Seven Months later
Dorothy sat in her room, exhausted but composed, having just returned from the office. She removed her heels and tossed them gently aside before loosening her hair. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she glanced out the window, watching the evening sun dip behind the trees.
She and her twin sister, Dorinda, were adopted years ago by Mr. and Mrs. Basiliou, Josh and Sarah. The Basiliou family was one of wealth and legacy, and they had a son of their own, Theophilus, the heir to their fortune and the pride of the family.
Dorothy had always stood out, not just for her beauty, but for her strength of character. She was sharp, determined, and fiercely principled. Her love for tennis and fast cars matched Theophilus's, and so did their ambition. He had always been drawn to her, not just as a cousin, but as someone he deeply admired. Her sparkling blue eyes and graceful charm had captivated him from childhood.
Dorinda, however, was a mirror reflection in appearance only. Where Dorothy was honest, Dorinda was cunning. She lied, manipulated, and twisted situations to get what she wanted. When she couldn't win Theophilus's attention, she pretended to be terminally ill. Her friend Bob, a morally gray doctor, helped her fake the illness convincingly.
Mrs. Sarah, their adoptive mother, loved Dorinda more, perhaps because she saw fragility in her, or perhaps because Dorinda played the role of the victim so well. But Mr. Josh and Theophilus? Their loyalty was firmly with Dorothy. Mr. Josh had often said his greatest wish was to see Dorothy and Theophilus marry someday. Their bond was that strong.
Downstairs, the scent of roasted lamb and herbs wafted through the dining room as Mr. Josh and Miss Sarah sat at the long mahogany table, waiting.
Dorinda descended the stairs slowly, one hand clutching her side like a wounded bird, her face pale with theatrical effort.
"Dorinda," Mr. Josh said kindly, "where's your sister?"
"I don't know, Uncle. She's probably in her room," Dorinda replied, with a faint groan.
"Well, why don't you call her down so we can all eat together?"
Before Dorinda could respond, Mrs. Sarah cut in sharply. "No, Josh. Dorinda is unwell. She can't possibly climb all the way back up just to fetch Dorothy."
As if to prove the point, she rushed to assist Dorinda to her chair, fussing over her like a fragile porcelain doll. Dorinda winced dramatically, still holding her side.
Mr. Josh frowned, glancing toward the stairs. "Okay then. I'll go get her myself—"
Before he could rise, Dorothy's voice floated down from the staircase.
"No need, Uncle, I'm already here."
She walked gracefully into the dining room, her presence commanding yet warm. She kissed Mr. Josh on the cheek before taking a seat beside him.
"This looks delicious," she said, her smile bright.
"My girl!" Mr. Josh beamed. "How was the office today?"
"Busy but productive," Dorothy replied. "The new jewelry collection is underway, and it's going to be a huge success. Prices on diamonds and gold have spiked again."
"I read that in the papers," Josh nodded. "We might need to increase our product pricing."
"No need to worry about that, Uncle, I've already handled it." She winked, casually sipping her water.
"You're just a gem," he said, patting her hand warmly. "Ever since Theophilus left, you've filled his shoes wonderfully. I don't know what I'd do without you. Honestly, I don't understand why Denmark left so suddenly, but thank God we still have you."
Across the table, Mrs. Sarah and Dorinda exchanged dark glances, their expressions strained.
"I'll always be grateful," Dorothy said quietly, her voice thick with sincerity. "You took us in when we had no one. You gave us your name, your love, a home… a future. I owe everything to you."
"And you've made us proud," Josh said, his eyes misting. "You've learned well—from Theophilus and even from Denmark."
"Can we please just eat?" Miss Sarah interrupted softly, trying to steer the conversation away from Dorothy's accolades.
"Yes, yes—of course," Mr. Josh chuckled.
Dorothy turned to Dorinda with a polite smile. "Dorinda, would you mind passing the salt?"
Dorinda stiffened. "Yes, sure," she muttered, then set the salt back down in front of her without passing it over.
Dorothy didn't flinch. She smiled again, leaned over, and retrieved it herself.
After dinner, Mr. Josh and Dorothy moved to the study to go over business files. Meanwhile, Mrs. Sarah and Dorinda slipped away to secretly finalize their plans for Theophilus's return, making sure Mr. Josh remained in the dark. After all, the last thing they wanted was for Dorothy to know what was coming.
Rain poured down in relentless sheets as Nathaniel Morgan stood at the edge of a fresh grave, his knees in the mud, hands trembling. He was soaked to the bone, but he didn't care. The cold had nothing on the emptiness clawing at his chest.
His eyes stayed fixed on the name engraved in stone.
Denmark Morgan.
1997–2024.
Beloved Brother. Lost Too Soon.
Nathaniel had failed. He had promised their mother—on her deathbed—that he would protect his little brother. Their father had died when they were young, and by the time Nathaniel was eighteen, he was all Denmark had. He worked two jobs, skipped university, and gave up his own dreams to send Denmark to school, to give him a better shot at life.
And for a while, it had seemed to work. Denmark got a job with the Basiliou company and even worked at one of their elite clubs as an administrator. Things looked stable. Promising.
Until the letter came.
A shaky envelope scribbled with Denmark's handwriting arrived a week ago from a remote village. The words inside still haunted Nathaniel: "Brother, I can't go on. Please come. I need you. I'm not strong enough anymore."
Nathaniel had dropped everything and raced to the village.
But he was too late.
A group of somber-faced neighbors had met him at the edge of town. One of them—a quiet man with gray stubble and tired eyes—led him to the grave.
"He drank himself to death," the man said bluntly. "He was gone before we even knew how bad it had gotten."
Nathaniel knelt there for what felt like hours as the villagers explained what had happened.
Denmark had come to them desperate and broken. He had talked often about a girl he loved—how she wouldn't marry him unless he was rich. He felt worthless, like he had nothing to offer.
"He said she was from a powerful family," one of them murmured. "Beautiful, cold… someone important. He never said her name. Just called her 'Basiliou's daughter.'"
Denmark convinced some of the locals to help him dig for gold in the mountains. They worked for weeks, months, and eventually struck something. But they couldn't find a buyer. And soon after, Denmark spiraled.
The drinking got worse. His laughter turned bitter. He talked less and less about the future.
"He gave me this before he died," one of the villagers said, handing Nathaniel a gold pendant with a trembling hand.
Nathaniel opened his palm. The pendant lay cold against his skin, a delicate chain, with a single engraved letter: D. On the back, the word BASILIOU was etched in fine script.
"He said it belonged to her. The one who left him. He called her evil."
The last letter Denmark received had been cruel. "I can't wait any longer. I've found someone else," it read. No name. No remorse.
The necklace had been all he had left of her. That and a photograph he once carried, now torn and folded away somewhere Nathaniel couldn't find.
Nathaniel clenched the pendant, knuckles white, jaw tight with grief.
He had done everything to give Denmark a better life. But love had destroyed him.
"I'll find her," he whispered to the grave, tears mixing with the rain. "Whoever she is… she'll pay."
As the rain intensified, Nathaniel stood. The grief in his chest hardened into something darker. Something determined.
He would return to the city. He would find out everything about the Basiliou family. And the woman with the letter D.
Nathaniel stood in the downpour, tears mixing with the rain, his fists clenched over the fresh earth that covered his brother's grave. His heart was pounding with fury. This wasn't just grief—it was rage. Pure and burning.
"The woman who did this to you…" He whispered, his voice broken and hoarse. "She will pay, Denmark. I swear it."
Lightning cracked across the sky, as if sealing his vow.
As he turned to leave, one of the village men who had helped with the burial stepped forward. "Nathaniel… before you go, I wanted to ask—about the mine. Denmark's share. I'd like to buy it off you."
Nathaniel shook his head, eyes cold. "No. That's all I have left of him. His dream. His struggle. His failure. I won't sell it. But…" he paused, thinking. "I'll find buyers. I'll handle the deal myself. You work it. We split the profit."
The man nodded. A quiet agreement.
When Nathaniel returned to the city, he didn't rest. He didn't eat. He spent days digging through archives, searching online, and cross-checking social registries. The name Basiliou rang through every high-society corner, old money, power, and status.
And then he saw it. A photograph from a club fundraiser. A woman with ice in her eyes and a diamond smile.
She fit everything he'd been told, elegant, unreachable, and dangerous. And around her neck in the photo? The same pendant he now kept in his pocket.
There was no doubt.
She was the one. He turned to his best friend, Nick, that same night.
"You're serious?" Nick asked, dumbfounded. "You want to go after the Basiliou family? You'll be eaten alive."
"She killed my brother," Nathaniel said, voice low. "Not with a knife. But with greed. With manipulation. She broke him."
Nick frowned. "Dan's dead, man. Chasing ghosts won't bring him back."
"I'm not chasing ghosts," Nathaniel said. "I'm setting traps."
Within a week, he had joined the elite tennis club where the Basiliou heirs played. It was the same place where Denmark had once worked as an administrator. The same place where she had likely played games with his heart behind closed doors.
Nathaniel didn't come in as a stranger. He came in polished. Clean-cut. Connected.
To everyone, he was just another rich entrepreneur with a sharp serve and a deeper backstory. No one knew the man behind the mask. No one knew he carried a dead brother's necklace in his pocket.
And no one, not even the Basiliou, knew that Nathaniel Morgan had stepped into their world for one reason only.
Revenge.