Isla
The slap cracks across my cheek like a gunshot.
"Isla."
Another strike. My vision swims as I force my eyes open. Fluorescent lights stab into my skull. My mouth tastes like copper.
Alex crouches over me, his fingers patting my face—fake concern dripping from every touch. His other hand holds a whiskey glass, the ice untouched. Waiting. Like he wanted me conscious for his victory toast.
Jane's voice cuts through the buzzing in my ears: "Drama queen."
I swallow bile. The nausea clings, but I shove it down. Focus.
Marble floor cold against my bare legs. Nails digging half-moons into my palms.
Alex finally takes that sip, savoring it. "Fainting? Really?" His thumb swipes my lower lip, smearing blood. "Pathetic."
Good. Let him think I'm weak.
I let my hands shake as I push upright. "Haven't… been eating since—" My voice breaks just right.
Jane rolls her eyes so hard I hear it. "Christ, you're insufferable."
My grip on my dress tightens. Not yet.
Alex's smirk deepens. He loves this. The power. The control.
And me?
I love watching him think he has any.
—
His penthouse smells like his cologne—that stupid, expensive scent I used to love.
Jane's absent tonight.
Because he wanted me alone.
Because he still thinks I'm his.
I take a tiny sip of wine, letting my lashes flutter. "Missed this."
"Did you?" His fingers trail up my thigh.
Lie. "Everything."
His ego swallows it whole.
Alex leans in, whiskey breath hot on my neck. "Jane thinks I should cut you off."
Jane's scared. Perfect.
I bite my lip. "You… wouldn't."
"Depends." His teeth graze my earlobe. "How bad do you want me?"
The rage tastes like battery acid. But I let my voice go small: "Please."
He chuckles, pulling back to admire his handiwork—me, broken. "Sign over your shares. Prove it."
My stomach drops. The last leverage I have.
But I can't refuse. Not yet.
I let a tear fall. "If I do… you'll leave me."
His pupils dilate. Got him.
"Clever girl," he murmurs, thumb wiping my cheek.
Jane's gonna hate this.
3 AM. My balcony railing digs into my palms as I dial the number.
Two rings. Then:
"Isla." Rolin's voice hasn't changed—smooth, lethal. "Was wondering when you'd call."
Two Months Later
Rolin steps through arrivals like he owns the damn airport. Sharper suit. Same smirk.
He spots me instantly.
"Butterfly." His fingers brush my waist. "Miss me?"
I don't flinch. "You're late."
His laugh is all teeth. "Had to tie up loose ends."
The car ride's silent until he turns, really looking at me. "Tell me everything."
So I do. The affair. The baby. The funeral.
When I finish, his jaw ticks. Just once.
Then: "How do you want them dead?"
No pity. No hesitation. Just blood.
I exhale. "Slow."
Rolin nods, like I've ordered coffee. Then—
"Marry me."
My foot slams the brake. "What?"
His grandmother wants heirs. I want revenge.
His smile is a knife. "Win-win."
Rolin leaned back against the car seat, eyes drifting shut like the conversation hadn't just upended everything. "You don't have to answer now," he said, voice low. "Think about it."
I stayed silent. His words sat heavy in my chest, but I kept my face blank, staring straight ahead at the road. The hum of the engine filled the space between us, thick with things neither of us would say.
When we pulled up to his penthouse, I finally spoke. "Does your family know you're back?"
His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed cold. "No."
Typical. Rolin moved through life like a shadow when he wanted to—untraceable, effortless. It was why I'd picked him for this.
He stepped out of the car and glanced back at me. "Coming in?"
I shrugged. "Sure."
Inside, the penthouse was all sharp edges and sterile elegance—like a showroom, not a home. The air smelled like lemons and some stupidly expensive cologne. Not a single thing out of place.
"What do you want?" Rolin asked, heading toward the kitchen.
"Just water."
I heard the clink of glass as he moved around. His voice floated back, casual, like this was just another night. "Housekeeper restocks everything before I land. Makes it feel like I never left."
As if we weren't standing on the edge of something neither of us could take back.
Then, without warning, it hit me.
A sob ripped out of me—ugly, raw. Another followed, then another, until I was shaking so hard I had to grip the chair to stay upright. All of it—the rage, the betrayal, the months of pretending I wasn't shattered—came pouring out in waves I couldn't stop.
Rolin was there in an instant. The water forgotten, he dropped to his knees in front of me, one hand steady on my back. "Breathe," he murmured, his thumb tracing slow circles between my shoulder blades. "Just breathe."
It wasn't okay. Nothing was. But for the first time in months, I let myself collapse into someone else's strength. His fingers slid into my hair, gentle, and then—so softly it almost didn't happen—his lips brushed the top of my head.
Just as quickly, he pulled away.
When I looked up, his expression had turned to ice. His jaw was locked, fists clenched so tight his knuckles stood out white against his skin.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was barely more than a whisper. But it sent a chill down my spine.
"How do you want them ruined, Butterfly?"
That name. The way he said it—like a threat, like a prayer.
I wiped my face, straightened my spine. And when I answered, my voice didn't waver.
"I want them destroyed."