The evening air was velvet—warm, perfumed, and deceptively forgiving. Lagos was dressed to the nines, glittering beneath chandeliers and golden moonlight like it had something to prove. The annual Cabello Foundation Gala had always been the crown jewel of high society events—an exhibition of power disguised as charity. But tonight wasn't about donors or speeches.
It was about dominance.
Thiana's heels clicked against polished marble floors as she arrived at the venue, her deep red dress clinging like a confession. She carried herself with the same grace she'd always commanded—hips swaying, chin tilted, lashes long enough to cut glass—but tonight, her confidence had cracks. Hair styled to perfection, lips lined with vengeance, but her heart… her heart was folding in on itself.
Lawrence Gonsalvez stood waiting just beyond the foyer, nursing a whiskey with the poise of a man used to being watched. The way his dark suit hugged him was deliberate. Everything about him was rehearsed. He offered her a crooked smile—half charm, half calculation.
"You look dangerous," he whispered, leaning in.
Thiana rolled her eyes but didn't deny it. "Danger is the only currency I have left."
They entered the ballroom together—arm in arm, predator and prey, though neither was sure who wore which mask.
Inside, a thousand eyes danced between champagne flutes and whispered rumors. The divorce had been public. Her appearance tonight was shocking. Zade's absence was suspicious.
And then, just as the orchestra reached its crescendo… the lights dimmed.
A single spotlight illuminated the stage. People turned. Murmurs hushed.
Zade Cabello stepped into view like the final act of a prophecy—black suit sculpted around his frame, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, presence thicker than the air. He walked slowly, deliberately, like the world owed him its breath.
Thiana's chest tightened.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He wasn't supposed to say anything.
But the look in his eyes told her he was about to say everything.
"Good evening," Zade began, voice smooth as sin. "Tonight, we gather not only to honor those who build but to recognize who truly holds the blueprint."
The audience leaned in.
Thiana took a step back.
Zade raised a document in one hand. "This," he said, "is the ownership contract of Cabello & Sons. Recently updated. Recently signed."
A large screen behind him flashed to life. The crowd gasped. Thiana's signature appeared in high-definition—sharp, damning.
"She believed she inherited legacy through marriage," Zade continued, tone never rising. "What she forgot… is blood doesn't need permission."
The silence became acidic.
"The true heir was never absent," Zade said. "He simply chose the shadows."
Then he turned to the crowd, smile venomous. "I hereby reclaim full control of Cabello & Sons, effective immediately. And for her grace and loyalty… Mrs. Cabello will continue to serve. As my secretary."
Whispers exploded like gunfire.
Thiana froze.
Lawrence stepped forward as if to intervene, but Zade's gaze pinned him in place.
Thiana's vision blurred. Heat flushed through her like poison. She didn't know what burned worse—the betrayal, the public humiliation, or the fact that her own husband had played her so precisely.
She turned and fled—through the ballroom, past the crystal fountains, down the corridor that led to the bathrooms. Her heels clicked faster. Her breath caught. She needed silence. She needed time.
But she got neither.
As she stepped into the marble-tiled lavatory, the door slammed shut behind her. Two men followed—tall, masked, merciless. She opened her mouth to scream, but one of them grabbed her wrist and pinned her against the wall.
"You shouldn't have embarrassed him," one hissed.
She kicked. Bit. Fought like hell.
But they were stronger. Shadows carved in cruelty.
One hand slid to her thigh. Another reached for the zipper of her dress.
Tears welled. Panic clawed. She braced herself—
Bang.
The door crashed open, splintering at its hinges.
Zade stormed inside like vengeance incarnate.
No suit now. Just fury. Raw, blazing, untethered.
He didn't speak.
He moved.
Faster than fear, he tackled the first man—fists flying. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the room. The second attacker lunged, knife flashing, but Zade caught his arm mid-air and twisted it until it snapped.
The third tried to run.
Zade caught him at the waist, slammed him against the sink, and drove a knee into his abdomen. The man collapsed, wheezing, gasping, broken.
Blood smeared the floor.
And then Zade turned to her.
Thiana was trembling, back against the cold tiles, mascara streaked down her cheeks, dress half-ripped, heart in her throat.
Zade walked over, reached out slowly, and pulled her gently into his arms.
She didn't resist.
He cradled her, lifted her, carried her out of the lavatory, down the corridor, past stunned guests who parted like water for a storm.
In the parking lot, he set her down beside his car.
"You're safe," he said, voice low.
Her lips quivered. "Why—why were you there?"
"I never left," he replied. "I was watching."
Silence wrapped around them.
Thiana leaned against the car, breath ragged.
"I didn't know they would come," she whispered.
"You lit a fire," Zade said. "And now every ghost thinks it's time to haunt."
He opened the car door, gestured for her to get in.
She hesitated. "We're divorcing."
"That's what the papers say," he murmured. "But I don't take orders from paper."
She slid into the passenger seat, heart thudding.
The ride back was wordless.
But the silence screamed.
Back at the estate, Zade poured her a drink—not because she asked, but because her hands were still shaking.
He sat across from her, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed.
"You can hate me," he said. "You probably should. But don't ever think I'd let someone else break you."
Her throat tightened. "You already did."
Zade nodded slowly. "Then I suppose I'm just guarding the ruins."
She swallowed. Her gaze fell to the documents stacked on the nearby table—contracts, photos, folders marked Confidential.
"You planned this," she whispered.
"Yes."
"You humiliated me."
"I revealed the truth."
"You wanted control."
He leaned forward.
"I wanted you to remember who I am."
She stood, walked to the window, watched the night wrap around the gardens like velvet.
"I can't go back," she said.
"I'm not asking you to," Zade replied.
"But you already did," she turned to face him, eyes glassy. "You put chains in my name. In my signature. You made me a prisoner of my own pride."
Zade rose slowly, walked toward her.
When he reached her, he didn't touch. Just stood close enough that his breath traced her skin.
"I made you mine," he said. "And I don't lose what's mine."
Her lip trembled.
She didn't know if she wanted to slap him or kiss him.
Maybe both.
She turned away.
He let her.
In her bedroom, hours later, the aftermath settled.
Thiana stared at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the gala. Every word Zade had said. Every look the guests had given. Every bruise on her wrist from the attack.
She wasn't a victim.
She wasn't a pawn.
She had been the queen.
Until Zade flipped the board.
And now?
She was either going to reclaim her crown—or burn the whole castle.
Zade stood in his private study, looking down at the city through bulletproof glass.
His second-in-command entered.
"Lucian's sending threats," the man said. "He's gathering people."
Zade didn't flinch.
"He's a memory," Zade replied. "And memories die."
"What about your wife?"
Zade's jaw tightened.
"She's walking through her own fire. Let's see if she survives the smoke."