind something close to bitter amusement. "Now you're scared?" Maxwell stared at her, his eyes burning with restrained emotion. "Arabella." "Don't say my name like that," she said softly. "Every time you do, all I can think about is how easily you said she only borrowed it." His expression faltered as Arabella looked at him and slowly slipped her wrist from his grasp. "Maxwell," she said, "you'd better stop me tonight. Because if you don't, don't expect me to ever come back." With that, she pulled her suitcase toward the door without looking back. Chapter 3 Don't Beg Her Back By the time Arabella dragged her suitcase through the gates of the Kingston mansion, the wind in the courtyard had begun to pick up. It was late, but the lights at the entrance still blazed against the night. Arabella carried her bag in one hand and pulled her suitcase with the other, walking so fast it was as if slowing down for even a second might cost her the resolve to keep going. Footsteps followed almost at once, quick and heavy. She knew who it was without turning around. Maxwell caught up and grabbed the suitcase handle. "Arabella." Her grip tightened. "Let go." Maxwell had rushed after her, and his breathing had not quite settled, but he still kept his voice low. "How long are you planning to keep this up tonight?" She turned to him and let out a sudden laugh. "You chased me all the way out here just to say that?" He held her gaze, his expression grim. "Come back inside with me." "Back inside?" Arabella tilted her head. "So your family can decide how to use me to clean up this mess?" A muscle jumped in Maxwell's jaw. "Do you have to put it like that?" "Yes." She nodded. "You all made it ugly first. I don't owe you a nicer version." Maxwell's face went livid, but his hand stayed locked around the suitcase handle. Arabella looked down at his grip, then let go without warning. Before he could react, she stepped closer, closing the distance between them. She was close enough for him to catch the faint trace of sandalwood still lingering in her hair. Arabella looked up at him, her voice light and cool. "Maxwell, are you really that afraid I'll leave tonight?" His throat worked once. "I'm scared you'll do something crazy." Arabella gave a short laugh. "Fine. Then watch." As soon as the words left her mouth, she lifted her foot and kicked the suitcase hard. The suitcase shot forward and slammed into the courtyard gate with a bang, startling the staff on night duty near the entrance. Maxwell's voice turned sharp. "Arabella." Her eyes were still red, but her smile was almost bright. "There. That's crazy." She turned toward the gate, but Maxwell strode after her and yanked her back. Arabella's shoulder jerked, and she crashed into his chest. She instinctively tried to push him away, but Maxwell tightened his arms around her, holding her firmly in place. "Have you had enough?" His voice was low, the anger in it unmistakable. Pressed close against her, his chest rose and fell against hers. Arabella went still in his arms for a split second. Then her anger surged even hotter. "Let me go." She raised a hand and clawed at him, her nails scraping down the side of his neck and leaving three vivid red marks. Maxwell drew in a sharp breath but didn't loosen his hold. "Do that again." Arabella looked up at him, so angry that tears burned in her eyes. "What, are you going to throw me over your shoulder and drag me back inside?" Maxwell said nothing, and that silence was answer enough. Arabella let out a disbelieving laugh. "You actually would." Maxwell held her gaze, barely keeping his frustration in check. "I'm not letting you walk away like this tonight." "And what gives you the right?" "You're not thinking clearly." Arabella nodded slowly and looked at him. "Right. I'm not thinking clearly. You're the clearheaded one here. "Clearheaded enough to lend out the bridal jewelry set, to let your family tell me to keep my mouth shut, and now to stand here blocking my way." Arabella stopped there, her gaze dropping to his collar as if something had caught her eye. The scratches on his neck had already started to show, red and stark against his skin. She stared at the marks for two seconds before the corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "You look better like this than you did in the living room." Maxwell's brows drew together. "What are you getting at now?" She lifted a hand and lightly touched the red marks on his neck. "At least you look alive." Maxwell's breath caught, and the hand around her arm went rigid. For a moment, the anger in Arabella's chest twisted into something bitter and sharp. She used to tease him like this, standing close on purpose, speaking near his ear on purpose, just to watch him fight to keep control. But that was before, and the thought wiped the smile from her face. She raised both hands and shoved him away. Maxwell hadn't braced himself this time, so he stumbled back half a step. Meanwhile, Arabella seized the chance and grabbed her suitcase again. He was about to stop her when his phone rang. The night was too quiet, and the ringtone cut through it sharply. He glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted. Arabella saw the name too. Daisy. She stared at it, and the fight seemed to drain out of her all at once. When she looked up again, she was suddenly, unnervingly calm. Maxwell didn't answer. The call ended, then came in again almost immediately. Still Daisy. The corner of Arabella's mouth lifted slightly. "Answer it." He looked at her. "Come back inside with me first." She nodded, her voice very soft. "Answer it first. Then I'll know who you really came out here for tonight." Something shifted in his eyes, but before he could speak, the phone rang for the third time. Daisy's name lit up again, and the silence between them tightened. Arabella looked at him, her eyes reddening again. "Go ahead. Don't keep her waiting." Maxwell swallowed. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he finally answered. Arabella couldn't make out what he was saying. She only saw him turn away, his voice dropping, his tone unexpectedly gentle. At that moment, the last bit of fight drained out of her. Only moments ago, Maxwell had been trying to stop her from leaving. Now he was answering that woman's call right in front of her. He kept telling her things weren't as bad as she thought, but every time it mattered, he chose someone else. Arabella had seen enough. She picked up her suitcase and turned away. Maxwell heard the suitcase wheels rolling and spun around. "Arabella." She didn't look back. She pulled the car door open and got in. Maxwell caught up in two strides, his phone still in one hand as he braced the other against the door. "Get out." Arabella looked at him, exhaustion settling over her in a heavy wave. For the first time, she didn't argue or snap back. She only asked, "Maxwell, do you really think I can't tell who you're choosing?" Maxwell's breath caught. She didn't wait for an answer before pulling the door shut. The door slammed into place, forcing Maxwell to jerk his hand away. His expression went cold. As the car pulled away, Arabella looked in the rearview mirror and saw Maxwell standing there, phone in hand, the call still connected. ***** Half an hour later, the car stopped at the entrance to an old street. Arabella's workshop occupied the second floor of a building. The storefront below looked worn down. Its sign was dark, and beyond the glass door, the interior was pitch-black. Arabella dragged her suitcase upstairs and stopped at the door, rummaging through her bag for the key. It took her a while to find the brass one, but the moment she slid it into the lock, the door gave way. It hadn't been locked after all. She froze for a beat, then pushed the door open and stepped inside, flicking on the lights. The place was cleaner than she had expected. Someone had mopped the floor, wiped down the tables, and even folded the dust cover on the workbench neatly. Brooke rushed out from the back room, her hair a mess and a puffer jacket thrown over her pajamas. Her eyes widened when she saw Arabella's suitcase. "Arabella, you really came?" Arabella set the suitcase down, her voice a little hoarse. "You cleaned all this?" Brooke nodded right away, then quickly shook her head. "I did half of it. Blake came by this afternoon and handled the rest. I was afraid you wouldn't show up tonight." As she spoke, Brooke seemed to remember something, and the color drained from her face. "Oh no. I forgot to tell you first." Arabella glanced at her. "Tell me what?" Brooke swallowed and carefully handed her phone over. "Kingston Group has already started putting out their version of the story." Her voice dropped lower. "Tomorrow morning, they're going to release the same statement across the board, saying the bridal jewelry set wasn't loaned out privately. They're calling it a treasure loan exhibition for Kingston Jewelry." Arabella froze as she stared at the screen. Brooke added carefully, "They're also claiming all restoration and design rights belong to Kingston Group." The room sank into silence. Arabella stayed where she was for a long moment before finally reaching out and taking the phone. She read the lines on the screen twice, then suddenly laughed. "That's smart." Brooke felt a chill run through her. "Arabella, don't smile like that. You're freaking me out." Arabella looked up, her eyes almost too bright. "What are you scared of?" She set the phone down and slowly rolled up her sleeves. "If they want to call it Kingston's work, then tomorrow, I'll make sure they have nothing left to exhibit." Chapter 4 Her Name The workshop was quiet. As the lights came on, the familiar smell of metal, wood, and old velvet washed over Arabella, making her eyes sting before she could stop it. She hadn't been back in two years. The display case facing the street was still there. To the right stood the restoration bench, and by the window was the row of old wooden shelves she had picked out herself. Even the green ceramic vase in the corner, the one she had always hated and kept meaning to replace, hadn't changed. Brooke stood aside, watching her carefully. "Arabella?" Arabella pushed her suitcase beside the table and came back to herself. "Go on." Brooke quickly handed her phone over. "Kingston Group just got its story straight. They're saying the bridal jewelry set wasn't lent out privately. It was a last-minute treasure loan exhibition under Kingston Jewelry." Arabella looked down at the screen. The press release was slick and carefully worded: Kingston Group's cultural heritage project had made its debut at the charity gala. According to the statement, the antique bridal jewelry set was making its first public appearance after being restored by Kingston Jewelry. The woman wearing it was described as a business partner's family member, while Maxwell had merely accompanied her to the event. Arabella's gaze stopped on the line where Kingston took credit for the restoration, and she laughed out loud. A chill ran down Brooke's back. She knew that laugh too well. If Arabella cried or cursed, there was still room to fix things. But when she laughed like this, it usually meant the problem was about to get much bigger. "Arabella," Brooke asked carefully, "what are we going to do?" Arabella set the phone down and slowly rolled up her sleeves. "They want to take credit for my work, right?" She walked to the restoration bench, pulled open the bottom drawer, took out a brown paper bag, and slapped it onto the table. "Then let them try. If they actually pull it off, I'll admit I lost." Brooke froze. "What's that?" Arabella didn't look up as she pulled the contents from the bag one by one. There were photos from before the restoration, enlarged shots of cracked diamond settings, welding records for broken filigree points, and sketches for remounting the cracked ruby. There was also the restoration log Arabella had written herself. Page after page was filled with her sharp, angular handwriting, the strokes almost carved into the paper. Brooke's eyes lit up the longer she looked. "You kept all this?" Arabella gave a cold laugh. "I restore things. I don't work for free. I keep records of who touched what, what got changed, and who might try to steal the credit later." As she spoke, Arabella opened the metal cabinet beside her and pulled a hard drive from the very back. "The supervision video is here too. "Opening the case, taking the pieces apart, remounting the stones, putting the finished set back together. It's all on here." Brooke drew in a sharp breath. "Then Kingston Group is screwed this time, right?" Arabella looked up at her. "That depends on whether they know when to stop." The moment she said that, the sharp, uneven click of high heels hurried down the hall outside the workshop. Brooke turned first, and her expression tightened when she saw the woman at the door. It was Samantha Reed, the project director of Kingston Jewelry. Samantha stepped inside, still catching her breath, and forced out a smile. "Ms. Wayne, I'm sorry to come by so late." Arabella didn't even lift her head, still sorting through her papers. "Then don't." Samantha's smile stiffened. She had known Arabella wouldn't be easy to deal with, but she hadn't expected to be shut down before she could even begin. Samantha steadied herself and continued, "Ms. Wayne, Mr. Kingston wants to get the public reaction under control first. As for the restoration credit and project ownership, we can sit down tomorrow and talk it through." Arabella finally looked up. "Talk it through?" "Yes." Samantha seized the chance at once. "This has already blown up, and everyone is watching. It would be difficult for Kingston Group to—" "Difficult to what?" Arabella cut her off. "Say I did the restoration, or admit the bridal jewelry set was privately lent to another woman?" Samantha's face went pale. "Ms. Wayne, spinning this now won't do anyone any good." Arabella stared at her, then suddenly smiled. "There it is again. Do all of you love that line? Won't do anyone any good." She braced one hand on the restoration bench and stood, then walked toward Samantha step by step. Earlier, her eyes had been red from holding back tears. Now they were startlingly bright. Arabella went on, "Tell me, then. When that woman stood in the spotlight last night wearing the bridal jewelry set, how exactly was that good for me? "When the Kingstons called me back and told me to play along with their cleanup, was that supposed to be good for me too? "And when Maxwell said she had only borrowed it for one night, was I supposed to thank him for that?" Samantha opened her mouth, but no words came out. Arabella nodded. "So none of this was for my sake. Then don't stand here lecturing me about what's best for everyone." The workshop went dead quiet. Samantha had come in ready to throw her weight around as project director, but Arabella had shut her down in three sentences. Samantha gritted her teeth and changed tactics. "Ms. Wayne, you've been tied to the Kingston Group for years. You know how this works. "If you put out a statement saying the bridal jewelry set was only on loan for the project, the story dies down. It protects your reputation too." Arabella stared at her as the expression on her face slowly hardened. "Protects my reputation?" Without warning, she grabbed a pair of fine tweezers from the restoration bench and slapped them down beside Samantha's hand. The sound wasn't loud, but Samantha still flinched. Arabella leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous calm. "Go back and tell Kingston Group this. They can lend out the bridal jewelry set. They can make fools of themselves all they want. "But they don't get to use my name." Samantha's face went completely white. She seemed about to say something, but her phone rang just then. Arabella caught Maxwell's name on the screen at a glance. Samantha looked like she had found a lifeline and answered quickly, "Mr. Kingston, I'm already at the workshop, but Ms. Wayne—" Before she could continue, Maxwell's low, heavy voice came through the phone. "Put her on." His voice carried clearly through the quiet workshop. Samantha stiffened, then quickly handed the phone to Arabella. Arabella took it and turned toward the window. "Say it." After a moment of silence, Maxwell spoke again, his voice low and tight. "What are you doing?" Arabella looked at her slightly disheveled reflection in the glass and smiled. "You're asking me that now, Mr. Kingston?" "I'm asking what you're doing." "Protecting myself," Arabella said. "And demanding an explanation." "Arabella." Maxwell's voice went flat. "Don't make this bigger than it has to be." Arabella almost laughed. "Maxwell, is that really all you have to say?" His breathing grew heavier on the other end of the line. Arabella leaned against the window and looked down at the empty street below, her voice steady. "You lent the bridal jewelry set to someone else, and I was supposed to stay quiet. "Your family tried to erase my credit, and I was supposed to stay quiet. "Now Kingston Group is using my restoration work to clean up your mess, and you still want me to stay quiet. Your family's reputation matters, but mine doesn't?" He fell silent for a moment before he said, "Whatever you want, I'll make it up to you later." Arabella laughed the second she heard it. Listening from the side, Brooke felt her scalp prickle. She knew that was exactly the kind of line that would set Arabella off. Sure enough, Arabella asked right after, "Make it up to me with what? Money? A project? Or are you going to give me back the respect Mrs. Kingston was supposed to have?" Her eyes slowly reddened, but her voice only grew softer. "Maxwell, I don't even want that bridal jewelry set anymore. What could you possibly give me now?" The silence on the other end told Arabella she had cornered him. Maxwell was exactly that kind of man: he could compensate her for anything, but he would never apologize. Arabella closed her eyes for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was cold. "If you're that desperate to make this go away, come handle it yourself. Don't send someone else to me." With that, she hung up. Samantha stood nearby, her expression frozen. "Ms. Wayne, Mr. Kingston was only..." Arabella tossed the phone back to her. "Get out." Samantha's face flushed, then went pale. After all her years at Kingston Group, no one had ever thrown her out so bluntly. But looking at Arabella now, she truly didn't dare stay. In the end, she could only leave her with one last warning. "Ms. Wayne, you'd better think this through. If you take this too far, it won't end well for you." Arabella heard her but didn't even turn around. "Too far?" She picked up the hard drive from the restoration bench and turned it over in her hand. "If Kingston Group isn't afraid of taking things that far, then tell them to go ahead and post that statement tomorrow." After Samantha left, the workshop finally went quiet again. Brooke hurried over and lowered her voice. "Arabella, are we really going up against Kingston Group?" Arabella kept organizing the restoration log and original drafts, laying them out one by one. "We're not the ones picking a fight. They're the ones trying to take what isn't theirs." As she spoke, she pulled an old folder from the back of the drawer. Inside was the restoration authorization form Alma had filled out by hand. At the bottom, Alma had added one extra note: [This bridal jewelry set is an old Kingston family wedding piece and is not for public display.] Brooke's eyes lit up. "Arabella, if we release this, Kingston Group's whole treasure loan exhibition claim will become a joke." Arabella pinched the paper between her fingers. 'A joke,' she thought. 'I've seen enough of those since last night. Now it's the Kingston family's turn.' She was about to speak when a car braked hard outside. A moment later, quick, heavy footsteps came up the stairs. Brooke looked up, her expression changing at once. "Arabella..." Arabella had already recognized those footsteps. Maxwell had come after her. A second later, the workshop door was pushed open from outside. Maxwell stood in the doorway in his black coat, still cold from the night air. The wind had ruffled his hair, and his expression was grim. His eyes swept over the restoration diagrams, the authorization form, the hard drive, and the photos spread across the table before settling on Arabella. She stood under the light with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, a faint trace of gold dust still clinging to her fingertips. Maxwell looked at her for a long moment without saying anything. In the end, Arabella spoke first. She looked at him with a faint, humorless smile. "Good. You're here." She picked up the restoration authorization form and slapped it down in front of him. "Maxwell, tell me the truth. "Did the Kingstons lend this bridal jewelry set to another woman, or were you planning to use my work and cut me out completely?" Chapter 5 Not His to Erase The workshop was silent. Maxwell stood in the doorway, the cold from outside still clinging to his coat. After slapping the restoration authorization form down in front of him, Arabella fell silent. Maxwell looked down at the form. Alma's signature was on it, along with a line stating that the bridal jewelry set had never been meant for public display. The more he read, the darker his expression became. Arabella watched him for a moment, then smiled. "Go on. Isn't taking control what you do best, Mr. Kingston?" Maxwell looked up at her, his voice low and tight. "Put these away for now." Arabella looked as if she'd heard a joke. "Put them away?" "Yes." He stepped closer, his gaze moving over the restoration logs, photos, hard drive, and authorization form on the table. "This isn't the time to put all of this on display." "Then when is?" Arabella folded her arms and looked at him. "After Kingston Group pushes that treasure loan exhibition story until everyone treats it as fact?" Maxwell's brows drew tight. "Arabella." "Don't." Arabella cut him off, her tone still light. "The way you say my name now only reminds me how easily you said it had been borrowed." Maxwell's jaw tightened, the irritation in his eyes barely held in check. Brooke stood off to the side, barely daring to breathe. For the first time, Arabella and Maxwell didn't look like a couple to her. They looked like opponents locked in a standoff. Maxwell stared at Arabella for several seconds before he finally flattened his voice. "I'll have Kingston Group revise the statement." Arabella didn't even blink. "Revise it how?" "We'll add your restoration credit." Arabella let out a laugh at the word. "Add it back now? Maxwell, do you really think you can fix everything after the damage is already done?" His expression darkened. "Arabella, I'm trying to solve the problem." "No." Arabella met his eyes. "You're trying to keep the damage under control." She took a step forward and tapped the hard drive. "The Kingston family used my work to save face. Now you want to slip my name back in and pretend that fixes it. "So if that woman is all over the internet tomorrow wearing my wedding band, are you going to give me a replacement and expect me to smile?" Maxwell stared at her, his eyes turning colder. "Do you have to talk like this?" Arabella nodded. "If I don't, will you listen?" Maxwell fell silent for a moment, forcing down the anger that had been building all night. Arabella had pushed him again and again, at the Kingston mansion, at the gate, downstairs, and over the phone. Now, here in her own workshop, every word hit harder. He stared at her for two seconds, then suddenly raised a hand and pressed the authorization form back onto the table. "What exactly do you want?" That was the question Arabella had been waiting for. A faint smile touched her lips. "What I want is simple. First, Kingston Group withdraws that treasure loan exhibition line immediately. "Second, whoever wore the bridal jewelry set tonight needs to come forward and explain herself. Third..." Arabella lifted her eyes to Maxwell. Her voice softened slightly, but it cut even deeper. "Maxwell, I want an apology from you. In person." The room went still. Brooke didn't even dare blink. Maxwell looked at Arabella as if she had said something absurd. "Apologize?" "Yes." Arabella nodded. "Is the word new to you?" Maxwell suddenly let out a cold laugh, faint enough to be quiet but sharp enough to chill the room. "Arabella, aren't you giving yourself a little too much credit?" Brooke's heart sank. The words had barely left Maxwell's mouth before she knew he had made things worse. Arabella's expression froze for only a second. Then she nodded, actually smiling. "Too much credit?" She turned back to the restoration bench, picked up her phone, and unlocked it. Maxwell's eyes darkened. "What are you doing?" "Letting you see exactly what my name is worth." As soon as she said it, she tapped a contact and made the call. The call was answered quickly. A mature woman's tired voice came through. "Ms. Wayne?" Maxwell's face changed at once. It was Laura Hayes, the chief planner for that night's charity gala. Arabella leaned against the restoration bench, her voice softening until she almost sounded like someone else. "Ms. Hayes, I hope I'm not catching you too late." Laura laughed lightly. "Now you remember me? You skipped the gala tonight and still handed me a trending headache." Arabella smiled too. "That's exactly why I'm calling." Maxwell crossed the distance in two strides and reached for her phone. Arabella was quicker. She turned sideways to avoid his hand, her eyes locked on him as she kept speaking into the phone. "The Kingston bridal jewelry set tonight was not part of any Kingston Jewelry cultural loan. "If anyone uses that line tomorrow, please help clarify it on your end so I don't have to issue a statement myself." Laura was clearly stunned. "It wasn't a loan exhibition?" "No," Arabella said evenly. "It was lent out privately. I handled the restoration, and I have the authorization form and the supervision video." The moment she said that, Maxwell's expression went completely dark. Laura knew exactly how these circles worked and understood the problem the second she heard it. Her voice dropped at once. "Ms. Wayne, are you planning to take on Kingston Group?" Arabella looked up at Maxwell, the corner of her mouth curving faintly. "I'm not the one who started this. Someone else decided my name was fair game." Maxwell stared at her, barely holding back the anger in his eyes. The moment Arabella hung up, he grabbed her wrist. "Are you finished?" Arabella glanced down at his hand, then actually smiled. "That's the third time you've asked me that tonight. Maxwell, do you know how to do anything besides grab my wrist?" His temple pulsed. "Are you really taking this outside the family?" "Your family took the bridal jewelry set outside first." "I'm talking about the industry." "Even better." Arabella lifted her eyes to him. "Isn't reputation what the Kingston family cares about most?" Her eyes were still red, but her expression was sharp and alive. Maxwell stared at her, his breathing suddenly heavier. For the first time that night, he realized Arabella wasn't lashing out blindly. She knew exactly where to strike, and every move hit him and the Kingston family where it hurt. The accuracy of her attack only made him more irritated, as if she were dragging him off balance one word at a time. Maxwell's grip tightened slightly, and his voice turned hoarse. "Give me the phone." Arabella lifted the phone right in front of his eyes and gave it a small shake. "Go ahead. Take it from me." Maxwell stared at her. There was a spark of defiance in her eyes, just like before she married him. Back then, she had stood in the Kingston restoration room with a chipped vintage locket in her hand and looked at him the same way. At the time, he had thought Arabella looked gentle, but there was nothing weak about her. After three years of marriage, he had almost forgotten she had always been this way. Those edges had never disappeared. She had only kept them hidden. Maxwell's jaw tightened, but in the end, he let go. Arabella looked at him and suddenly felt there was no point in arguing anymore. He was always like this. The uglier things got, the more he shut down. He wouldn't explain, wouldn't admit he was wrong, and wouldn't let anyone else have the last word. The smile on Arabella's face faded a little. "What, you can't take it anymore?" Maxwell looked at her, his voice very low. "Arabella, if you really drag this out into the open, it won't do you any good either." "Who says it won't?" she asked. "At least I'll feel better." Maxwell stared at her, his voice turning cold. "Do you think I've let you go this far because I can't do anything to you?" Brooke went rigid the second she heard that. Maxwell had just said the worst possible thing. Arabella's eyes went cold at once. "Do anything to me?" She slowly nodded. "Maxwell, there it is. You finally said the quiet part out loud. Isn't that what you've thought all along? "When I speak up, you shut me down. When I leave, you stop me. Now that I'm exposing the Kingston family, you're ready to come after me." Maxwell frowned. "That's not what I meant." "It is," Arabella cut him off, her voice quiet but steady. "Maxwell, from the beginning, you were never trying to solve the problem. You were trying to solve me." Maxwell's expression shifted at that. Arabella stared at him. The emotion in her reddened eyes slowly drained away until only cold calm remained. She suddenly didn't want to waste another word on him. She turned and dialed a second number. This time, Maxwell stepped forward for real and reached for the phone. Arabella lifted the phone out of his reach, grabbed a steel ruler from the bench with her other hand, and held it between them. "Don't touch my phone." Maxwell stopped short. The steel ruler wasn't sharp, but Arabella's grip was steady. She wasn't bluffing. Watching from the sidelines, Brooke felt her heart nearly jump out of her chest. Arabella didn't look at him. She spoke directly into the phone. "Mr. Parker, it's Arabella Wayne." The person on the other end was Ryan Parker, the editor-in-chief of the jewelry industry magazine Lumen Arcana. Maxwell's face darkened even further. He finally understood that Arabella wasn't bluffing. She really meant to drag this into the jewelry industry. Ryan laughed almost immediately. "Ms. Wayne? I was just about to contact you. The bridal jewelry set Kingston Group showed tonight—" "It wasn't a loan exhibition," Arabella cut in. "If Kingston Group doesn't withdraw that line before tomorrow morning, I'll send you the restoration drafts and authorization record. You can start thinking about the headline." She paused, then raised her eyes to Maxwell and spoke each word clearly. "Something like: Who Really Borrowed the Kingston Bridal Jewelry Set?" Ryan fell silent for a moment as the significance of her words sank in. Then he let out a soft breath, excitement unmistakable in his voice. "Ms. Wayne, you're handing me a major story." Arabella's voice stayed calm. "Kingston Group handed it over first." After she hung up, the workshop went completely quiet. Maxwell stared at her, something dangerous settling in his eyes. "Arabella." Arabella looked at him and suddenly felt tired. "What else do you want to say?" Maxwell's lips moved. In the end, he still said the one thing he shouldn't have. "Don't regret this." Arabella froze for a moment. Then, for the first time, she let out a real laugh. "Regret what?" She looked at him, a faint mockery finally surfacing in her eyes. "Regret restoring that bridal jewelry set too beautifully three months ago? Or regret marrying you three years ago?" Maxwell's face stiffened at once. Arabella stared at him and slowly placed the steel ruler back on the restoration bench. Her voice softened. "Maxwell, your biggest problem tonight isn't lending out the bridal jewelry set. It isn't even trying to erase my credit. "It's that even now, you still think I'll regret fighting back." She turned, walked to the door, and pulled it open. "Get out." Maxwell didn't move. Arabella gave a small nod. "Fine." She reached for the breaker switch on the wall. "If you won't leave, I'll turn off the lights and call the police. I can tell them the CEO of Kingston Group broke into my workshop in the middle of the night." Maxwell stared at her, the anger in his eyes finally breaking through. A few seconds later, his mouth twisted as if she had actually made him laugh. "Arabella, you've really got nerve." Arabella nodded. "So do you." He looked at her for two seconds before finally turning toward the door. When he reached the doorway, he stopped without looking back. "Close that door on me tonight, and don't come begging later." Arabella had heard that tone too many times before. Cold, proud, always above her, as if she would be the one to come back first. She didn't so much as lift an eyelid. "Don't worry. You can learn how to beg first." Maxwell walked out, and the door shut behind him with a thud. Brooke held her breath until Maxwell was gone, then finally dared to let it out. "Arabella." Arabella didn't answer. She stood by the door with one hand still on the knob, unmoving for a long time. Brooke carefully moved closer, but before she could say anything, her phone buzzed. It was a Twitter notification from an account she had alerts on. Brooke looked down, and her expression changed at once. "Arabella. That woman... she posted something." Arabella slowly turned her head. "What did she post?" Brooke handed her the phone, her throat tight. On the screen was a new photo. Backstage at the gala, the woman was lowering her head as she adjusted the bridal diamond tiara. The warm lighting made the photo look like a movie still. The caption was only one sentence: [Thank you, Mr. Kingston, and thank you to the Kingston family for letting me be part of something so special.] Arabella stared at the line, her eyes narrowing. A few seconds later, she suddenly laughed. "Great. I hadn't even gone looking for her, and she came to me first."

I took the worst-paid, worst-idea job on the island to pay off the debt my ex left me — and accidentally found the best life I've ever had. 🔥 The listing said "caretaker for exotic creatures." It didn't mention that behind seven sealed doors live seven monsters — and not one of them is interested in my heart, only in ruining me for anything human. 😳 The one who breathes underwater keeps me under till I forget my own name. The one with tentacles never runs out of hands. No strings. No feelings. No man asking how I feel in the morning. Just the best s*x of my life, on repeat, each one wilder than the last. 🐙 I came here broken, swearing off love forever. I never said anything about monsters. 💋 The only problem? What I signed up for goes far deeper than I ever read — and the price is one I never agreed to pay. 🤫 ——————————————————— Chapter 1 — Crystal's POV Position: [not specified]. Location: Saint-Barthélemy, on-site housing provided. Compensation: €4,500/month. Start date: immediate. Requirements: female, single, good health, experience with caregiving preferred. Good fertility. Nature of work: daily care and interaction with exotic creatures. Interested applicants reply to this address only. I'd found it buried in a local forum between an ad for a retired fisherman's boat and someone selling homemade coconut oil, and I'd screenshot it before it could disappear, the way things on that forum tended to do. I read it for the fourth time, and it didn't get any less suspicious. The waiting room was trying hard to impress. White leather chairs, a marble coffee table, and a massive aerial photograph of Saint-Barthélemy's coastline. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. Checked my phone, read the listing again. "Weird listing, right?" The woman two chairs over was watching me. Mid-thirties, tanned, the kind of sun-bleached hair that came from actually living near the ocean She nodded at my phone. "No company name, no job title. Just 'exotic creatures' and a salary that's too good to be real." "We might be considered crazy for coming here." "Honey, half the island applied. That money?" She whistled low. "I've got two kids and an ex who thinks child support is optional. I'd scrub dragon cages for that number." I almost laughed. But before I could open my mouth, the door at the end of the room opened, and a voice cut through. "Crystal Le Grand?" I put my phone away so fast I nearly dropped it. The woman who stepped through was the kind of beautiful that made you immediately aware of every flaw on your own face. Her badge was saying ‘Anaïs’. Tall, dark hair pulled into something effortlessly perfect, sharp cheekbones. She looked like she belonged on the cover of Vogue. "That's me." I stood and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you. I love your shoes, are those…" "Follow me, please." Anaïs turned on those shoes I wasn't allowed to compliment and walked back through the door. I followed, hand still half-raised, smile dying on my face. She was the assistant to the facility's owner, and she had the interpersonal warmth of a tax audit. She led me to a small office, gestured to a chair, and opened a folder without looking at me once. "I see here you were previously married. Is that correct?" "Correct." I smiled tightly. ‘Best’ decision I never made. I was twenty-one and stupid and in love, and he had a smile that made me forget nobody had ever taken care of me without a price tag. "And your current relationship status?" "And your current relationship status?" "Single. Very, very single. The marriage was annulled, so technically I was never even married. Fun little legal detail." My now ex-husband vanished and left a stack of credit card statements with my name on them. Debts I didn't know existed, signatures I stupidly signed without looking. Now I understood why he'd been in such a rush to walk me down the aisle. Not in the name of love, but because he couldn’t wait to max out credit cards in his wife's name. Anaïs wrote something without looking up. The pen moved in short, precise strokes. Her nails were clean and unpolished, trimmed to exactly the same length. "Your credit history shows some irregularities. Can you explain?" "Student loans. You know how it is." I laughed. Anaïs didn't. Everything about this woman was controlled — posture, breathing, the way she held her face like a mask. Student loans my ass. I've got about four weeks of savings, a mountain of debt, and a disabled brother whose care I help pay for. "Menstrual cycle. Regular or irregular?" I blinked. "Regular, but that's kind of a…" "Clothing size?" "Eight. Sometimes ten if it's European sizing, which, honestly, always feels like a personal attack." "Professional experience?" "Nursing. Two years at Hôpital de Bruyn before I took a break." Before my fiancé convinced me to quit. "I'll take care of us, baby. You deserve better than nightshifts and bedpans." Turns out what he meant was he'd strip away every safety net I had, then vanish. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel — he's disabled. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No one." Anaïs's pen stopped moving. She looked at me and something shifted across her features. Quick, controlled, barely there. Surprise and something sharper underneath it, almost like satisfaction. Then it vanished, and she was writing again. "Do you have family or close contacts on the island? Anyone you speak with regularly?" "My mother, on the mainland. She takes care of my brother Lionel. I call her every few days, send money when I can. Here on the island? No. Caleb was my whole social life, which, again, is a red flag. I'm seeing all the red flags now." Anaïs closed the folder, excused herself, and returned two minutes later with him. Albert Bernard, the owner of this company, walked into the room. Tall, obscenely handsome, the kind of man whose jaw looked sculpted rather than grown. He shook my hand with both of his and smiled like we were already old friends. "Crystal! Anaïs tells me you're perfect." "She… Really? She didn't seem…" "Wonderful! Tell me about your sex life." I choked on nothing. "My what?" "Your sex life. Active, dormant, somewhere in between?" He leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. "I ask because I want you to be comfortable. Some of the work here is intimate in nature: not sexual, but physical, close-contact, and I need to know your boundaries won't make you a liability." I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Albert tilted his head like a man watching a fish try to climb a tree. "I'll go first, since you look like you might swallow your own tongue. I'm bisexual, and the last person I was with told me I had the emotional availability of a desk lamp. Your turn." Surprisingly, It worked. Something about his absurd candor cracked the seal. I was still stiff when I found myself talking: "Dormant. Dead, actually. My ex killed any interest I had in men, and honestly, at this point the only physical contact I want is the kind where nobody asks how I'm feeling afterward." Albert listened with his chin on his fist and nodded like everything I said was fascinating. The contract was three pages. I should have read every word. I read the salary line, the housing clause, and the duration — twelve months, renewable — and I signed. Albert clapped his hands together. "Anaïs, transport! We leave now." “H-Hold on, what?” “Why wait? You’re gonna have so much fun there!” Anaïs stood, and as she passed Albert's chair, his hand swung out and slapped her across the ass — casual, proprietary, the sound sharp in the small room. She didn't flinch, didn't react at all. Just kept walking. I stared. My mouth opened, closed. Two attractive adults, I told myself. Clearly a thing between them. Who am I to judge? God knows I wouldn't mind someone who looked like either of them doing that to me. I tried to forget the look on the other candidates' faces when Albert enthusiastically told them to leave because the position was closed. Outside, a black SUV waited with the engine running. Anaïs took the wheel without a word; Albert held the rear door open for me with a little bow that was either gentlemanly or mocking, hard to tell with him. I climbed in, and the leather seats were cool against my thighs. Nobody spoke. Anaïs drove like she'd made this trip a hundred times, eyes fixed ahead, and Albert scrolled through his phone beside me. The drive took us to the island's far eastern edge, where the roads narrowed to dirt and the vegetation thickened until the ocean disappeared behind a wall of green. The facility sat at the end of a gravel path — low concrete, no signage, built like something designed not to be found. Inside, the air was cooler and carried a strange undercurrent, something organic and faintly mineral, like wet stone in a cave. Albert walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide. "Your schedule will be straightforward — feeding rounds three times a day, health checks once in the morning, and the rest of the time is yours to spend with the residents. Think of it as..." I was trying to listen, I really was, but then we passed a corridor junction and I saw the monitor. A security screen mounted high on the wall, showing a dark chamber in grainy night vision. Something massive was moving inside: too many limbs, too fluid, and a thick muscular appendage uncurling against the reinforced glass, ridged suckers pressing flat against the surface. My vision tilted. The corridor stretched and compressed, fluorescent lights bleeding into long white smears. My knees folded, and the last thing I registered before the dark swallowed everything was the cold of the concrete floor against my cheek. ——————————————————— What happens when she stops wanting to leave? 🫣 Read Monstrously Yours Now! 🐙🔥