The Blaze
“My husband bu:rned my only decent dress so I couldn’t attend his promotion party.” The words echoed in my mind as the orange tongues licked the night air.
I sprinted through the garden, heart pounding, the scent of burning fabric choking me.
Adrian stood in his tuxedo, a bottle of lighter fluid glinting on his palm, his silhouette a cruel statue against the flickering light.
“Adrian?! What are you doing?!” I lunged, voice cracking, the ash‑gray sky reflecting the fury in my eyes.
He shoved me back with a smile as cold as steel.
“Don’t bother,” he said, voice flat. “It’s trash. Just like you.”
The words struck harder than the heat.
I felt the world tilt, tears slicking my cheeks, but fury rose faster.
“Why would you do this? How am I supposed to go with you?”
He tilted his chin, disdain dripping from every syllable.
“Exactly. You’re not. Look at you—your hands, your smell, the way you dress. I’m a VP now. My circle is different. You don’t belong anymore.”
My throat tightened, the ember‑glow of the dress mirroring the ember‑rage inside me.
“I helped you get there… I stood by you when you had nothing…”
He smirked, the grin widening like a predator.
“And I compensate you, don’t I? Stay home. I’ve invited Vanessa—the director’s daughter. She fits my image. Try to show up, and security will remove you.”
His laugh cut the night short, then he turned and walked away, leaving the flames to devour the remnants of my hopes.
Vanessa. The name stung like a fresh wound.
As the fire crackled, I felt something cold settle over the grief, a resolve hardening like steel.
The Call
I slipped back into the house, the heat of the backyard still licking the back of my neck.
The phone on the hallway table rang, its screen flashing an unknown number.
I grabbed it, breath shallow, and dialed the number I knew by heart.
“Mr. Harrison Blackwood?” I asked, voice steady despite the tears threatening to rise.
A pause, then a voice as smooth as polished marble answered.
“My Lady Chairwoman.”
My pulse surged. The word “Chairwoman” felt like a crown sliding onto my head.
“Are you ready for tonight’s gala?” his tone was courteous, but his eyes—if I could see them—were already calculating.
“Yes,” I said, each syllable a blade. “Send the team. Prepare my Paris gown and the 50‑million‑peso diamond set. Tonight I arrive as a queen.”
He exhaled, a soft click on the other end.
“We’re ready.”
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