The shower was fucking glorious.
Steam curled around me like silk, wrapping itself around every inch of my skin as the water beat down, sharp and hot against my back. It wasn't just a shower. No, darling. This was an exorcism.
I stood there for a long, long time long enough for the walls to fog, for the mirrors to cloud over like they were afraid to watch what I was becoming.
The old me? She died in this penthouse. Bleeding out on cold marble floors, betrayed and stupid and small.
This me?
I was born in this shower.
I let the water hit me until the ghost of her washed right off, circling the drain with the suds and sweat and blood that lived somewhere in my memory.
My hands ran over my body like I was checking for cracks. For scars. For proof that I had died.
There were none.
I tilted my head back, letting the spray burn against my throat, and I smiled.
They thought they broke me.
Liam.
Isla.
Camilla.
The fucking trio of traitors.
But what they really did?
They made me dangerous.
I stepped out of the shower slowly, deliberately. Water slid down my skin like liquid diamonds. The air in the bathroom was thick, sticky, decadent.
And in that mirror, behind the steam?
I caught my reflection.
I looked like a fucking goddess.
Skin flushed. Eyes sharp. Hair wet and wild.
And underneath all that?
Something lethal.
A storm in a silk robe.
I stood there for a second longer, staring at my reflection through the fogged mirror as I slowly wiped a circle into the fog with my hand, leaning in close with a smirk sharpened like a blade on my face.
"Good morning, sexy," I whispered to myself, voice husky, eyes gleaming like I'd swallowed the devil himself.
And then?
Showtime.
The bathroom smelled like jasmine and expensive soap, the kind of scent you couldn't fake or buy on sale. Only the real rich bitches knew this smell it smelled like money, and blood, and lawsuits you wouldn't win.
I walked out of the bathroom naked, dripping water across the polished floor like a trail of breadcrumbs to hell.
I took my time.
Skincare first.
I massaged the moisturizer into my face like I was painting armor onto my skin. Every stroke deliberate. Every dab under my eyes a middle finger to Liam and his pathetic little lies.
Serum. Moisturizer. Eye cream. SPF. Because even villains don't skip SPF, darling.
Then came the hair.
I dried it slow, section by section, until it fell in effortless waves down my back the kind of hair that looked like I just stepped off a fucking yacht, even though I hadn't stepped outside yet.
Makeup?
A fucking masterpiece.
Brows sharp enough to slice.
Cheekbones carved like a weapon.
And the lips? Oh, baby. Blood red.
Not the soft, romantic kind.
The kind of red that said:
I'll fuck you up and make you say thank you.
Then came the closet.
Floor-to-ceiling glass.
Silk. Leather. Power.
I ran my fingers across the fabric like I was selecting a weapon, because, let's be clear I was.
Today wasn't for love.
It wasn't for Liam.
It wasn't for the people who smiled in my face while stabbing me in the back.
Today was for me.
For the bitch in the mirror.
I pulled out a black silk slip dress thin straps, thigh-high slit, scandalous neckline. It looked delicate. Feminine.
A distraction.
Because I knew how men thought when they saw silk sliding over bare skin.
They didn't notice the dagger behind the smile.
I threw a tailored, bone-white blazer over it. Sharp shoulders. Nipped waist.
Power.
A pair of thin, gold stilettos the kind you could hear echoing across a marble floor like a warning shot.
Diamond studs. A watch that cost more than this penthouse. Hair falling wild and soft, makeup devastating.
I stood in front of the mirror and took it all in.
There she was.
Not naive, not stupid, not an idiot and definitely not the bleeding girl on the marble floor.
Noo...not again.
Instead I became... The villain.The bitch. The queen.
I ran a hand down my waist, eyes lingering on the way the silk hugged every dangerous curve, and let out a low whistle.
"Damn," I breathed, lips curling into a grin so wicked it should've come with a warning label.
"I look sexy."
And I did.
Sexy, powerful, dangerous.
The kind of sexy that made men sell their souls and not even realize it until they were already burning.
I turned away from the mirror, slipping my phone and lipstick into a slim, crocodile leather clutch.
It was time for Act One.
The apartment was silent, floors polished to perfection, the morning sunlight bleeding in through floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid gold.
I heard him before I saw him.
The faint sound of cutlery. Coffee being poured. Papers being shuffled.
My snake of a husband.
I stepped into the kitchen, heels clicking deliberately against the marble each step a metronome counting down to his destruction.
Liam was standing at the island, dark hair tousled just enough to look effortless, crisp shirt rolled at the sleeves like he hadn't spent the night fucking his best friend's wife.
Correction: my best friend. Hehe
He was reading the paper like he actually gave a shit about the world, a steaming espresso beside him, plate of avocado toast untouched.
Classic Liam. Always pretending to be the picture-perfect billionaire husband.
His head lifted when he heard my heels.
And for a second just a second he froze.
His eyes swept over me.
From the red lip, to the silk dress, to the razor-sharp blazer that screamed I'll ruin your life and invoice you after.
I watched his jaw clench. His gaze dragged over me like he didn't know whether to fuck me or run.
"Morning, sweetheart," he greeted smoothly, voice dipped in that fake-ass warmth he always used when he thought I was too dumb to notice.
I smiled sweetly.
Calculated. Deadly.
"Morning, darling," I purred, walking past him toward the coffee machine like I hadn't just caught him mentally undressing me.
His eyes followed me.
Men always stare when they're confused.
I poured myself a cup, every movement deliberate. Slow. Controlled.
"Going somewhere?" he asked casually, folding the paper, pretending he wasn't staring like I'd grown a second head.
I took a sip before answering, letting the silence stretch too long.
Finally, I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his gaze.
"Why? You wanna know my schedule now?" I smiled, coy and honey-sweet. "Cute."
He blinked.
The hell?
That's right, Liam.
Something feels off, doesn't it?
I leaned against the counter, crossing my legs elegantly, letting the silk ride up just enough to make his jaw tighten.
"I'm heading to the office," I said lightly. "A few things to handle. You know… about the company."
His brows pulled together just a fraction.
We both knew I never used to step foot in the company.
The old Valeria stayed out of boardrooms and balance sheets.
She stayed pretty and quiet and obedient.
But this Valeria?
She was already setting traps.
Liam cleared his throat, trying to shake it off. "You're looking… different this morning."
I tilted my head, pretending to think.
Then I gave him a smile that could cut glass.
"Do I?" I asked sweetly.
"Maybe I finally realized red lipstick looks better when I'm not kissing anyone's ass."
His jaw twitched.
I took another sip, watching him over the rim of my cup.
And then just to twist the knife I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a soft, intimate whisper.
"You should eat your breakfast, Liam. It's the only thing left in this house that won't betray you."
His eyes snapped to mine.
But I was already walking away, heels clicking, hips swaying like a metronome counting down the seconds to his downfall.
I didn't look back.
I didn't need to.
Why?
Because I knew Liam Whitmore was watching me walk away, and for the first time in his miserable life…
He wasn't sure who the fuck I was anymore.
Good.
I made my way down the marble hallway of our penthouse, the soft click of my stilettos echoing like gunshots in the silence.
The elevator doors slid open the moment I reached them timed, precise, just like everything in my life used to be.
Funny... because actually it's not going to be as it Used To Be.
The elevator slid shut behind me, and I caught my reflection in the polished gold doors. I exhaled... fucking excited.
A vision in silk, red lips curling like sin itself.
I tilted my head, smiling at my own reflection admiring God's damn creation.
"I look hot" I don't know how many times I must have said it today but I'm gonna keep saying it.
When the elevator dinged open at the lobby, the staff barely hid their stares.
"Good morning, Mrs. Whitmore," one of the doormen greeted, voice smooth, respectful, and slightly nervous.
Whitmore...that's something I need to change but for now I'm still playing my chess.
"Morning, darling," I replied sweetly, offering a smile sharp enough to slit throats.
Eyes followed me as I walked across the lobby, the light catching on my diamonds, the hem of my silk dress swaying like a siren's call.
And why wouldn't they stare?
I looked like money, and sin, and a very expensive disaster waiting to happen...which indeed is true.
One of the valets rushed to open the front doors for me, but I stopped, turning slightly toward the concierge.
"Have the garage bring me the black Aston Martin," I said casually, like I wasn't asking for a car that cost more than most people's homes.
The concierge blinked, startled. "Your driver..."
"Is off today," I cut in, smiling wide. "I feel like driving."
Because why the fuck not?
If I was going to rewrite the story, I was going to enjoy the ride.
Five minutes later, the sleek black machine purred to a stop in front of me, the valet holding out the keys like I was royalty which, to be fair, I was.
"Thank you," I murmured, sliding on my oversized black shades and taking the keys between my manicured fingers.
As I slid behind the wheel, the leather seats hugged me like an old lover.
The engine roared to life beneath my fingers a sound so smooth, so powerful, it felt like a fucking war drum.
I pulled out of the driveway, one hand lazily resting on the wheel, the other adjusting my sunglasses.
And right there, in that moment, as the city unfurled before me like a glittering playground, it hit me.
This was mine.
All of it.
Every street. Every building. Every person who ever dared to underestimate me.
I wasn't just alive.
I was back. So thank you spirit For A Second Chance At Revenge.
And trust me I have no intent on playing a fair game.
A wicked smile pulled at my lips as I merged onto the boulevard, slicing through traffic like I owned the fucking city.
And I was going to make sure every single person who tried to burn me…
burned first.
Karma wasn't some invisible, cosmic force.
No, darling.
Karma had a name. A penthouse. A billion-dollar empire. And a new shade of red lipstick.
Her name was Valeria Devereaux.
And she was a wicked, sexy, calculated bitch.
And God, I fucking loved it.