—Livana—
The grand ballroom of the Hyatt shimmered under the glow of crystal chandeliers, the air thick with the clinking of champagne flutes and the murmur of wealthy socialites exchanging hollow pleasantries. I stood at the entrance, my black maxi dress cascading like liquid shadow, a stark contrast to the sea of pastels and gold surrounding me. A black lace headdress veiled my silver-blonde hair—my silent rebellion against this farce of a celebration.
Tonight marked the third anniversary of my father's marriage to his second wife, my aunt.
My mother had barely been cold in her grave before he replaced her with her own sister. And my cousin, Carrie, had seamlessly transitioned from family to stepsister, her sycophantic smiles and calculated charm earning her the role of the golden child. They had expected my mother's empire to fall into their laps, but fate had other plans.
At seventeen, I had inherited everything.
The company, the fortune, the power—all legally mine the moment I turned eighteen. Until then, my beloved aunt played CEO, her greedy fingers tightening around what she believed would soon be hers.
But I wasn't a fool.
I had known about their affair since childhood. The memory of stumbling upon them in my father's study at ten years old still burned behind my eyelids—my mother was too absorbed in her work to notice the betrayal festering under her own roof.
A familiar voice cut through my thoughts.
"Livana."
Richard Knox, my fiancé in name only, approached with that practiced smirk, his hand already reaching to pull me into a kiss. I shoved his face away, my lip curling in disgust.
"Must you?" I snapped. "I can smell three different perfumes on you. Save your theatrics for your other playthings."
His jaw tightened, but before he could retort, I turned on my heel and strode toward the center of the room. All eyes followed me—some curious, others wary. My rare violet eyes, a genetic anomaly that marked me as different, always drew attention. A curse disguised as beauty.
"Congratulations," I purred, pressing a cold kiss to my father's cheek before turning to my aunt. "Or should I say… long overdue?"
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
"Livana," my father warned through gritted teeth.
I leaned in, my voice a venomous whisper only she could hear. "Tell me, Auntie, did you always enjoy playing mistress while my mother was alive? Or was it only after her death that you stopped pretending?"
Her face paled. Carrie, standing beside her, stiffened, her fingers tightening around her champagne flute.
I pulled away with a smile and retreated to my grandparents, the only people in this vipers' den who still looked at me with warmth. But even that wouldn't last.
The party dragged on, a parade of sycophants and social climbers feigning interest in me—though their gazes always lingered a second too long on my eyes. When the charade became unbearable, I slipped away to the bar.
"So, even here, you steal the spotlight."
I turned to see Laura, my sister, smirking as she sipped her drink. She, too, wore black—a silent act of solidarity.
"Damon Blackwell's hosting a party in the other hall," she mused. "Probably more entertaining than this funeral."
I scoffed. "I'd rather swallow glass than associate with that lunatic."
Damon Blackwell—the boy who'd tormented me throughout school, tugging my hair, shoving me into pools, yet losing his mind when anyone else dared insult me. A walking contradiction. A dangerous one.
Carrie appeared beside me, her saccharine smile in place. "I didn't expect you to come. You've been gone for years."
"And yet, you still haven't graduated?" I shot back, nodding to the bartender for another drink.
She bristled but hid it behind a laugh. Richard chose that moment to slither up beside me, his arm snaking around my waist.
"You should've told me you were coming," he murmured, lips brushing my temple.
I shoved him off. "Last I checked, arranged marriages don't require updates."
He chuckled, undeterred. "We've been destined since childhood."
"Destined for mutual misery, maybe."
I downed my drink—then froze.
The ice hadn't floated. A fine white powder clung to the bottom of the glass.
Rohypnol.
My gaze snapped to the bartender, memorizing his face, before the first wave of dizziness hit. Heat crawled under my skin, my vision blurring at the edges.
"Livana?" Richard's voice sounded distant.
I shoved past him, stumbling toward the elevators. Carrie's arm hooked around mine, her grip deceptively supportive.
"Let me help you," she cooed.
I wrenched free, but my legs betrayed me. The elevator doors opened, and three men stepped in after me, leering. They didn't press the floor.
One reached out, fingers digging into my arm. "Relax, sweetheart. We'll take care of you."
I opened my mouth to scream—
Then the doors slid open again.
A fist collided with the first man's nose, sending him crashing into the wall. The others barely had time to react before he was on them—Damon Blackwell, grinning like a devil as he dismantled them with brutal precision.
Oddly, I found myself savoring his brutality. He gazed up at me, blood smeared across his shirt and hands, yet he knew exactly when to stop. As I stepped closer, his fingers grazed my chin, tilting my face toward his.
"You're drugged, sweetheart. Do you even realize that?" His voice was low, almost amused.
"Hmm," I tilted my head, my thoughts hazy but my recognition sharp. The man in front of me was no stranger—my tormentor, my rival, the one who set my pulse racing even in the midst of chaos.
"So, this little trap was set up by your step-sister… slash cousin?" He chuckled darkly, backing me into the corner.
"Why?" I arched a brow, my smirk deliberate. "Are you going to finish what they started?"
His grip tightened, pulling me closer as his lips brushed my ear. "Only if you beg for it, Princess."
---
Damon
I woke up with an arm slung over something warm—
Except it wasn't Livana. It was a pillow.
And on it sat a thick stack of cash.
I bolted upright, the hangover slamming into me like a freight train. The room was empty. No trace of her except the money and a single note.
Fuck.
I barely had time to throw on a robe before I heard a scream outside.
Livana was on the ground, clawing at her face, a masked figure sprinting away with a can of pepper spray dangling from their hand.
"Livana!" Laura's shriek pierced the air.
I didn't think—just grabbed her, hauled her into the bathroom, and shoved her under the cold tap. She thrashed, sobbing, her skin already blistering.
"Keep the water running!" I barked at Laura before snatching the cash and yanking on my clothes.
By the time I carried Livana out—wrapped in a towel, her breathing shallow—the hallway was a battlefield.
Richard Knox lunged at me. "Who the hell are you to touch her?!"
I shoulder-checked him into the wall. "Move, or I'll break more than your ego."
Laura was already ahead, screaming for a car. But then Carrie appeared, blocking the exit with a saccharine smile.
"What's going on? Why is he carrying her?"
Laura snarled, shoving past. "Tell Dad to meet us at the hospital!"
Livana's body had gone limp in my arms. I pulled the towel back just enough to see her face—her eyelids swollen, her delicate skin ravaged by chemical burns.
"Liva, please—" Laura's voice cracked.
I tightened my grip, my pulse roaring in my ears.
She wasn't breathing.
"Move up front," I ordered Laura. She scrambled to the passenger seat as I laid Livana across the backseat. My hands pressed hard against her chest, pumping in relentless rhythm—CPR, again and again. Then, a gasp. A shuddering cough. Her eyes flew open, bloodshot and disoriented.
Outside, tires screeched—the car still tailing us.
"Your family's onto me now, Laura." My voice was steel.
"I'll explain everything!" she sobbed. "Just… please, get my sister to the hospital!"
I thrived on chaos, but not like this. Not with Laura and Livana caught in the crossfire. Our families were sworn enemies, but what had just happened proved something worse—there were players in the shadows.
The hospital came into view, and I didn't hesitate. Livana was in my arms before the car fully stopped, her body limping against me as I charged through the ER doors.
"Livana!" A man's voice roared—the fiancé, no doubt. He shoved me aside as the doctors swarmed her. I lingered in the shadows, handing Laura tissues while she stammered out explanations to the staff.
But then I turned away.
One night with Livana hadn't been enough. I didn't care about her engagement. I didn't care about the blood feud between our families. She was mine.
And now? Now, I had a hotel to return to, a manager to interrogate, and a bastard to find.
The hotel lobby hummed with quiet tension as I strode in—only to lock eyes with Livana's grandparents. Their gazes were Arctic, but I flashed a grin sharp enough to cut glass before turning to the receptionist.
"Fetch the manager. Now." My voice was silk over steel.
The receptionist didn't blink. "Of course, sir." Her smile stayed polished, but her fingers trembled just slightly as she reached for the phone.
Behind me, Livana's father erupted. "What the hell happened to my daughter?!" One of the family's bodyguards seemed to explain something to them. I turned my back as I faced the manager.
The manager appeared within moments—slick, nervous, already sweating. I seized his elbow and steered him into the shadows near a potted fern, crowding into his space. "Camera footage. Ninth floor. Now." My thumb brushed the edge of his tie, a mockery of courtesy. "Livana Creighton's in the hospital because someone fucked up. And I'd hate for that someone to be you."
His throat bobbed. "Y-yes, sir. We've already pulled the recordings."
Of course, they had. I smirked, casting a glance back at Livana's family. Her grandfather's knuckles whitened around his cane; her father looked ready to draw blood.
Good. Let them seethe.
Every second Livana wasn't in my arms was a second wasted. And whoever did this? They'd learn exactly what happened when they hurt what was mine.