Chapter 9
By sunset my living room turned into a private runway.
Sofia walked in with fabric swatches like weapons. Marco started flipping through hair color charts before I even said a word.
“We’re going for blood,” I said. “Not elegance. Power, Make it look like I wear destruction for breakfast.”
Sofia clapped once. “Say no more.”
By the time they were done, the woman in the mirror wasn’t Amelia Winslock. She wasn’t even Amelia Rodrigo. She was something else entirely.
Hair: rich mahogany, soft waves that kissed my shoulders like firelight.
Style: tailored black silks with deep red undertones that shimmered when I walked. No. more flowery pastels. No more innocent lace.
Makeup: dark burgundy lips and smoky eyes that said touch me and die.
Posture: stronger, upright, like my spine remembered who the hell I was.
Even Adrian noticed. He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, brow raised.
“If you’re ready for a date,” he said, “I know someone–he’s handsome, clean, and his parents never tried to murder a baby.”
I snorted, smoothing my blazer. “What I want isn’t romance, hermano. It’s revenge. You can’t date your way through trauma.”
He sighed, gave me that tired big–brother look, then kissed my cheek. “Just don’t burn the city down. I like Milan.”
That night was the charity gala for climate aid in the city. High society. Cameras, Scandal disguised in sequins and cocktails.
Perfect.
The moment I stepped out of the black car and onto the red carpet, a hush followed me. People stared. They didn’t recognize me–not right away.
One reporter actually whispered, “Who’s that?” like I was a myth walking past.
Another said, “She looks like someone important.”
Damn right, I do. My assistant leaned in beside me as we stepped into the venue.
“You sure you want this out there already?” she whispered.
I smiled slowly, that sharp, unkind smile I’d practiced in front of the mirror.
“Let the Cunninghams know I’m back.”
Because this isn’t just a comeback. It’s a warning.
They invited me to the wedding thinking I’d break down. Now they’ll wish they never sent the invite at all.
12:38 Tue, 24 Jun M.
CAROLINE’S POV
98%1
I was flipping through the fashion magazine while getting my nails done at the penthouse when I saw her.
Page six. Full spread.
Black silk. Blood–red lips. Smiling like she owned Milan and the rest of us were just extras in her movie.
Amelia.
I froze, mid–sip of my cucumber–infused water, and stared at the photo. She didn’t look broken. She didn’t look lost or regretful. She looked–God, I hate even saying it–hot. Like, painfully hot. Like the kind of woman men turn into fools for. Like the kind of woman who didn’t just survive hell–she redecorated it and made it hers.
I zoomed in.
“She’s doing this to mess with me,” I muttered, low under my breath.
“She’s in Milan,” said the nail tech innocently. “Everyone’s talking about her comeback.”
Comeback? Please. She was never important. She was a nobody. A charity case with sad eyes and an oversized corduroy jacket that smelled like cheap coffee and wet paper. Argg! I still remember that faded green hoodie she wore every damn day in high school. Two sizes too big, sleeves chewed up from nerves. Hair like it hadn’t met conditioner in years. And those orthopedic shoes? I used to call her Granny Gear. She’d laugh it off, like it didn’t sting, but it did. I could tell.
And college? Even worse.
She used to trail behind Favio like a lost puppy, practically begging for attention he never gave.
She had this massive crush on him–everyone knew. Girl did his homework, packed his lunch, even ironed his shirts. I literally caught her sewing a button back onto his shirt once like some unpaid housewife.
“She’s like your little assistant,” I told Favio once, giggling while we watched her from across the quad. “Or maybe a fan club with legs.”
“Free labor,” he shrugged. “Why not?”
I was the one he kissed in the backseat of his dad’s Porsche. I was the one who wore his sweatshirt and left lipstick stains on his collar. I was the one he loved. Until I got bored. Chased something flashier. Richer.
And when I came back five years later, all sun–kissed and wiser… He was married to her. Amelia Winslock.
The sidekick. The ghost. The nobody.
I don’t even know how it happened. One minute she was still invisible, the next she was Mrs. Favio Cunningham–smiling at charity galas like she belonged there, like she hadn’t scraped gum off the bottom of cafeteria chairs. And yes, I got rid of her. Eventually.
Baker 9
213 10.4%
12:38 Tue, 24 Jun M
98%
Pulled the right strings, whispered the right poison in Favio’s ear, reminded him who he was and who she wasn’t. She never stood a chance.
Not with me in the picture.
Not after I made sure her little surprise pregnancy didn’t last. So why the hell am I the one feeling twisted up right now?
I dialed Favio the second I got home. My voice stayed sweet. Honey–laced. Soft, like hadn’t just thrown my purse across the hallway.
“Baby?” I cooed when he picked up. “Where are you?”
“Still in the office. What’s wrong?” he replied, voice low and distracted, like always.
“I–I saw her. Amelia. She’s everywhere. Magazines. Blogs. Even the charity gala. She’s doing this on purpose.” I pouted, making sure he could hear the tremble in my voice. “She’s trying to ruin everything. Our wedding, our peace. Us.”
He sighed. That heavy kind of sigh that meant he didn’t want to deal with this.
“She’s just dressing up and playing games,” he muttered. “Let her enjoy the attention while it lasts.”
“Favio,” I whispered, “do you still think about her?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“It’s a real one. You two were married. She’s not exactly hiding anymore, is she?” I lowered my voice and softened it to a gentle breath. “I just need to know you’re with me. That I’m not competing with someone you’re still secretly obsessed with.”
He didn’t answer right away. And that pause? That damn pause? It sliced me wide open.
