The First Rival — And the Spark of Betrayal
Monte Carlo — Masquerade Gala. A fortress of mirrors and masks. And nothing holy left inside.
The music pulsed like breath through marble halls.
The masquerade had taken over the ancient fortress on the cliff, where the sea whispered seductions far below. Each corridor glimmered with chandeliers, candelabras, and masks crafted from onyx, crystal, and cruelty.
The rich and the ruthless moved through the gold-lit ballroom like predators in opera gowns. Deals whispered behind laughter. A senator laughed too hard near a brothel heiress. A prince offered a toast with poisoned eyes.
And in the center of it all—
Daimion Valenhart.
Immovable.
Dark-suited. Maskless.
Power didn't need a disguise.
And Anna… was beside him.
She wore blood red, her dress sheer in motion, slit high on the thigh, backless, throat wrapped in a velvet choker that hid nothing.
She felt eyes on her. All of them.
But none burned like the one that had watched her come apart at 35,000 feet.
Daimion's hand rested on her lower back.
Possessive.
Controlling.
And then—
She felt the shift.
A drop in the air.
A scent like expensive danger.
The Entrance of Celeste
At the top of the mirrored staircase stood a woman in emerald silk.
She didn't walk.
She descended.
Like a queen bored of her throne.
Celeste Morreau.
Eyes like cut glass. Hair the shade of Parisian moonlight. A mouth painted in blood-red venom. And skin like sculpted porcelain — the kind that cracked only when you tried to hold it.
She wasn't beautiful. She was engineered to destroy.
Anna didn't recognize her.
But her body reacted anyway.
A tightening in her gut. A premonition of pain.
Daimion turned his head slightly.
And Anna saw it.
The smile.
Not a fake one. Not the public one.
The real one.
The one he hadn't shown Anna yet.
Celeste approached slowly.
Each step is deliberate. She wore no mask.
She didn't need one.
Her presence was a weapon, and everyone in the room knew who she was:
The architect of black-market weapon empires. Daimion's former lover. The woman who once sat where Anna now stood—only she had smiled while doing it.
Celeste stopped in front of them.
Her emerald gown shimmered like something venomous.
And when she looked at Anna—
She didn't blink.
She smiled.
A perfect, blade-thin smile.
"I thought he preferred his girls… darker," she purred, gaze sliding down Anna's body like an X-ray.
Anna froze.
The room spun quietly.
Celeste stepped closer.
Too close.
Her perfume was sharper than her tone—jasmine, steel, and memory.
Celeste reached out.
Touched Anna's wrist.
Just a brush.
A mock caress.
A violation wrapped in grace.
"Oh, you poor little lamb," she whispered.
Her lips nearly touched Anna's cheek.
"You don't know what he is yet, do you?"
Then— A wink.
She stepped away.
The Spark of Jealousy
Later that night—
Anna stood near a balcony, breath tight in her chest, staring into her champagne.
And then she saw them.
Across the room.
Celeste. Daimion.
Too close.
Too familiar.
Her hand was on his chest, resting just above his heart.
Her mouth brushed the shell of his ear.
Her eyes flicked once toward Anna with a smile that wasn't just cruel.
It was ownership. Old. Shared. Remembered.
Daimion didn't stop her.
Didn't remove her hand.
Didn't step back.
He let her touch him.
Let her whisper.
Let her smile.
And worst of all—
He didn't look at Anna. Not once.
The Break
Something inside her twisted.
It wasn't just pain.
It was a shame.
She didn't want to care. She wasn't supposed to care. But it hurt.
More than it should have.
More than she could admit.
She walked away.
Not because she wanted to.
Because she had to.
Because if she watched one more second, she was going to scream.
Break Me, Then Say You Won't
Valenhart Manor – Monte Carlo, After the Gala2:37 A.M.
The door slammed behind her.
The sound echoed down the marble hallway like a shot fired.
Anna stood in the center of the bedroom, hands trembling, breath caught in her throat. The walls of the suite glowed gold, soft and expensive, but nothing felt warm.
She was still in the red dress.
The one with the slit up her thigh.
The one he chose.
The one Celeste had looked at like it was borrowed.
Like Anna was borrowed.
She pulled the choker from her throat first.
Then the diamond cuff.
Then the necklace.
Each clattered onto the floor like pieces of her obedience hitting the ground.
By the time he entered, she was barefoot, hair wild, eyes wide with something rawer than rage.
The Confrontation
"You brought me to show me off!" she snapped. "To humiliate me!"
Daimion didn't stop walking.
He moved through the doorway like gravity bent for him, jacket tossed onto a chair, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled high.
He poured himself a glass of scotch.
Didn't answer.
Didn't even look at her yet.
Her voice cracked. "You didn't even look at me while she touched you."
He turned then. Slowly. Glass in hand.
"She was watching you," he said.
Anna froze.
"She wanted to see if you'd fight for me."
"You let her touch you," she snapped, stepping forward. "You let her touch you like—like I'm not even here. Like I'm not—"
"Mine?" he asked softly, dangerously. "You are."
"Prove it."
Her voice was trembling. Her fists clenched.
"Or admit you never wanted me. That you only wanted to own me, parade me, make me into something you could control."
He finished his drink in one slow swallow.
Then set the glass down.
"I don't need to prove anything to you."
"I hate you."
The words cracked like thunder.
He took a step toward her.
She didn't back away.
"Then stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
His voice dropped.
"Like you want me to break you again."
She slapped him.
Hard.
His head snapped slightly to the side.
And when he turned back, he was smiling.
Not cruelly.
Just… knowingly.
Like she'd confirmed what he already knew.
The Break
He caught her wrist.
Pulled her hard into him, chest to chest, heat to heat.
She gasped, struggling against him.
"Let me go—"
"No," he breathed.
He shoved her back—hard.
Against the wall.
The velvet paneling thudded beneath her spine.
His mouth hovered over hers. Their breath mingled.
Hot. Fast. Angry.
She looked up at him, eyes wet, mouth open.
"You don't love me," she whispered.
His lips ghosted hers. "No."
"Then why—why—"
"Because I own you."
And then he kissed her.
Savage.
Desperate.
A kiss like punishment. A kiss like a battle. A kiss that took everything and gave nothing.
She bit his lip. He growled.
Then, he dropped to his knees.
Yanked the slit of her dress wide.
His mouth found her thigh first.
The bruise.
He kissed it.
Then licked it.
Then bit it again.
Harder.
She gasped.
"No—"
"Still mine," he said into her skin.
His hands pulled her hips forward.
Her back hit the wall again as he buried his mouth between her thighs.
The Savage Reclaiming
She screamed.
Not in fear.
In release.
He licked her like he needed to make her forget Celeste.
Forget the world.
Forget her name.
His tongue slid over her folds, into her, relentless. Deep. Ruinous.
Her legs shook.
One arm reached for the wall.
The other found his hair, twisting in desperation.
"Daimion—"
He moaned into her.
The vibration made her legs nearly collapse.
She came against his mouth, raw, sudden, humiliating.
Her body betrayed her again.
She sobbed through it. Not from pain.
From confusion.
From how badly she still wanted him.
He stood.
Still hard.
Still hungry.
Still watching her like she was the storm he built and forgot how to survive.
"You hate me," he said, dragging the dress down her arms.
She didn't respond.
"You'll keep hating me," he whispered, cupping her breasts, dragging his tongue across one nipple, then the other.
"But you'll still come when I call you."
He lifted her like she weighed nothing.
Carried her to the bed.
Threw her down.
And took her again.
The Ruin
There was no gentleness.
He pinned her wrists.
Held her thighs open.
Fucked her deep—slow—with cruel precision.
Every thrust a reminder. Every moan a confession. Every tear she blinked back a surrender he didn't ask for—but owned.
And when she came again—shaking, sobbing, whispering his name into the silk pillows—
He let go.
Inside her.
Filling her like he was planting something that wouldn't leave.
When he collapsed over her, breathless, she didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
Just stared at the ceiling.
Aftermath
Minutes passed.
Then—he rolled off.
Lit a cigarette.
Stared at her.
"You're not broken yet," he said quietly.
She turned her head. Eyes glassy. Mouth parted.
"But you will be."
She slapped him to wound. He kissed her to conquer. And by the time he claimed her again— She was still his. And hated herself for needing it.