The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

Cleo Carrington used to be Northvale's brightest spark—wild, fearless, impossible to pin down. And then she married Damian Joubert. The most controlled, rigid heir in their world. Damian ran like a machine. Perfect standards. Zero slack. And he expected the same from his wife. Cleo loved noise—clubs, music, bodies moving. He had every venue in the city blacklist her. She loved freedom—the blazing Afriyan sun, the northern lights in Icelorn. She raced cars. She jumped out of planes. He took her passport. Shut it all down. Chapter 1 She loved photography. Painting. He called it all pointless. Locked her camera and brushes away like they meant nothing. She was losing it. Still, she forced herself to learn his rules—trained herself into the perfect Mrs. Joubert. Even after she dulled her claws, someone took a shot at her at a banquet. She snapped. Lunged. Ended up fighting a whole group of women. Damian walked in to whispers and hungry stares. He didn't back her up. Not even close. He turned to the woman who started it, calm as ever. "Sorry. I failed to discipline her. She... doesn't understand propriety." It hit like a truck. Ice flooded her veins. She'd spent almost her whole life proving one thing—Damian didn't love her. Later, a car crash ended her short, suffocating life. Then she opened her eyes. Back to before her wedding to Damian. *** Northvale, Arlencia. Cleo stared at her reflection—still bright, still alive. Her heart pounded, hungry for freedom again. She took a slow breath. This time, she didn't want Damian. Didn't want his suffocating version of love. She just wanted herself back—wild, blazing, reckless. She bolted downstairs and found her father, Harold Carrington, at breakfast. "I'm calling off my engagement to Damian." Harold froze, spoon midair. He looked up, eyes sharp with anger. "What kind of nonsense is that? I've put up with your attitude before, but this alliance with the Jouberts? People would kill for it. Do you even know how exceptional Damian is? His family, his connections, his ability, his character—he's one in a million." Cleo met his gaze, saw it clear—he'd box her up and ship her off if it meant sealing the deal. She let out a cold laugh. "If he's so amazing, let your precious illegitimate daughter have him. I'll hand her the damn engagement myself." Harold went rigid, then his anger flipped—straight into shock, then something close to excitement. "Wh-What did you say? You're really willing to give it to your sister?" "Yeah. You've always favored that homewrecker and her kid. Nora's sweet, obedient. You dumped a fortune into turning her into the perfect socialite. She's exactly what a family like the Jouberts wants." Harold's face darkened. "Watch your mouth. That's your sister. This marriage was set years ago—it's not something you just change. But if you're so set on giving it up... fine. I'll talk to the Jouberts about switching the bride." He shot to his feet, grabbed his coat, and rushed out—didn't even finish breakfast. Cleo watched him go—acting reluctant, but barely hiding how thrilled he was. It was almost funny. She didn't say another word. Just went upstairs, grabbed her ID and bag, and walked out. First stop—an expedited visa out of Arlencia. Then she called her best friend, Stella, and headed straight for the hottest club in downtown Northvale. Bass thumping. Lights hazy. Bodies packed tight on the dance floor. Cleo felt it hit—freedom, raw and electric. She dragged Stella into the crowd. Dancing. Drinking. No brakes. Then she went further—called in a few ridiculously hot club guys. Stella just stared. Cleo looked like she'd snapped every leash—glowing, reckless, alive. "Cleo, aren't you about to marry into the Jouberts? Damian's strict as hell. Old-school. Their house rules are insane. If he finds out you're here—and you called in these hot guys—we're dead. Seriously, if you wanna ruin your life, don't drag me with you." Cleo tipped her head back and took a long drink. The burn slid down, sharp and clean. She smiled, slow and lazy. "Relax. I already handed the engagement to Nora." "You what?!" Stella's eyes went wide. "Weren't you obsessed with Damian? Every rich guy was chasing you, and you blew them all off. Then one gala—you see him, boom, love at first sight. You literally said only a guy like him was good enough for you." Cleo's lips curved, but her eyes stayed cool. Distant. "Liking someone and being right for them? Not the same. We don't fit. And I'm done liking him. Love's great, sure—but freedom's better. I've got looks, I've got money. I'm not settling. I'll find someone who actually matches me. Like..." Her gaze slid to the shy hunk beside her. She reached up, hooked a finger under his chin, tilting it playfully. "These pretty boys? Not bad at all." A cold voice cut in from behind her—low, sharp, completely out of place. "Who are you calling not bad?" Chapter 2 Cleo went still, then slowly turned. Damian stood by their booth. Black suit, perfectly tailored. Tall, straight-backed. Cold, controlled. He didn't belong in this chaos—like something untouchable dropped into the middle of it. Everything else faded next to him. Stella sucked in a breath, instantly sober. She shot Cleo a panicked look, grabbed her bag, and bolted. Now it was just Cleo and Damian, staring each other down. And her hand—still hooked under that guy's chin. Damian's gaze dropped to it. His eyes went dark. He stepped in, grabbed her wrist, then flicked a freezing look at the guy. "Get out." The guy went pale. Him and the rest scattered in seconds. Cleo yanked her hand free, rubbing her wrist, already red. She shot him a glare. "What the hell are you doing?" "I should be asking you that." His voice cut cold. "Why are you in a place like this?" "I felt like it." She shrugged, careless, defiant. "What's it to you?" He studied her—stubborn, unapologetic, bold. His gaze darkened. Before she could react, he bent and threw her over his shoulder. "What are you doing? Put me down! You jerk!" Furious, she pounded his back, kicking hard. He didn't even slow down. He carried her straight through the staring crowd, out of the club, and shoved her into the black Rolls-Royce at the curb. "Drive." "Yes, sir." The car glided off. Cleo lunged for the handle, ready to jump. "Cleo." Damian grabbed her arm and yanked her back into the seat. He stared at her, voice flat and cold. "How long are you gonna keep this up? "You're about to marry into my family. I gave you the house rules. One clause—home before ten. No bars. No clubs. Nothing like this. Didn't you read it? "You're not coming to places like this again. As for tonight, when we get back, you'll write a ten-thousand-word reflection. I want a full breakdown of what you did and why it won't happen again." 'Ten thousand words? House rules?' Cleo almost laughed, anger rising sharp in her chest. In her last life, those thousands of rules had boxed her in for years. She'd lived like a puppet. Not this time. "Who the hell's writing your stupid reflection?" she snapped. "What do your rules have to do with me? I'm not marrying you." The car went dead quiet. Damian turned, sharp. His eyes locked on hers—disbelief, something darker underneath. He held her gaze for a long beat, jaw tight. "What do you mean?" Cleo looked at him. The urge to tell him everything cooled just as fast. He already hated how wild she was. If she told him now his perfect bride had been swapped in—wouldn't that be letting him off easy? Her last life pressed in on her. Suffocating. She drew a slow breath. 'Let him suffer a little. 'Let him sit with the idea of marrying me for a few more days.' She shoved it all down and turned to the window. "Nothing. I was just mad." Damian watched her for a beat. The darkness in his eyes eased a little, but his tone stayed firm. "Sit properly." Even pissed, he sat ramrod straight, not a hair out of place. The memory of those suffocating rules hit her all over again. She didn't move. Instead, she slouched across the seat, kicked off her heels, and pressed her bare feet into the cashmere carpet. Then she rolled the window down and let the night wind tear through her styled hair. Bold. Bright. Unrestrained. That was her. Damian watched her—completely out of place in his perfectly ordered world. His brows pulled tight, but he didn't say a word. The car stopped in front of the Carrington house. Cleo pushed the door open and stepped out. "Cleo." Damian's voice came from behind her, cool as ever. "Ten thousand words. On my desk tomorrow." Then he told the driver to go. Cleo stared at the fading taillights, then kicked a stone hard across the pavement. Chapter 3 She pushed the door open and walked inside. Harold, Rosalind, and Nora sat on the couch like they'd been waiting. The second Harold saw her—the smell of alcohol on her, clothes a mess—his face darkened. "Where the hell have you been? Coming back this late, looking like that—what do you think you look like?" Cleo didn't even answer. She headed straight for the stairs. "I'm not marrying Damian anymore. Where I go, what I wear—that's my business." Nora stood and walked over, barely hiding the excitement in her eyes. "Cleo, Dad said... you're giving the engagement to me. Is that true?" Cleo looked at her—fake sweet, all sugar—and felt nothing but disgust. "Yeah, it's yours. Isn't taking other people's scraps your thing?" "Watch your mouth!" Harold snapped. "A man like Damian is a dream match people would kill for! This marriage is a once-in-a-lifetime win for our family! "I already spoke to the Jouberts about switching the bride. Compared to you, they're clearly happier with Nora. "Just don't come crying when you regret it!" Cleo let out a quiet laugh, voice steady. "Relax. I don't do regrets." Rosalind sighed from the side, voice dripping fake concern. "Cleo, I don't mean to criticize, but your temper's out of control. Without marrying into the Joubert family, what respectable family would even take you?" Cleo's gaze snapped sharp, her eyes going ice-cold. "And who do you think you are, lecturing me? Some washed-up side piece? "Maybe focus on your own daughter. Just because you stole something doesn't mean you get to keep it. Don't end up losing everything after all that scheming." Rosalind's face flushed, then went pale. She had nothing left to say. Harold looked ready to blow. Cleo didn't bother with another word. She turned and headed upstairs, straight to her room. *** Early next morning, before Cleo was even awake, Damian showed up. Same as always—cool, composed, flawless. First thing out of his mouth: "The reflection essay." Cleo leaned on the doorframe, sleep shirt hanging loose, collar slipping just enough. She yawned. "Didn't write it. Never will." His face went cold, his voice sharper. "When are you going to learn to behave?" "I was born this way." She held his gaze, eyes steady and defiant. "Behave? Not happening. I don't do control." "You—" Before it could snap, Nora stepped in right on cue. She wore a simple, elegant dress, posture straight, smile soft. "Damian, don't blame Cleo." Her voice stayed gentle as she handed him a neatly written letter. "She might've just been in a bad mood last night. I already wrote the reflection essay for her. Is this okay?" Damian took it and skimmed. When he looked back at Cleo, the disappointment hit harder. "Look at your sister, then look at yourself. Same house, same upbringing. Why can't you learn some basic sense from her?" His tone cooled. "Forget last night. Don't let it happen again. Go change. You're coming with me to a business reception later." "Nope." Cleo didn't hesitate. "Not going. Take Nora. She fits your standards better, right?" Damian's brows pulled tight. "Cleo. You're my fiancée." The words hit sharp. There it was. He wasn't marrying her because he wanted her—just because the engagement was set. The Joubert family didn't back out of deals. It had nothing to do with love. If he had a choice, he would've picked Nora a long time ago. 'Fine,' she thought. 'This time, you get exactly what you want.' Nora jumped in, soft as ever. "Damian, maybe Cleo's not used to formal events. I'll go with her. If she misses anything, I'll remind her." She took Cleo's arm and steered her upstairs. "Cleo, I'll help you pick something." The door shut. Cleo yanked her hand free, eyes gone cold. "No one's here. Who are you putting on a show for?" The softness dropped off Nora's face, even if her voice stayed steady. "You're mistaken. I really do want us to get along." "Get along?" Cleo let out a short laugh. "Not in this lifetime. Unless you're dead. Actually—even then, I'd celebrate on your grave. Might even bring your mom." Nora finally cracked. "Don't push me. You think I like flattering you? Once Damian knows the bride is me, he'll be even happier. Someone like you was never worthy of him." "Oh?" Cleo lifted a brow, stepping closer, voice edged with mockery. "Then why didn't you say that just now? Not confident? Or scared he'd call it off the second he realized it's you?" Chapter 4 "Stop lying!" Nora snapped, like someone just stepped on her last nerve. "If he knew, he'd be relieved the bride is me. I didn't say anything because I want it to be a surprise on the wedding day. So keep your mouth shut." Cleo gave a faint smile. "Relax. Whatever games you two are playing, I'm not interested." This time, she just wanted to be herself. *** In the end, Cleo still got dragged to the reception. The ballroom glittered—perfume, polished shoes, glasses clinking under crystal lights. Cleo went bold in a red backless gown, a hard contrast to Nora's soft white dress. When the opening dance started, Damian's gaze flicked between them—then he held his hand out to Nora. Whispers rolled through the room. "Isn't Cleo the fiancée? Why'd Harold bring the younger sister?" "Isn't it obvious? He prefers Nora." "Nora's graceful. Cleo's gorgeous, sure, but way too wild. Not exactly Joubert material..." Damian acted like he didn't hear a thing. He looked at Cleo, voice flat. "You don't know this kind of waltz. Watch Nora. Learn something." Then he led Nora onto the floor. They fit—moving in perfect sync under the lights, pulling every eye in the room. Cleo watched them spin. No jealousy—just annoyance. She turned away, grabbed some food, then slipped out to the balcony for air. The night air hit cold, easing the tightness in her chest. Then footsteps. Nora. A faint flush still lingered from the dance, her eyes bright with triumph. "Cleo, why're you out here alone? Couldn't stand watching us?" She stepped closer, pride barely hidden. "I told you—between us, anyone would pick the more proper one. Even Damian." Her voice dropped, sharp and deliberate. "You're honestly pathetic. Your mom couldn't beat mine back then, and now you can't beat me. Guess it runs in your blood." If it were anything else, Cleo might've let it slide. But that crossed the line. Her expression went ice-cold. No warning—her hand snapped out. Smack. Nora's head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming across her cheek. She clutched her face, staring at Cleo. "Y-You actually hit me?" "So what?" Cleo stepped in, all sharp edges, her beauty gone ice-cold. "I could do worse." She grabbed Nora by the collar and dragged her to the balcony edge. "Who told you it was smart to provoke me alone?" Her voice cut clean. "You forget? I've been trained to fight since I was a kid. Taking down a fake like you is easy." Nora glanced at the drop, her voice shaking. "Cleo! You wouldn't—" "I'll show you what I would do." Before she could finish, Cleo lifted her heel and kicked hard. "Ah—!" Nora's scream ripped through the night as she lost balance, slammed through the flimsy railing, and fell. Chapter 5 Chaos broke out below—screams, people shouting over each other. Cleo stood at the edge, watching the crowd close in around Nora's still body on the lawn. Nothing. She smoothed her skirt, fixed her hair, picked up the shawl from the railing, then turned and walked for the exit. She'd barely made it past the carved doors when a hand clamped around her wrist. She turned—met Damian's eyes, dark with fury and disbelief. He'd rushed over. His breathing was uneven, his gaze locked on her, his voice cold as ice. "Nora fell from the balcony... did you do it?" Cleo shook his hand off. "Yeah. So?" His face darkened, anger flashing in his eyes. "I told you to learn from Nora. This is what you got out of it?" His voice hardened. "You're out of control. Go back and apologize." "Apologize?" Cleo laughed. "She had it coming. Me? Apologize? Try your next life." "You're impossible." He cut it off and turned to the bodyguards. "If she won't apologize, she'll learn. Throw her in the reflecting pool. She doesn't get out without my say. Not until the reception's over." "Damian Joubert! Who do you think you are? Don't touch me!" Cleo fought hard. His grip tightened on her wrist, crushing. He stared straight at her, every word slow and sharp. "I'm your fiancé. Nora almost died because of you. If I don't deal with you, your father will do worse when you get home. You need to learn. This doesn't happen again." "What fiancé? We already—" She didn't get it out. The bodyguards grabbed her. Ignoring the kicking and shouting, they hauled her to the pool and threw her in. Splash. The freezing water swallowed her whole. Early spring. The cold cut deep. Cleo broke the surface, choking, coughing, clawing for the edge. The second she grabbed it, a bodyguard shoved her back under. She tried again. And again. Every time, they forced her down. "Damian! You bastard! Let me out!" Her voice ripped raw. The only answer—water crashing over her as she got pushed under again. Her strength faded with each struggle. The cold seeped in, numbing everything. Then a sharp ache twisted low in her stomach. Her period hit. Bright red spread through the clear water, blooming out until nearly half the pool turned crimson. Her face went paper-white—cold, pain, all of it. Through the blur, she heard a bodyguard on the phone. "Sir, she started her period. There's a lot of blood... do we keep going?" Silence. Then Damian's voice cut through—cold, final. "Continue. Otherwise, she'll never learn." 'Never learn?' So that's it. My defiance, my pain, my reasons—none of it matters. He just wants obedience. The freezing water burned like fire, searing her skin, her chest. A deeper despair hit—worse than the pain. Tears slipped into the water, quiet, unnoticed. She couldn't hold on anymore. Darkness closed in. Her body went slack, sinking under the blood-stained water. Chapter 6 Cleo woke to the sharp bite of disinfectant. She blinked, staring at the hospital ceiling. Someone was holding her hand. She turned her head. Damian sat beside the bed, his fingers wrapped around hers, eyes closed. Shadows hung under them. He felt her move and opened his eyes instantly. Their eyes met. He let go of her hand. The fatigue—and that flicker of concern—vanished, replaced by his usual cool control. "I already spoke to your father. He won't take this further. But Cleo, you need to promise me you won't hurt Nora again. She's your sister." "Who asked you to apologize for me?" Her voice came out rough, dripping with mockery. "And that side-piece bastard thinks she's my sister? Please. In another life, she wouldn't mean shit next to me." His brows pulled together, like he wanted to say more. The door opened. A nurse stepped in. "Mr. Joubert, the patient next door is unstable. She keeps asking for you." Damian stood, smoothing his perfectly straight cuff. "I'll check on Nora. She got hurt because of you. As your fiancé, it's only right I go see her." Cleo's lips twitched. She turned toward the window. "Go ahead. She's the one who fits you." His steps stalled. He turned back, frowning. "What did you say?" Cleo didn't repeat it. She yanked the blanket over her head, done. Damian stared at her shut-down posture, pressed his fingers to his temple, then followed the nurse out. Over the next few days, Cleo stayed in the hospital, healing. Nurses came and went, swapping IVs, checking vitals, talking like she wasn't there. "Damian Joubert's all over Nora Carrington. He's with her every day." "Seriously. I heard she hates bitter meds, so he had imported fruit gummies sent over." "If you ask me, they look perfect together. That's what a real match looks like." They all assumed sweet, well-behaved Nora was the real fiancée. Cleo listened, not even a flicker. If anything, she almost laughed. She wished they'd keep thinking that. *** The day Cleo got discharged, Damian showed up. He took the paperwork from the nurse, then looked at her—leaning back against the headboard, scrolling her phone. "Get ready. I'll take you home." "I'm not going back there." She didn't even look up. His face darkened. "Stop being difficult." He didn't wait for another no. He stepped in, grabbed her wrist—not hard, but controlled—and pulled her off the bed. Half guiding, half dragging, he got her out of the room and into the car. The car pulled up at the Carrington house. Cleo shook off his hand and headed straight upstairs. She pushed her door open—and froze. Nora sat at her vanity, holding a sapphire necklace up to the mirror, light flashing off it. The only thing her mom left her. "Who the hell said you could touch my stuff?" Cleo's voice went ice-cold. "Put it down. Get out." Nora flinched, then smiled. Instead of putting it back, she let it dangle between her fingers on purpose. "Your stuff? Let me tell you something—everything in this house is gonna be mine sooner or later." "Guess that fall didn't teach you shit." Cleo stepped closer, eyes sharp. "I slipped up last time." Nora let out a cold laugh. "You think I'm still scared of you?" Before Cleo could fire back, Nora's gaze turned hard. She snatched a vase and slammed it on the floor. It shattered. At the same time, she dropped right into the shards and screamed. The crash had Harold and Rosalind running in. "What happened?" Harold rushed in. He saw the broken shards, Nora sitting in the mess, tears shaking in her eyes—his face went dark. Nora looked up, eyes glossy. "Dad... I just wanted to look at Cleo's necklace. I didn't think she'd... push me..." "Cleo!" Harold snapped. He didn't wait for an explanation. He stepped in and slapped her—hard. The crack rang through the room. Her cheek swelled fast, burning. Cleo tilted her head, tasting blood where her mouth split. She didn't cry. She let out a low laugh. Chapter 7 "What are you laughing at?" Harold snapped, her laugh getting under his skin. Cleo lifted her head, eyes sharp, cutting straight to Nora—still playing weak. "You love putting on a show, huh? Fine. I'll give you one." Before anyone could move, she grabbed a metal pen off the vanity and drove it straight into the back of Nora's hand, pinning it to the floor. "Ahhh!" A sharp scream ripped through the room. The pen punched clean through her hand, blood spilling fast. "You—You've lost your mind! You're insane!" Harold shook with rage, pointing at the door. "Get out! Get out of this house! There's no place for you here!" He called the servants. They dragged her out, tossed her and her small suitcase past the gates. Cleo stumbled, then steadied. Face blank, she rubbed her sore arm, then crouched and pulled out her mom's sapphire necklace—the one she'd taken back earlier—and clenched it tight. She gave the grand, cold mansion one last look, then turned and walked away. No hesitation. She hadn't gone far before the sky just opened up. Rain slammed down out of nowhere, soaking her in seconds. The early spring chill cut through her clothes, straight to the bone. Shivering, she ducked under a shop awning, half-running. Water dripped from her hair. She wrapped her arms around herself, staring at the blur of rain. Her chest felt empty. Just then, a familiar black Rolls-Royce pulled up in front of her. The window slid down, revealing Damian's sharp profile. The second he saw her—soaked, a mess under the awning—his brows tightened. He shoved the door open and walked over. "Get in." "I don't need you." Damian didn't argue. He grabbed her arm, grip tight, and hauled her into the passenger seat. The car was warm, heat chasing off the cold clinging to her. He handed her a clean towel, then drove in silence back to his place. Inside, he gave her one of his shirts and a pair of pants to change into. Then he brought out a first-aid kit and dabbed at the faint bruise on her cheek. "What happened?" His voice stayed low, eyes on her swollen face, her damp hair making her look almost fragile. Cleo pressed her lips together. Said nothing. The doorbell rang. Damian got up and opened it. Nora stood there—hand wrapped in thick bandages, face pale. "Damian..." Her eyes went red the second she saw him. "Dad kicked Cleo out. I was worried... I mean, yeah, she almost killed me last time, and this time she stabbed my hand with a pen, but... we're still sisters. I couldn't stop thinking about her, so I came to take her home..." From the living room, Cleo heard every word. Nora made her sick. She walked over and stared her down. "Try that disgusting act in front of me again, and I'll rip your mouth apart." "Cleo." Damian's face darkened. "How long are you gonna keep this up? Hitting people. Shoving them. Driving a pen through someone's hand. Which part of that screams 'proper lady'? "Nora didn't hold it against you. She even came to take you home, and this is how you treat her?" Nora rushed forward and grabbed his sleeve. "Damian, it's okay. As long as Cleo comes back with me..." "Cleo, apologize to her." "Not happening." They started arguing right there in the doorway. Damian reached for Cleo. She shoved him off. His arm hit a tea tray a maid had just set down. Crash. The porcelain pot shattered. Scalding tea splashed everywhere. In that split second, Damian moved on instinct. He turned and pulled Nora tight against him, his back shielding her from the worst of it. Cleo stood on the other side. No time to move. Boiling tea soaked half her body. Pain tore through her—from calf to arm. She doubled over, face white as paper. Damian checked Nora first. Just a few red spots on her hand. He let go, then finally saw Cleo curled on the floor. Her skin was already swelling, flushed an angry red. His pupils tightened. He stepped toward her. "Damian!" Nora grabbed his arm, voice shaking. "I'm fine, it just stings... But Cleo... she looks really hurt. Shouldn't you check her first?" He stopped. His gaze flicked between Cleo's twisted face and Nora's soft, understanding look. Then he remembered Cleo's earlier "outburst," and his eyes hardened. He looked away. He bent down, scooped Nora into his arms. His voice went cold. "Forget her. Let her suffer. Maybe next time she'll think before hurting you." He carried Nora out without a glance back. Chapter 8 Cleo collapsed onto the cold floor. Her body burned, but inside felt hollow—like something had been ripped out, leaving nothing but cold rushing through. She clenched her teeth, fighting the pain and the spin in her head. With her good hand, she dragged out her phone and called an ambulance herself. *** Cleo got discharged from the hospital the same day as Nora's birthday banquet. The Carrington house was glowing, packed with people. As the so-called eldest daughter, Cleo had to show. She stayed off to the side, out of sight, watching Harold grin as he held Nora's hand—showing her off, calling her his perfect daughter, announcing most of his assets would go to her. Praise and envy buzzed around them. Cleo watched, her heart flat and frozen. All these years, she'd never had a real birthday. Her mom died early. Her dad didn't care. Every year, it was just her and a cold cake, making wishes no one heard. The party hit its peak as gifts started rolling in. Harold transferring property was already wild. Then Damian stepped up—velvet box in hand. He opened it, revealing a diamond necklace worth a fortune, and clasped it around Nora's neck himself. The room gasped. Nora lit up, glowing with pride. Her smug eyes flicked toward Cleo. Cleo looked away. She walked to the bar, grabbed a drink, and downed it in one shot, trying to drown the noise in her head. But trouble never missed her. A pack of Nora's friends rolled up and "accidentally" slammed into her. "Well, look who it is—Cleo. It's Nora's birthday. Everyone's vibing. Why do you look so pissed? Can't handle her winning?" Cleo wasn't playing. She set her drink down and turned to go. "Hey. We're talking to you. You deaf?" A girl grabbed her arm. That did it. Cleo ripped free, shoving her hard enough to make her stumble. She grabbed a half-full wine bottle off the table, eyes cold as hell. "I gave you a shot. You blew it." No pause. No warning. She swung. The bottle cracked against the nearest girl's head. Bang. The bottle shattered—wine and blood spilling together. Screams ripped through the room. Everything went chaotic. Cleo didn't stop. She swung again and again, fast, brutal—until Damian rushed in and grabbed her wrist. "Cleo, what the hell are you doing now?" He took in the mess—the girls clutching their bleeding heads—his face going dark. Cleo let out a cold laugh. "You saw it. They tried me. I hit back." "You hit back?" Disappointment and anger burned in Damian's eyes. "That was straight-up assault. Revenge. And if they're talking about you, maybe fix yourself. Apologize." "In your dreams." That was it—his patience snapped. He knew exactly what she feared: the dark, tight spaces. "If you won't admit it, then think on it." He nodded to the guards. "Lock her in the basement. No one lets her out without my permission." His voice went ice-cold. "Fear might teach you." They dragged Cleo out of the party and tossed her into a narrow, windowless room. The door slammed. Darkness rushed in, swallowing everything. Memories hit—being locked in the dark as a kid. She curled into the corner, shaking, cold sweat soaking her back. Time dragged. Endless. Hunger. Thirst. Cold. And that pitch-black pressure clawing at her nerves. By day three, she was barely holding it together. Then the door cracked open. A thin slice of light cut through the dark. Nora stood there, smiling like she won. "I thought Damian would go harder. Guess locking you up was too soft." She clapped. Two guys in black stepped in, faces blank. "What are you doing?" Cleo's voice came out rough, barely there. "Making it stick." Nora's smile went sharp. "Tie her to the chair." Chapter 9 "You seriously think you can get away with this?" Cleo snapped. "I'll kill you the second I'm out." She thrashed, but the two guys locked her down like she weighed nothing. "Kill me?" Nora let out a soft laugh, all smug ease. "You wouldn't even get close. Damian would shut you down first." She tilted her head, smiling. "Or did you forget? He picks me. Every. Single. Time." That hit exactly where it hurt most. Yeah. Every single time—right or wrong—Damian chose Nora. The fight drained out of her, swallowed by that same old helpless drop. They shoved her into a cold metal chair. Straps locked her wrists and ankles. Electrodes pressed to her skin. Nora watched, satisfied, then tapped the controller. "Ahhh!" The shock ripped through her. Pain and numbness hit at once. Her body jerked, out of control, a scream tearing out of her throat. Her vision blacked out. Her mind snapped loose under the pain. *** When Cleo woke up, she was on a soft bed—no longer in that nightmare room. Damian sat beside her, brows tight. "I said three days in the basement. How did it end like this?" Cleo kept her eyes shut. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to talk. She didn't expect him to believe her anyway. "Cleo." A hint of concern slipped into his voice. "I'm your fiancé. You should tell me everything." 'Fiancé? What a joke.' She opened her eyes, looking straight at him, voice flat. "Fine. I'll tell you. Your precious Nora dragged people in on day three. Tied me to a chair. Lit me up until I ended up like this." His pupils tightened. Shock flickered. "An electric chair? That's not possible. Nora... she wouldn't—" "See?" A mocking smile pulled at her lips. "You don't believe me." 'Figures. Doesn't matter. If he won't believe me, I'll handle it myself.' And she did. That night, Cleo had people grab Nora—who was terrified of heights—strip her down, tie her up, and hang her off the edge of Joubert Tower's roof, leaving her out in the freezing wind all night. The next day, Damian stormed in, fury burning in his eyes. "Cleo, what the hell is wrong with you? You hung Nora off a roof all night. Do you even get what could've happened? She panicked, she slipped—if there wasn't a net, she'd be dead." Cleo sat by the window, eyes half-lidded, as if it had nothing to do with her. That only made him angrier. "If our wedding wasn't in a few days, your family and I wouldn't let this slide. You're staying home. You're not going anywhere, and you're done causing problems. Got it?" She didn't answer. Like he wasn't even there. The door slammed on his way out, cold air trailing behind him. The night before the wedding, Nora finally came home, pale as hell. The second Harold saw Cleo, he lost it—cursing, calling her vicious, heartless. Cleo didn't flinch. "If I was that vicious, your precious daughter would've died eight times by now." Harold shook with rage. "You ungrateful brat! How long are you going to keep this up?" "You brought your mistress into this house and let her kid take my place." Cleo's voice stayed flat. "I'm still here—what do you expect me to do? Cook for you?" "You—!" His face flushed, like he might drop on the spot. "Fine. I'm done arguing. Tomorrow's Nora and Damian's wedding. You're not showing up. Don't you dare embarrass us." Cleo let out a quiet laugh. "Relax. That stiff, suffocating wedding? You couldn't drag me there." Chapter 10 With that, she turned and went upstairs. At dawn, her phone lit up. The visa she'd been waiting on was finally approved. She grabbed the suitcase she'd packed days ago and headed for the door—no hesitation. The second she hit the bottom of the stairs, she saw Damian walking in with his groomsmen, there to pick up the bride. At Nora's request, the ceremony leaned old-school. The bride stood in a layered white gown, face hidden under a long veil, one arm held by a bridesmaid. Damian couldn't see her clearly. Of course he thought it was Cleo. He stepped up and took her hand. Maybe it was the wedding, but his voice softened. "Hey. Don't be nervous. I've got you." Cleo stood in the shadow of the stairs, silent. 'Damian, a guy like you—obsessed with rules—deserves a bride who's 'soft', 'proper', 'perfectly polished'. When you lift that veil and realize they swapped the bride, you're gonna love it. My wedding gift. No need to thank me.' After he took the bride and left—and Harold and Rosalind followed, all smiles—the house went quiet. Cleo grabbed her suitcase and walked out. She waved down a cab and slid in. "Miss, where to?" the driver asked, easygoing. She didn't answer. She pulled a small remote from her pocket and stared out at the mansion, glowing in the morning light. It used to be her mom's place. Her mom built it. Then she died. And her dad filled it with his side piece and her kid—turned it into something that made Cleo sick. Her eyes went cold. She hit the red button. Boom! The blast ripped through the air. Charges went off all at once. A fireball shot up, smoke swallowing the mansion—every bad memory with it. The shockwave shook the cab. The driver almost lost the wheel, face going pale. "M-Miss... that's your house, right? Y-You just blew it up?!" Cleo looked away, calm, clicking her seatbelt. "Yeah. I did. My mom built that place, and my dad turned it into a house for his side chick and her kid. I was over it." She glanced at him. "Airport." He glanced at her in the rearview—too calm for someone who just did that—then back at the fire in the distance. He swallowed, shock mixing with a flicker of respect. "Uh—yeah, got it!" He tightened his grip, hit the gas, and sped toward the airport. Outside, the city blurred by. Behind them, the fire faded, painting half the sky red.