"If we're going to play this game, we both better know the rules. And I don't play fair."
The engagement announcement was barely two days old, but the coldness between them had already turned into something sharper. Something deadly.
Samantha stood at the giant bay window of the penthouse Maxwell had moved her into—a pristine, soulless space that smelled like polished glass and expensive silence. Her eyes scanned the skyline of Lagos as if it could offer her answers. Or a way out.
The diamond on her finger sparkled mockingly under the morning sun. It wasn't love. It wasn't a fairy tale. It was war dressed up in white gold and designer lace.
She hated it.
And yet, here she was—playing along.
"New rules," Maxwell had said the night before, standing across the room like a CEO delivering company policy, "You can stay here. You'll attend every business event with me. You'll smile when the cameras flash. But you'll obey the boundaries I set."
"Obey?" she had repeated, almost laughing. "You're marrying me, not adopting a puppy."
"No, Samantha. I'm saving your life. And in return, you'll play your part."
"Saving it or controlling it?"
"Same thing right now."
Now, standing in the stillness of the penthouse, she replayed every word. Every cold glance. Every veiled threat disguised as protection.
She didn't care about his rules. Not really. But she had to play along until she figured out what game he was really playing—and how to win it.
She turned from the window and walked toward the closet, pulling out a leather jacket and a pair of black boots. If she was going to be part of this illusion, she'd do it on her terms.
The old Samantha wasn't dead. She was just hiding in the shadows. Waiting.
Later that afternoon, the silence broke with the sound of stilettos against marble. Maxwell had just walked in, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He looked tired. Or annoyed. She couldn't tell the difference anymore.
"You missed brunch," he said.
"Didn't feel like playing Barbie today," she replied without looking up.
"You're going to have to get used to it."
She turned to face him, arms crossed. "Used to what? Being your puppet?"
He dropped his keys on the glass table. "Being seen. Being talked about. Being relevant—for both our sakes."
She moved closer, close enough to smell his cologne. "Let me ask you something, Maxwell. What do you get from this? Aside from the press coverage and a little arm candy."
His jaw tightened. "I get stability. Control. And a shield from people who want more than I'm willing to give."
"Ah," she nodded. "So I'm your human PR campaign."
"Exactly."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Then let's make something clear: I'm nobody's campaign. I'm not your asset. And I sure as hell don't belong to you."
Maxwell looked at her for a long moment. Then, with a cruel twist of his mouth, he said, "Then don't belong. But stay in line. Or I'll remind you what happens when you step out of it."
That night, Samantha couldn't sleep.
Every breath in that apartment felt like a chain around her neck. She opened the window, letting the cool air wash over her face. Far below, the city buzzed with life. A freedom she wasn't allowed to touch.
She slipped out.
No security.
No cameras.
No Maxwell.
Just her, the night, and the streets that remembered her better than any man ever could.
An hour later, the warehouse lit up with the familiar chaos of underground racing. Engines roared. Smoke curled into the air. Money exchanged hands faster than cards in a poker game.
Samantha pulled up in her old ride—Matte black, modified for speed, quiet as a whisper and lethal as a blade. It was more than a car. It was her identity.
Someone spotted her and whistled low. "No way. The Ice Queen's back?"
"Thought you were retired, girl!" someone else shouted.
She smirked. "You know me. I never really leave."
Cheers erupted. But beneath the noise, Samantha noticed the shift in energy. Eyes watching her too long. Faces she didn't recognize. And Razor's boys lurking in the far corner like shadows with teeth.
She shook it off.
She was here to race. To breathe. To remind herself who she was before diamonds and deals and cold-hearted CEOs.
The race was brutal. Tight corners, loose gravel, and a cocky challenger who underestimated her.
He ate her dust.
She didn't just win—she dominated. And it felt good. Too good.
But the celebration was short-lived.
As she walked back toward her car, someone grabbed her wrist. Not hard, but enough to stop her.
Razor.
He hadn't aged a day. Still the same smug grin. Still the same air of violence under his skin.
"You've got guts, princess. Coming back here like nothing's changed."
"I don't answer to you."
"No," he said slowly. "You answer to Maxwell now, don't you?"
She tensed.
"You think that man's gonna save you? You think wearing his ring makes you untouchable?" He leaned in close. "You're more exposed than ever. And I'm gonna enjoy watching you fall."
She pulled away. "Touch me again and you'll find out how wrong you are."
He laughed as she walked off. "I'm not the one you should be afraid of, sweetheart. But you'll see that soon enough."
By the time she returned to the penthouse, it was past 2 a.m.
She tiptoed in, thinking maybe she could get away with it. That Maxwell would be asleep.
He wasn't.
He was seated at the kitchen island, a glass of whiskey in his hand, and his phone on the table showing footage.
Her.
At the race.
He didn't speak for a long time. Just stared at her like he was seeing something new.
"You really think you're untouchable?" he finally said, his voice low and dangerous.
"You spying on me now?"
"I'm protecting my investment."
"I'm not your damn stock portfolio!"
"No," he said, standing up. "You're worse. You're reckless. And you're dragging your past into my world."
She stepped forward, fire in her veins. "I didn't ask to be in your world."
"And yet you are," he snapped. "So here's what's going to happen: You will not go back there. You will not race again. And you will not make me clean up your messes."
Samantha laughed bitterly. "So now I'm your mess?"
He took a step closer. "No, Samantha. You're my problem. And I'm done being polite about it."
She moved to push past him, but he blocked her path.
"Get out of my way."
"No."
"I swear, Maxwell—"
He reached into his jacket and tossed something onto the counter between them. A photo.
Her.
And Razor.
But not from tonight.
From five years ago.
In his car.
In his arms.
The caption read:
"Castillo' Queen: How Deep Did She Go With Razor Before She Got Clean?"
Her blood turned to ice.
"Where did you get this?" she whispered.
Maxwell's eyes were unreadable. "You think you're the only one who can play dirty?"