Chapter 1: The Scent of Revenge

The first thing I registered was the scent of jasmine.

It was a suffocating, cloying sweetness that clung to the back of my throat, and it was wrong. So very wrong. The last thing I had smelled was smoke. Acrid, black, choking smoke that seared my lungs and burned my skin until I couldn't scream anymore. I had died smelling smoke and the metallic tang of my own blood.

My eyes flew open, and I shot upright in bed, gasping for air.

Sunlight. Not the flickering, demonic orange of flames, but soft, golden morning light that streamed through a window I remembered all too well. The ivory canopy above me, the hand-stitched silk duvet, the vanity with the ornate silver mirror that had belonged to my mother. This was my room. The one I had grown up in. The one I had been locked out of for three years after my stepmother, Celeste, had “redecorated.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I scrambled to my feet, my legs shaky, and stumbled to the mirror.

A stranger stared back. A girl with wide, doe-like hazel eyes and a soft, unblemished face. Her skin was pale and smooth, untouched by years of sleepless nights and forced smiles. She wore her hair in a simple, youthful braid, not the severe chignon I had adopted to look older, more professional. My hand, trembling, flew to my chest. I could feel my heartbeat. A strong, steady rhythm beating beneath a thin cotton nightgown. No scars on my palms from clawing at the locked door. No burns on my arms from trying to crawl through the flames.

This was me. Nineteen-year-old me. Three years before the fire.

Three years before my husband, Damien, and my half-sister, Elara, had locked me in my study while our mansion burned down around us to collect my inheritance and his mistress’s freedom.

The air left my body in a ragged whoosh. I staggered back, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. The mattress soft, the scent of lavender linen. It was too real to be a dream. The warmth of the sun, the ache in my knees from my frantic dash to the mirror, the faint hum of the household outside my door. This was real. I was real.

I had a second chance.

Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, but I refused to let them fall. I had cried enough in my past life. I had cried when my father died and Celeste swooped in to “console” me. I had cried when Damien, the charming son of my father’s business rival, swept me off my feet, whispering promises of a future he never intended to keep. I had cried when Elara, my sweet, naive sister, betrayed me with a smile. I had cried until the fire consumed me.

But no more.

Dry-eyed, I lifted my chin and looked at the girl in the mirror. Her eyes hardened. Good. She was learning.

I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and began to catalog. It was time to make a list. I didn’t have a pen or paper, so I used my mind, carving the names into the flesh of my memory with a sharp, clean edge.

*Number One: Celeste Spencer.* My stepmother. The viper who had coiled around my father’s heart and squeezed until it stopped. She married him for his money, and when he was gone, she treated me like a discarded pawn. The one who suggested to Damien that a tragic accident would be the perfect way to finalize the merger of our companies.

*Number Two: Damien Blackwood.* My husband. The wolf in a tailored suit who promised to protect me. He stole my company's shares, bled my accounts dry, and flaunted his affair with my sister in my own home. He was the one who handed the match to Elara.

*Number Three: Elara Spencer.* My half-sister. The sweet girl I had loved and defended, the one I had shielded from my stepmother’s cruelty. She repaid my kindness by crawling into my husband’s bed and smiling as the lock clicked shut on my door, a soft, apologetic smile as if she were sorry to see me go.

I stopped. There was a fourth name. Less obvious, but perhaps the most crucial of all.

*Number Four: Vivian Ashworth.* Me. The fool who trusted them all.

That was the first mistake I needed to rectify. Trust. I had too much of it. I gave my heart to monsters and expected them to feel the same. This time, I would be the monster.

A soft knock on the door made me jump, my heart slamming against my ribs once more. I schooled my expression, painting on the shy, gentle smile of a girl who had just woken up from a pleasant dream.

“Come in,” I called out, my voice a tremor of uncertainty. Damn it. I hated how weak I sounded. But I needed to be weak. For now.

The door creaked open, and Celeste glided in. She was beautiful, with the kind of sharp, polished beauty that never seemed to age. Her hair was a perfect blonde, her suit a flawless shade of dove gray. She looked like a philanthropist, a saint. She was anything but.

“Good morning, darling,” she cooed, her eyes scanning the room, then settling on me with predatory focus. “I was worried you wouldn’t wake up. Your father has scheduled a brunch with the Blackwoods this morning.”

The Blackwoods. Damien.

My nails dug into the soft flesh of my palm. A phantom pain, the memory of the fire, licked at the edges of my consciousness. This was it. The day everything began. The day I was introduced to the charming man who would become my downfall.

“A brunch?” I echoed, feigning innocence. My gaze drifted to the calendar on my vanity. It was spring. Three years before the fire. Three years before my father would die in a “boating accident” that was never fully investigated.

Celeste smiled, a thin line of red. “Yes. It’s high time you met the Blackwood heir. He’s quite accomplished, you know. Your father thinks a union between our families would be advantageous.”

Advantageous. For whom? Certainly not for me. I knew Damien would be there, all charm and silver-tongued flattery, his dark eyes calculating as he measured my worth in my father’s billions.

“Of course, stepmother,” I said, the word tasting like acid on my tongue. I looked at my reflection in the mirror, the girl with the innocent eyes. I allowed a genuine, slow smile to spread across my lips. It was not a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator who had just found her prey.

Celeste’s own smile faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of confusion crossed her face before she smoothed it over.

“I’ll have your breakfast sent up,” she said, turning to leave.

As the door clicked shut behind her, I walked to my closet. I bypassed the colorful, youthful dresses and pulled out a slim, dark emerald gown. It was elegant, understated, and the color reminded me of money. I dressed slowly, carefully, savoring the feel of the fabric against my skin.

When I was ready, I looked at the girl in the mirror. The haunted look was gone. In its place was a quiet, dangerous calm. I touched the locket around my neck—my mother’s. Inside was a tiny, hidden compartment.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” I whispered, my voice low and steady. “I’ll make them pay. Every last one of them.”

I picked up my phone from the nightstand. My finger hovered over the familiar contact list. I stopped at a name I hadn’t spoken in a lifetime: **Lucas Thorne.**

Lucas. My father’s disgraced protégé, who had been exiled from the company three years ago after being framed for embezzlement by Celeste. The only person who had ever warned me about her true nature. The man fate had always intended for me.

I smiled, the sharp scent of revenge filling my lungs with a strange, heady fire.

I dialed the number.

It rang once. Twice.

A deep, familiar voice answered, laced with wary exhaustion. “Hello?”

*“Lucas,”* I said, my voice a silken whisper. *“It’s Vivian. Vivian Ashworth. I need your help.”*

The line went silent for a long moment. I could hear his breathing. Then, a low, guarded laugh. “I’m sorry, Miss Ashworth. I think you have the wrong number.”

Click.

I stared at the phone, a slow thrill running down my spine. He hung up. Of course, he did. I was a stranger to him now. But I had his number. I knew his secret. And I knew he was the only weapon I had left.

This was not a game.

This was a war. And I had just lit the first match.