The woman I'm looking at in the mirror is not the girl who once cried her heart out in the rain.
Weak.
Shattered.
Powerless.
That Maya died the night her sister did.
I run a hand through my sleek black hair, my fingers brushing against the scar on my jawline, a reminder of the past, a symbol of everything I've lost.
My body is stronger now, refined by years of brutal training. My mind is sharper, no longer filled with grief, but focused. Controlled. Deadly.
Seven years. Seven years of discipline, strategy, and patience. Of becoming someone powerful enough to go up against the man who thought he could bury the truth and erase the past.
I pick up the white envelope on my desk, my lips curling as I trace the embossed gold lettering.
An invitation.
An exclusive gala.
The guest of honour? Governor Olushola or should I say President Olushola
How fitting.
And in those seven years, Governor Olushola didn't just hold onto his power—he expanded it. He climbed his way to the presidency, stepping over bodies and burying scandals along the way. The blood on his hands should've brought him down, but instead, it lifted him higher.
A politician to his very core. He played the people like a masterful conductor, orchestrating his rise with perfectly timed promises and staged performances. He knew when to play the hero, when to play the victim, and when to silence the opposition.
His campaign? Cunning facade. He paraded himself as the voice of the voiceless, a saviour of the nation. But I know the truth. Behind the carefully rehearsed speeches and fabricated humility is a man who built his empire on lies, corruption, and blood.
And tonight, I step into his world.
I secure the clasp of my diamond necklace, a final touch of elegance—a weapon as much as an accessory. In this world, appearances are just another battlefield, and I have mastered the art of playing whatever role I need to.
He may have fooled the world, but he hasn't fooled me.
I slip into my Louboutin heels, the sharp click on the marble floor a whispered promise of retribution. The weight of my past bears down on me, but no longer holding me back.
The silk dress clings to me like a second skin, The corset cinches my waist, crafting an hourglass silhouette that is both formidable and lethal. The plunging neckline dares to reveal just enough, a calculated balance between attraction and command.
I smooth my hands over the fabric, adjusting the fit out of habit rather than nerves. Nerves are for prey.
I've done this too many times to count.
Another gala. Another room full of men who think power belongs to them.
My reflection stares back, impassive.
This is the face they will see tonight, carefully crafted elegance, poised indifference, the smile that never quite reaches my eyes.
Diana Ivanova. Russian elite. Business mogul. Enforcer. Ghost.
The president doesn't know it yet, but his time is running out.
This is not about grief anymore.
It's about Mia.
The girl who once dreamed without fear, who had a future so bright it could have set the world on ablaze. The sister who never got the chance to live the life she deserved because one man deemed her life insignificant.
It's about Revenge.
It's about destroying everything the Governor has built, brick by bloody brick.
The night air is thick with wealth and deception.
As I step out of the sleek black car, the golden glow of chandeliers spills from the grand entrance of the grand estate hosting the gala, illuminating the sea of politicians, businessmen, and criminals disguised as philanthropists. The scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey lingers in the air, mingling with the subtle tension that only people like me can sense.
The moment I step inside, eyes turn to me. Men pause mid-conversation, their gazes lingering.
Women assess, trying to place me in the hierarchy of wealth and power.
I let them wonder.
Weaving through the crowd with the effortless grace I've mastered over the years. A mask of quiet allure and elegance.
I make my way toward the group gathered near the grand piano, men in tailored suits, and women draped in diamonds. Among them, is him. The man responsible for Mia's death. The President.
A senator approaches me first, flashing a charming grin. "You're the one everyone's been talking about," he says, offering a hand. "Diana Ivanovo, isn't it?"
Accepting his handshake with a polite smile.
"Guilty as charged."
Then, I feel it.
The shift in the air.
A predator sensing another in the room.
The president turns at the sound of my voice, his gaze settling on me with reserved intrigue. He doesn't know me, not truly. But he studies me like he should. Like something about me unsettles him
Good.
Let the unease settle in his gut, let the whispers of suspicion creep at the edges of his mind. It won't matter. By the time he figures out why, the damage will be done
Then, just as quickly, his expression smooths into a broad, practiced smile.
"If it isn't the famous Miss Ivanova," he drawls, his voice warm, inviting—too inviting. The kind of voice that has fooled a nation.
But not me.
"It's finally good to see you" I say, extending my hands my voice steeped in feigned warmth—so seamless it could almost pass for genuine.
The president clasps my hand in his, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he returns my smile, oblivious to the venom laced beneath it.
"I can't thank you enough for your donations and contributions over the years, your generosity has done wonders for this country. The schools, the hospitals your donations have changed lives." He says, his tone brimming with gratitude.
"I just believe in making my homeland a better place for the people, if I can help in any way, I will." I reply smoothly, twirling my glass of wine between my fingers. My smile is poised, effortless. The picture of grace and elegant
He studies me for a long moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "you're quite the enigma, Miss Ivanova"
You know nothing.
I tilt my head, feigning amusement. "Am I?"
"In few years you've built something remarkable, it's admirable"
There is no malice in his tone. No suspicion.
Just genuine admiration.
He doesn't see the knife hidden beneath the silk.
He doesn't realize that the woman standing before him, smiling so graciously, is the same woman who has spent years sharpening her blade in the dark, waiting for the perfect moment to drive it through his world.
He sees me as an asset
Not a threat.
I let my expression soften, playing the part perfectly. "That means a lot coming from you, sir."
He nodded. "We need more people like you. People with vision, you know you remind me of myself when I was younger," the President continued, swirling the dark amber liquid in his glass. "Strategic and ambitious you and my son are so much alike"
Son.
I wonder which one
"Oh really?" I ask feigning interest
"He's done well for himself," the President continues, unaware of the silent storm brewing inside me. "Sharp-minded. Tactical. Just like you. How I wish he didn't choose to hide himself away, he knows how to move in the shadows, how to avoid the vultures, I would have introduced you to him, you two will make a perfect match."
For a moment, the entire room fades.
The laughter, the chatter, the soft notes of the grand piano in the corner-all of it fades into a murmur.
He is talking about him.
The ghost
I let out a soft, amused hum. "Oh? But isn't your son already married?"
The shift is immediate.
His smile falters-just for a fraction of a second, but I catch it. His fingers tighten ever so slightly around his glass, his shoulders stiffening, his eyes flickering with uneasiness
He realizes his mistake.
He has slipped.
And then-
He smooths
his expression over with practiced ease, letting out a hearty chuckle as he shakes his head.
"Of course, I meant if he has not gotten married"
Liar
He's trying to bury over his slip Beneath charm and laughter, but it's too late.
In that moment, something clicks
His son wasn't just a ghost.
He was a ghost by choice.
He doesn't even realize what he's just given me
I let my smile linger, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass as if the revelation means nothing to me. As if I haven't just been handed the missing piece I never knew I needed.
"Mr. President," I murmur, tilting my head with polite detachment. "I'll see you around. I'd like to take a look around if you don't mind, sir."
His lips part slightly as if he wants to say something—perhaps rein me back in, control the narrative—but instead, he nods. "Of course. Enjoy the evening, Miss Ivanova."
I glide through the ballroom, my expression unreadable, my posture poised. Champagne glasses clink, laughter ripples through the crowd, but beneath the surface, I hear what I came for--the whispers of men who think they are untouchable.
Near the bar, two politicians whisper about a "donation". A bribe disguised as charity. A few steps away, a senator argues with a businessman over a missing shipment. Drugs? Weapons? Either way, it's leverage.
I feel the weight of a gaze, sharp and unrelenting. A strange pull tightens in my chest, a ghost of something I don't have time for something I should have buried along with my past.
Slowly, I turn.
And then I see him.
A man stands by the balcony, dressed in a sharp black suit. He's watching me, his jaw clenched, his grip on his drink a little too firm. There's something achingly familiar about his features, but it's the way he looks at me that unsettles me the most.
Then it hits me.
Tobi.
The glass nearly slips from my fingers.
No.
That's not possible.
The realization slams into me like a punch to the gut
He's not just my academic rival, not the boy who challenged Mia and me at every turn, who pushed us to be smarter, faster, sharper, better.
But him.
The one who had been there in the background, woven into the fabric of our lives in ways I never fully grasped. The boy who had studied alongside Mia and me, who had shared victories and defeats
Who had— whether he admitted it or not—cared
Pest
That was the name I gave him back then because he used to hover around Mia and me, always nearby, always watching, always there.
Whether it was in the classroom, at competitions, or during study sessions, he was a constant, a presence I had learned to tolerate, to challenge-sometimes even to rely on.
But this man I'm looking at isn't the same
I tilt my head slightly, feigning curiosity as if I'm trying to place him instead of the other way around. Then I smile. A soft, amused curve of my lips, like he's just another stranger in a room full of them.
But his eyes don't waver.
I lift my glass and take a slow sip, my mind racing beneath the surface.
Playing my part, I give him one last glance, a teasing smirk, and then turn away as if he means nothing
But I know better
Because for the first time since stepping into this world, someone has seen through the mask.
And I don't know if I'll have to kill him for it.