Maria stood before the towering glass building, its golden name gleaming like a badge of pride under the sun. She exhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing. In her past life, this very brand—Stik—faced a near-collapse after a scandal caused by a rival brand. But within a month, Stik clawed its way back, stronger, meaner, and bolder, eventually becoming the country's number one clothing empire and then a global legend. Maria never forgot that.
She didn't like the current manager's condescending attitude, but she wasn't here for approval—she was here for a throne. As long as they paid her double what they originally offered, she would play along… for now.
Her heels tapped confidently on the polished floor as she entered.
"You're here," the manager greeted with a strained smile. "We've been waiting for quite some time. Follow me. I'll show you to the photoshoot area."
Maria followed calmly, her hands tucked in the sleeves of her designer trench coat.
But just as they turned the corner—
"So this is the wannabe you want to represent our designs?" a man scoffed, arms crossed and nose tilted upwards. "Insulting to our brand, honestly."
Maria arched a brow. He just needs a wing to take off, she thought, amused. She gave him a bored once-over and said flatly, "As long as this 'wannabe' isn't designing your clothes, I really don't think your opinion is that important."
Rolling her eyes, she walked past him without slowing. The manager, hiding a smile, trailed behind, leaving the man fuming.
Inside the studio, racks of carefully steamed clothes stood like soldiers on parade.
"This," the manager began, "is the clothing for the shoot. And here's the contract. We'll feature you on the last page of our magazine."
Maria blinked. "Last page?"
"It's tradition," he added quickly. "You're a last-minute choice. My designer believes you fit the vibe, and we trust her instinct. I know your millions of fans might expect more, but…"
Maria didn't argue. She flipped through the contract, her fingers elegant and decisive. "Fine." She signed.
She was ushered to the changing room by a silent assistant.
When she stepped out, time seemed to pause.
Maria wore a cream cashmere blouse tucked into a moss green silk skirt with a structured hem, cinched at the waist with a pearl-encrusted belt. A tailored camel-toned coat draped over her shoulders like it belonged to royalty. Her legs were long and slender in soft white stockings and vintage leather pumps.
Her light makeup brought out her beauty in an ethereal way—doe eyes soft yet bright, her lashes thick and fluttering like black lace. Her straight hair shimmered like night-polished silver under soft lighting, framing her heart-shaped face. Her lips, tinted like fresh plum juice, curved slightly in the corners. Skin? As pale as snow with a porcelain glow.
Even the staff held their breath.
"Very good," the photographer said, quickly snapping into gear. "Take a pose."
Maria stepped forward. Her eyes closed for a moment, then fluttered open—and just like that, her aura shifted.
She now looked like someone who'd stepped out of a forgotten era—noble, graceful, untouchable.
She sat on the emerald velvet couch, her legs crossed lightly at the ankles. Her spine remained straight, her hands relaxed. The angle of her chin screamed old aristocracy.
Then she leaned forward, eyes sparkling with playful intent. Her lips curled just enough to look mischievous, like a seductive demon fox in a fairytale.
A siren's eyes peered through the frame—innocent, dangerous.
"Switch outfits," the designer breathed, thrilled.
Maria returned, now in a tailored black power suit with a high slit in the trousers, revealing glossy stiletto heels. A crisp white silk shirt sat under a structured blazer with silver cuffs, her collar open just enough to hint at bold confidence.
She stood behind the couch this time, one gloved hand resting on the headrest, the other in her pocket. She looked like a CEO who signs billion-dollar deals before breakfast.
Next, she sat on the armrest, legs crossed, her gaze down at the camera as if judging the world from her throne.
Suddenly—a cold queen. A mafia heir. A calculating monarch with a killer smile.
The staff were frozen, whispering in awe.
Maria's final outfit was a high-end school-inspired uniform—a deep navy pleated skirt, white blouse with lace ruffles, and a blazer with golden embroidery. A small ribbon tie and beret gave her a playful touch.
This time, she didn't just pose—she twirled, arms behind her back, tilting her head as if trying to peek into your secrets.
She sat on the couch cross-legged like a mischievous cat, winked at the lens, then looked away with a small pout.
Adorable. Dangerous. Sweet. Fake. Real. All at once.
---
When the shoot ended, the staff applauded softly without meaning to. The photographer's hand trembled slightly as he lowered his camera.
"She's not just a model," the designer whispered. "She's a weapon."
Maria, back in her coat,
Maria took her phone from the staff she had handed it to earlier. After posing in her elite school uniform look, she casually scrolled through the shots and picked one—her hands behind her back, lips parted slightly in an innocent smirk, her beret tilted just enough to tease.
She uploaded it to her feed with the caption:
#Can'tWaitForTheMagazineToDrop 💅✨
And then came the flood.
Her page exploded—especially since she had just posted the video of the art competition that was still trending, with citizens debating fiercely in the comments.
> [Damn, I was right to follow you. Drama is always around you.]
[Gosh, bribing judges? Tsk.]
[She's so fake. Can't stand her.]
[Even if she's wrong, I don't know… I kind of like her.]
[Forget that white lotus—Maria's painting is fire 🔥🔥🔥]
Maria scrolled through, eyes calm. Some comments bashed Ivy, others backed Maria, but one thing was clear—every single one was screaming about her art.
Then came the reactions to the photo.
> [I licked my phone by mistake.]
[Straight girls bending, not sorry.]
[My boyfriend wants to break up with me cause he saw Maria pic Forget it. I'm breaking up with him—Maria's painting and pic is all I need.]
Maria chuckled under her breath. Amused, she turned off her phone and stepped out of the shoot studio.
But just as she reached the top of the stairs—chaos.
Down below, the same man who had earlier mocked her for being a "wannabe" was practically groveling before another girl who looked like she'd just stepped out of a billionaire's closet. Everything she wore screamed generational wealth.
"I'm not going to sue your brand or your idiot designer," the girl spat, one hand in her wavy hair, her heels clicking as she took a step closer. "Do you even know who I am? I gave Stik Brand a chance, and this is what I get? Disgusting."
The man was sweating. "It's my fault! I accept full responsibility. Please, just… instruct us."
"First, I want her to apologize," the girl demanded, folding her arms, chin raised with all the arrogance of a queen looking at filth.
The man turned to the designer—the very same one who had followed him in mocking Maria earlier that day.
But the designer crossed her arms, jaw tight. "Why should I apologize? She insulted my designs! I didn't join this company to be insulted."
The man's face darkened. "We already submitted the designs and started production using company funds. Are you saying we can't replace them?"
"Yes," the designer snapped. "The gowns are done. We can't redo everything."
Without warning, the manager slapped her across the face.
Then turned to the wealthy girl with a deep bow. "I apologize. If this causes trouble, I will handle it immediately."
He glanced back at the designer who now held her cheek in stunned silence.
"I've given you too much face. Now you think you can fly?" he sneered. "Pack your things. You're fired. And while you're at it, pay for the damages and every coin spent on that trash you call a design. And don't even think about suing us. I'll make sure you never get hired again in your pathetic lifetime."
"Sir—please," the designer whispered, falling to her knees. She bit her lip, eyes watering. "Please give me another chance."
She knew. They could destroy her with a single phone call. She might've graduated from the top fashion school in the country, but in this world, talent wasn't enough. You needed power, money, influence, and the right family name. Without those, all she had was luck—and luck ran out fast.
"Tsk. She's not even that talented, and she dares to go against the customer?" another designer muttered. She had been eyeing the top position for months.
"I'm bored now," the rich girl yawned. "I just want her to apologize—and maybe serve me for the next month."
The designer clenched her fists but didn't move.
Maria, already at the exit, rolled her eyes. Not my problem.
She stepped outside, the sun hitting her as she walked forward with ease.
The irony. That designer had been right there earlier, mocking her beside the manager. And now? On her knees.
Everyone has their destiny, Maria thought. Tables turn fast in this world. But me? I flip the whole table if I have to.
And with that, she left the drama behind.
....
Richard sat in his towering chair, fingers rhythmically tapping on the mahogany desk, his expression carved from stone. The luxurious office was quiet, too quiet—only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the distant hum of the city below broke the silence.
His jaw clenched as he stared at the wall, not really seeing it.
So… they've begun to bare their fangs?
". Did he think he was a pushover? All his goods had been destroyed, and he still dared to threaten him—Richard's brows furrowed in silence."
The knock came—three times, firm, and expected. His assistant entered, bowing slightly as he placed a thick envelope on the desk.
"This is the document you requested, sir," the assistant said.
Richard didn't look at it immediately. He kept tapping. A pause. Then:
"The girl…?"
"Dead. Our men confirmed the body. She was working with the grey-eyed man—has been for a while now. And inside that file… are the names."
Richard's eyes slowly opened, cold and gleaming.
"The names of everyone that bastard has placed in power—politicians, military figures, financial institutions. You were right, sir. He's not the final boss… merely a messenger. There are others—higher, faceless. They use people like him to sink their claws into old bloodlines they act as friends not only to heir but others desperate for the position they try to inlfitrate family like Hade family, the Night, and the Vale bloodlines."
"
Richard's fingers curled. "And Blackwood is their next meal?"
The assistant nodded, "don't they have bug appetite then " Richard said
"They want the Blackwood legacy. Like hyenas. They think we're carcass?"
He leaned back, lip curling.
"The girl sent the final piece before she died, correct?"
"Yes. With this… we can tear them apart."
Richard smiled, sharp and slow.
"Then let's give them a show if they survived then they have amazing luck on their side."
.....
"She's dead," the grey-eyed man muttered, eyes on his men who gave silent nods.
"Good. If she were still alive, I would've shown her that death was paradise compared to what I had planned. And Richard… that idiot really thinks he can double-cross me?" He paused, then laughed—loud, harsh, echoing through the room.
"Oh, he hasn't seen anything yet. He thinks he owns the Blackwood name? He has so many siblings. How sure is he that the throne belongs to him? And his cousin—the real heir—what was his name again? Chris? Not dead, is he?"
A sinister smile crept across his lips as he sipped his tea.
"We'll use him instead. He doesn't know anything. He's easy to control—unlike those vultures and scorpions fighting within the Blackwood house."
His men stood silently behind him. The grey-eyed man turned slightly, gazing out the large window. Outside, several people knelt on the cold ground, trembling.
"This is the punishment. They let a girl escape from what was supposed to be a locked house. But no information leaked. That's acceptable or their family life won't afford it ."
He snapped his fingers once.
Behind the kneeling men, others stepped forward. Gloved. Silent. Efficient.
They covered the mouths of the kneeling men as they struggled, then drove blades into their necks one by one. Blood soaked the ground as silence reclaimed the space.
---
Back to Chris.
He sat in a velvet chair, legs folded, lazily petting the black cat curled in his lap.
Unaware—or was he?
"You're playing big this time," his butler said, placing a tray of food beside him.
"When do I not play big?" Chris replied, eyes still shut, stroking the cat's fur with deliberate ease.
"You're the type who either does absolutely nothing or drops a bomb. Now the man who refused to leave bed for three days is stirring chaos."
Chris tilted his head toward the butler, still not opening his eyes. "Between you and me, who's the master again?"
He stretched his arms slowly. "Besides, all read and no play makes Chris a dull boy. If I don't sharpen my brain, it'll get rusty."
"You call this sharpening?" the butler sighed, taking a sip of his tea and sitting down.
Chris finally opened one eye. "I didn't do anything. I just gave Richard and the grey-eyed man what they wanted. Let them believe what they wanted to believe. The ending depends on how they perform."
The butler clicked his tongue. "Sure. As long as you start acting human again. You're not dead, after all."
A brief silence passed.
"So… what about Ivy's family now that she's dead?" he asked, glancing at Chris.
Chris blinked. Then again. Then scratched his head.
"You forgot who that is, didn't you?"
The butler sighed. "Of course you did."
"I already fulfilled the deal. That was the end of it," Chris said flatly, leaning back in his seat.
The butler stared at him quietly.
"Oh, you did now," the butler said, clearly not buying a word of it.
"Of course I did it," Chris replied, voice soft, unbothered. "I never go against my word. I just gave the knife to someone else so they could do the stabbing. And anyway…" he took a slow bite of the dessert, letting the sweetness linger on his tongue. "It benefits me either way."
The butler shook his head with a tired sigh. "That's why I'm still talking to you. If you were the one actually doing the work, I'd start suspecting you're an alien. You never move, never lift a hand. You just whisper what they want to hear, and boom—they destroy each other like you're their god."
Chris smiled faintly, still chewing. The butler kept going, voice filled with reluctant admiration and wariness.
"They kill each other, ruin themselves, and somehow complete your tasks… without even realizing what the real task was. And in the end, they thank you for it."
He placed his teacup down, eyes distant. "I just hope the day never comes when you'll have to get up and take action yourself."
Chris's lashes lowered slightly. A flicker of amusement passed through his eyes—barely noticeable, but deadly sharp.
Oh… very soon.
He didn't say it aloud, but the thought played on his tongue like a joke only he found funny.
He placed the fork down, leaned back into the plush couch, stretched slightly—then closed his eyes.
And fell asleep.
The butler stared at him for a second, then let out a long sigh.
"More lazy than a fat woman pregnant with twins," he muttered under his breath, standing up.
He adjusted the tray, picked up the untouched food, and walked out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him.
In the silence, Chris remained still, one hand loosely resting on the soft fur of his cat.
His eyes didn't open.
But his mind never slept.
The butler sigh a storm is going to hit a big one and Chris just have to use a girl to do it now who will use this for their benefits the butler thought
---