Chapter 15%
I have. And I orchestrated every fucking worm that chewed it hollow
From my suite overlooking Paris, wine in one hand, encrypted phone in the other, I watched the De Santis legacy collapse–bit by bit. It started slow. Small fractures. Doubts in the ranks. Whispers between Reagan’s most trusted men. A bonus gone missing. A client poached. A suspicious audit.}
Then came the pressure.
“Elysia,” Salvatore said over the phone, voice smooth like a velvet knife. “Your little package to Marcellus worked. He’s ready to talk. You sure you wanna go this far?”
I smirked into the glass. “Marcellus used to say I didn’t belong at the table. Let’s see how he feels after I burn it down.”
Click.3
Salvatore handled the street dealings. Bribes. Threats. Leverage that stung like scorpion tails. I handled the elite. I knew where Reagan’s alliances were bred–in ballrooms and handshakes. I knew which mistress belonged to which senator, which tech bro liked underage girls, which heir forged documents to expand Reagan’s holdings.
All of it? Mine now.
Salvatore didn’t just make it easier. He made it lethal. “They don’t fear you yet,” he told me once, his thumb brushing my jaw. “But they
they will. Especially when they realize you’re not playing their game. You’re building a new one.”
<–
First to fall? Tobias. Reagan’s legal bulldog. I didn’t even have to blackmail him. Just bought him out with one phone call from my new legal partner–America’s top corporate shark. “The woman backing you,” Tobias said, “she scares me more than Reagan ever did.“”
Next? Niall Security chief. Reagan’s ex–military golden boy. He was a man of honor, until he wasn’t. A little reminder of his past war crimes–stuff Salvatore dug up in a week–and he folded like a house of cards. Now? He quards my assets.
Then carne Lucien. The one Reagan trusted like a brother. The one who helped him bury the evidence after my father’s death. The one who signed off on my disappearance.}
“Still sleeping at night?” I asked him during a “chance” meeting on a yacht in Monaco. He tumed white as a ghost. “I know what you did. And now? So does everyone else.”
His resignation hit the media the next morning
“You wanted my crown, Reagan?” I muttered, watching him on the screen. “Now watch as it melts in your hands.”
He still smiled in public. Still walked with that arrogant strut, Dulcie clinging to his arm like a discount perfume ad. But I saw it. The cracks in his eyes. The tension in his jaw. His empire was hemorrhaging loyalty.
And Dulcie? Oh, sweet Dulcie was circling the drain. The media caught her on camera at some pretentious gala. She wore red–my color- and paranola like a second skin, I watched from my suite, wine to my lips, as she screamed at a crowd of stunned onlookers:
“Danica and Alyssa Voss are one! She’s taking what’s mine. She’s-
Reagan tried to calm her. Failed. She slapped him.
I almost clapped. Instead, I sipped.
“That’s the point, darling.” I murmured. “You took my life. Now I’ll take yours. Publicly.”
The video went viral in seconds. The “perfect couple” was now the punchline of every talk show and gossip blog. One headline read: From Mistress to Madness: Is Dulcie De Santis Losing It?
She wasn’t losing it. I was just driving her there ||
Back in my room, I watched my triplets sleep through the security cams. Lucian, Elara, and Caelum–named after the only pure parts of my life. They were my new legacy. My future.
I kissed each of their foreheads before leaving that night.
“Once this is done,” I whispered, “I’ll give you the world. I’ll stop running. I’ll be your mother.“!!
Then I stepped into the night. My dress clung to me like power. My heels clicked like gunshots. I had a crown to reclaim–and a kingdom to ruin ”
B-
Taking all of Dulcie’s shares didn’t just feel like victory–it felt like justice. Clean, brutal, personal.
Her fashion empire? Gone. Signed away piece by piece, with her clueless manicured fingers thinking she was getting help. What a joke.
I was her devil in Dior. And now,
It was all mine:
She could open a new line, sure. Try to claw her way back. But I knew her better than she knew herself–Dulcie didn’t fear death, poverty, or even humiliation. No, Dulcie feared failure. Public failure. Rejection. Being irrelevant.}}
And I gave her all of that wrapped in a silk bow.
“You don’t look satisfied,” Salvatore said as he leaned back against my suite’s windowsill, arms crossed, eyes tracking me like a panther watching his queen play.⠀
I smirked as I sipped my wine, my heels echoing lightly across the marble. “Oh, I am.”
“You sure?”
himed to face him makam sadece hair counted into colt näguar “I’m just not dana vettu
I turned to face him, makeup flawless, hair sculpted into soft power. “I’m just not done yet.”
That made him grin–charp, slow. “I’ll have the press ready“)
The press conference was hosted in one of the most luxurious venues in Europe. Velvet seats, gold trim, marble pillars. The kind of place meant for royalty. Which was fitting. Because I was here to reclaim my throne.
Salvatore flanked me in the wings, his hand ghosting over the small of my back before I walked out. “You don’t have to do this.”
I looked up at him. “Yes, I do.”
“I mean-
“No more hiding,” I said. “No more running. I’m not scared anymore “X
He searched my eyes. I knew what he wanted to say. I knew what he felt. But this moment? It was mine. All mine. I stepped out into the blinding lights. Flashes burst. Cameras clicked. A murmur rippled through the crowd of journalists, influencers, and business elites.
They were expecting Alyssa Voss–the mysterious fashion investor, the phantom mogul from nowhere. What they got was me. “Thank you all for coming.” I said, voice steady, cool. I wore a deep crimson suit that matched the fire in my vems. “I’ll keep this brief.”
No smiles. No games !!
“I am Alyssa Voss,” I began. “But before that–I was Danica De Santis. Wife of Reagon De Santis. Daughter of Benjamin McKellar. Heiress. Mother, And the woman you all thought died in a fire three years ago.”
The room exploded.X
Gasps. Shouts Cameras flickered like mad.X
