The morning light filtered gently into the room, dancing across the sheets as Emily stirred beneath them. Her pale grey eyes, once dull with exhaustion, caught the sharp glint of sunlight slicing through the curtains. She blinked once, slowly, before rising to her feet and adjusting the edges of the linen.
Without hesitation, she crossed the room and tugged the curtains closed, the room dimming once more. The faint rustle of fabric against her skin was the only sound as she slipped into her robe and made her way to the bathroom. Warm steam soon enveloped her as she stood beneath the shower, letting the hot water course down her delicate frame. Her skin, smooth as porcelain, gleamed as the droplets slid over it. She tilted her head back, letting the water run through her long golden-brown hair, fingers weaving through the strands.
When she returned to the bedroom, she moved toward the base of the wardrobe and bent down, pulling out a box—more like a chest—sleek, black, and locked with an unassuming silver clasp.
Inside was a black gown, simple yet elegant, its fabric whispering luxury. She removed it with care, letting it unfold like silk in the air. The chest wasn't returned to its hiding place this time. Instead, she placed it softly on the bed. Something about today was different.
She changed quickly, her figure hugging the gown like it was crafted just for her. Sitting before the dresser, she fastened a set of gold jewelry around her neck and wrists, her movements fluid, controlled. Her eyes met her own reflection, calm and fierce all at once. She applied a deep shade of lipstick, pressed her lips together, and then picked up her phone.
"I need you to be here in ten minutes," she said coolly, before ending the call.
Downstairs, she slipped on a long brown coat that covered her from shoulders to toes. Her red heels clicked rhythmically against the polished floor as she walked toward the back of the house. Opening the rear door, a vast yard stretched before her—peaceful, empty, concealed.
The breeze carried a certain finality with it. She locked the door from the outside.
Moments later, a silver car pulled up. A man—tall, dark-clothed—hurried toward her. Without a word, he took the chest and the house key she handed him.
"Make sure this place is cleaned up," she instructed.
He nodded in acknowledgment.
When they reached the car, he opened the door for her. Emily slipped inside without a word, her expression unreadable. The drive was long and quiet, much like the day she first arrived in this city. But this time, the silence was not filled with uncertainty. It was purpose.
At the airport, several suited men rushed forward, lifting the chest and her modest bag with practiced efficiency. Emily stepped out of the car and walked toward the private jet without hesitation, her heels clicking in finality on the concrete.
At the entrance to the jet, she paused, glancing briefly over her shoulder.
Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered to herself, "Well… time to go to Alderidge."
The wheels of the private jet finally touched down on the pristine tarmac of Alderidge's private airfield. The cabin lights glowed a gentle amber, brushing over the contours of Emily's composed face. As the engines quieted, she rose with grace, smoothing down the folds of her black gown. A quiet steward opened the door, and sunlight spilled in, wrapping her like a halo.
Men in clean-cut uniforms rushed forward, lifting the elegant black chest with care. Emily stepped down slowly, her red heels clicking against the polished metal steps. She paused halfway, spreading her arms gently as the breeze caught her jacket. She took a deep, steadying breath.
"Finally… my city," she whispered.
A sleek black limousine waited just ahead, its door held open by a man in a dark suit.
"Welcome, Miss Emily," he said with a respectful bow.
Without responding, she entered the car, sliding in smoothly as the chest was placed beside her. Her face remained unreadable, but her eyes scanned the familiar surroundings—the city she once called home.
The drive was long and silent, winding through elegant forested roads and narrow cobbled paths that led to an estate hidden behind towering trees. And then—just ahead—an iron-wrought gate came into view. Ivy curled along its arch, and gold-etched roses shimmered in the sun. It was majestic, like something carved out of a dream.
The gate creaked open slowly, and Emily lowered the window, leaning her head slightly to the side. Her heart thudded once.
The estate revealed itself like a secret garden unveiling its soul. A stone driveway curved around a grand fountain carved from white marble, spraying crystal-clear water into the air. Colorful blooms lined the path—orchids, lilies, and violet roses swayed in the breeze. The front façade of the mansion rose like a palace of light cream stone, adorned with tall arched windows, ivy-covered columns, and carved cherubs peeking from the railings.
A servant was already there, opening the car door.
"Welcome home, Miss Emily."
More servants stepped out, standing in two neat rows. Heads bowed in reverence.
"Thank you," she said coolly, stepping down from the car as the man with the chest followed behind. She nodded once, signaling for him to take it upstairs.
Though this was the Wards family estate, the public knew it by a different name—Rosehill Manor. A peaceful, poetic title, unconnected to the tragic legacy of the Wards name. That misdirection had helped Emily remain hidden while planning everything.
She stepped inside. The doors swung open to reveal a breathtaking entrance hall. The marble floor was polished to a gleam, reflecting the cascading crystal chandelier above. Twin staircases curved like swan necks to the upper floor, and the walls were adorned with oil paintings, gold-framed and regal. The scent of polished wood and fresh roses filled the air.
Emily exhaled. Home.
The staff dispersed after her subtle command, and Emily made her way to the dining room, where a small feast had been set. She sat at the head of the long table, eating only a few bites of the roasted duck and sipping some warm coffee.
Later, in her bedroom, she changed into a magnificent robe—soft, flowing, and the color of warm earth. She walked into her bathroom, letting the water fall over her skin.
"Finally, a real shower," she whispered to herself, eyes closed as steam fogged the glass.
After her long bath and some quiet self-care, she slipped into silk nightwear and walked to the large window overlooking the garden. Her eyes, now their natural soft gray, caught the moonlight.
But her gaze wasn't on the moon. It was on the black chest on the table.
She crossed the room slowly and opened the lid. Inside, cushioned by velvet, lay the ancient Sigil—a silver emblem lined with red and purple gemstones, its design unmistakable to anyone who knew the old families.
Emily lifted it with gloved fingers. Her face darkened.
"This…" she whispered, eyes full of bitter fire, "is where it all began."
Her voice was low but venomous.
"First, you took my parents. Then you raped my sister to death. Alexander Velmonte…" Her grip on the sigil tightened, knuckles whitening. "You and your entire family will pay."
She closed her eyes, remembering—two months ago—Celeste's bright smile before she left for that club. The night that changed everything.
And so, beneath the golden canopy of Rosehill Manor, the storm began to rise again.
Emily's fingers slowly traced the outline of the sigil in her hand—cool, ancient, and tainted by blood. Her breath became shallow as the memories began to stir, crawling back from the depths of her grief like smoke through a crack.
She closed her eyes—and suddenly, she was there again.
Two Months Ago — The Night Celeste Died
The neon lights of the club flickered wildly, painting the pavement in dizzying shades of blue and red. Music pounded through the walls, thick with base and distortion, and laughter danced on the lips of strangers moving in rhythm to the beat of the night. Emily stood at the edge of the chaos, leaning against a wall, arms folded across her chest. Her posture was rigid. Her expression cold.
Celeste was the star of the evening, spinning under the lights like she had no care in the world. Her golden-brown hair shimmered as she twirled, and her pale green eyes shone brighter than the flashing strobes. She was thin, ethereal almost, and wore her wildness like a crown. That night, she radiated a fierce kind of joy. Emily had refused to join her, but Celeste had begged.
"Come on, Em," Celeste had said earlier, her eyes pleading. "Let's celebrate Phase One. We got the sigil, we pulled it off, and no one's on to us. Just one night."
Emily had hesitated. The mission wasn't over. But eventually, she'd given in. She always did with Celeste.
But now, she regretted every second.
Two men had tried to start a conversation with her earlier. Slick smiles, meaningless compliments—she hadn't even given them a full glance before shutting them down. When she turned her attention back to the dance floor, Celeste was no longer there.
A strange sensation crawled up Emily's spine.
She scanned the crowd. Nothing.
The music was suddenly too loud, the lights too blinding, the people too close. She searched every inch of that club, making her way from the bar to the booths, from the stage to the VIP area—no sign of her. She called their uncle. No answer. Panic began to tighten around her chest like a noose.
It had been over an hour. Still no Celeste.
Her phone was dead silent. Celeste never ignored her calls.
Then something—a flicker of movement, a gut instinct—drew Emily to the back of the club. She slipped through the emergency exit, stepping into a poorly lit alley. And there, her world shattered.
Celeste was on the ground, her limbs motionless, her hair a golden halo in a pool of blood. A man—no, a monster—was on top of her, fists slamming into her lifeless body. The sounds of her sister's suffering mixed with the distant echo of music in a sickening contrast.
Emily moved to lunge forward, heart pounding—
"Miss Emily!"
One of her men grabbed her, yanking her back behind the corner wall.
"You can't go in. That's a whole gang. We'll lose you too."
Tears flooded her eyes, fury replacing logic. From where she was hidden, she watched them—five men, cloaked in shadows—step away from Celeste's broken body. They laughed. One of them adjusted his coat as he got into a dark SUV. She caught only glimpses of their faces, flashes of profiles, nothing concrete.
But the license plate—she saw it.
Her shaking hands fumbled for her phone. She took a blurry photo of the plate, lips trembling. As they drove away, the street fell into silence once more. The wind was still.
She ran to Celeste, collapsing to her knees beside her.
Her sister was gone. Eyes open. Face swollen. Blood everywhere.
Emily screamed, the kind of scream that ripped through her like a knife. Her cries echoed through the alley, raw and unfiltered. She clutched Celeste's body, rocking back and forth.
Her chest heaved with grief—until something in her snapped.
She turned to the man who had held her back.
Without a word, she walked up to him and slammed his head into the brick wall. He dropped to the ground, dazed, possibly unconscious. Her hand shook as she lifted her phone and sent the photo to a secure contact.
"Find who owns this car. Now."
Seconds later, her phone rang.
She answered.
There was only one name on the line.
"Alexander Velmonte."
Emily froze. The name echoed in her ears like a drum. It was like it carved itself into her brain, branding itself into her memory.
She ended the call.
Wiping her tears, she stood over her sister's broken body. Her red eyes, raw and swollen, stared blankly at the dark sky.
"I'll finish what you started, sister," she whispered. Her voice shook, but her resolve was iron.
She picked up her phone again.
"Bring the car. And bring the body. I'm done hiding."
Her gaze didn't break from the alley.
"Alexander Velmonte… I'm coming for you. And every goddamned person in your wretched family."
Emily stood by the open chest, the moonlight casting a silver glow across her face. Her fingers brushed over the sigil one last time before carefully placing it back inside. She closed the lid with precision, her breath steady, her eyes dark with resolve.
"That's how it started," she whispered to the silence of the room. "That night. That scream I never heard… that breath she never took again."
Her gaze hardened.
"You took my sister from me. Just like you took my parents. And now you think you've taken me down too."
She straightened her back, walked to the large windows of her room, and looked out over her estate—peaceful, quiet, untouched by the chaos she left behind. The flowers in the garden still bloomed. The fountains still danced with water. But inside her, something else bloomed: fire.
"I've been planning since that night. Watching you, calculating you… preparing."
A cold smirk formed on her lips.
"You may be the Velmonte king, Alexander, but I don't play by your rules."
Her fingers tapped once against the glass as if sealing a vow.
"I'm always ten steps ahead of you."
With that, she turned away from the window, her silk nightgown swaying at her ankles. The light clicked off. The door shut behind her.