Roselle's POV
I sipped my wine slowly, the taste dry and bitter—just how I liked it. The door creaked open, and my eyes narrowed as she stepped in. Abigail Bardot. Draped in designer elegance and high heels that clicked like hollow confidence.
She tried to hold her head high, but her presence screamed insecurity masked in perfume and diamonds.
"Thank you, Ms. Vasilyev, for meeting me here," she said with that rehearsed smile of hers. The kind meant for press conferences and red carpets. Not for me.
I didn't smile back. Just leaned forward slightly, resting my chin on my hand.
"No need to mention it, but I'm more curious—why would someone like you want to do business with a Mafia Queen like me? More so… with the very woman responsible for making you a widow?"
Her expression shifted. Dark. Calculated. But not broken.
She didn't deny it.
It almost made me laugh. She hated the original Samuel, sure—but she never once knew the truth behind why he left her. Why he walked out of her miserable life.
Mark. That snake. He invested in Bardot Industries with one condition: Samuel had to cut all ties with her. Never tell her the truth. Let her think he abandoned her when she needed him most.
And Samuel… poor fool… he believed in her. In her. He thought it was love. Thought he was doing what was best for her future.
And she repaid that trust by dragging men into her marital bed and screwing them while Samuel stood there. Watching. Breaking.
Now, she stood before me, trying to play victim.
"It was his fault," she said coldly, "for leaving me when I was at my lowest."
I tilted my head. The audacity.
"That's why you started cheating on him? Bringing men into your bed while he was still your husband?"
Her eyes flickered. Offended? Embarrassed? I couldn't tell. Nor did I care.
I stood up, circling her slowly like a lioness watching a pathetic prey.
"You didn't just betray him. You destroyed him. Mentally, emotionally. That's why he became what he is now. A storm. A monster. A demon who almost destroyed me. And you... you lit the spark."
She tried to maintain her composure, but I pressed harder.
"Tell me, Abigail… did you sleep with countless men in your marital bed? Did you moan louder just to make him break a little more inside?"
-------
She flinched.
Good.
I walked back to my desk, sipping from my glass once more.
"You think you're here to make a deal? No, sweetheart. You're here because I let you be. And now, I want to see how far you'll go. How deep you'll fall. I'm not here to ruin you."
I smiled faintly.
"You're already doing that just fine on your own."
The silence after my words was thick—delicious, even. I could almost hear Abigail's perfectly applied mask beginning to crack. Her eyes faltered for a second, but she tried to hide it behind that polished posture.
Good.
I sat down slowly, crossing one leg over the other.
"Come on, Ms. Bardot. You came all the way here. I assume you expected me to bring this up. Or were you hoping I wouldn't?"
Her fingers clenched into the fabric of her dress, jaw tightening.
"I was abandoned," she muttered, voice cold, trying to stay composed. "He left me without a word, without an explanation, when everything was falling apart. I lost my family's legacy, my reputation, my money—and he just… vanished."
I raised a brow, swirling the wine in my glass.
"So that justifies dragging men into your marital bed?" I asked smoothly.
"Was that grief… or revenge?"
Her lips pressed into a line.
"You think I was supposed to sit there and rot while he walked away?" she snapped. "I rebuilt everything from the ground up. Bardot Industries became what it is now because I fought for it. No one helped me—not him, not anyone."
She was getting defensive now. That was good. It meant she still felt something.
"But how many?" I asked, my voice low. Calm. Cutting.
"How many men did you bring into that bed, Abigail? Was it one? Five? Ten? How many times did you try to drown that bitterness by proving you could replace him?"
She glared at me, her blue eyes now sharp and venomous. But she didn't answer.
Silence.
That's all I needed.
I smirked.
"Thought so."
Her voice finally came, quiet but bitter.
"He left me. He made his choice. I stopped caring after that."
I leaned forward on my elbows, looking her dead in the eyes.
"No, you didn't. You cared too much. Enough to punish a man who couldn't even defend himself. And now? You're here. Talking to the woman who nearly died by his hands—not because he hated me… but because of what you turned him into."
She stood up, shaking. Whether it was rage or shame—I couldn't tell. Probably both.
But she still didn't know.
She didn't know the truth.
She didn't know Samuel never truly left her by choice.
She didn't know he's not dead.
And I wasn't about to tell her.
No… I want to see it unravel. Piece by piece. I want to see how far she falls when the truth finally burns everything she built.
"This meeting's over," she said, turning toward the door.
"Of course," I said, sipping my wine with a smirk.
"But next time… don't wear red. It doesn't suit the blood on your hands."
As the door shut behind her, I leaned back and whispered to myself:
"Let's see what happens when ghosts start walking again, Ms. Bardot."