Amara’S POV

The silence of my room was unbearable. Even after scrubbing my hands until the skin burned, I still saw Liam’s blood staining my fingers, still felt the weight of his body slumping lifeless in front of me.

I sat on the edge of my bed, the lamp casting a dull glow over the cracked walls, replaying the moment again and again. The gunshot. The way his voice broke when he said he loved me. The smirk on my father’s face as though he had done me a favor.

A piece of Liam was all I had left. Before Ross dragged his body away, I’d stolen the handkerchief he always carried, now stiff with his blood. I pressed it to my lips, wishing I could breathe in the trace of him still clinging to the cloth.

Never again, I swore. Love had cost Liam his life. Love had humiliated me, reduced me to a kneeling, begging child. Love was poison, and I would never drink it again.

The next few days passed in a haze. Father wasted no time sending me back to work. The blood of my latest target still clung to my blade, but I felt nothing. No satisfaction, no anger, no purpose.

One night, I stood on the balcony of the estate, staring at the city lights in the distance. They flickered like stars, promising freedom. I knew if I stayed, I’d die piece by piece until nothing of me remained.

So I left.

It wasn’t dramatic. No gunfire. No chase. Just a bag stuffed with cash I had hidden away, a knife strapped to my thigh, and the will to vanish. For once, I didn’t look back.

The new city was colder. Not in weather, but in spirit. Here, no one knew my name, and I intended to keep it that way.

I burned every trail when I left. New passport. New hair. New story. Amara Belladona no longer existed. Now I was just another shadow, another body trying to survive.

The first nights in the apartment were the worst. Silence gnawed at me after a life spent surrounded by screams. When sleep came, it brought Liam’s face with it, his eyes still open as the life drained out of them.

I kept telling myself this was freedom. But freedom tasted a lot like grief.

After three days of staring at four empty walls, my money thinning, I walked into a nightclub and asked for work. Not because I wanted to dance but because I knew how to sell illusions. And illusions paid well.

The manager was an old fox named Victor. Balding, gold rings on every finger, a smile that never touched his eyes. He looked at me like I was merchandise.

“You got experience?” he asked.

“Yes,” I lied smoothly.

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “You look like trouble. Pretty trouble. But trouble all the same.”

I didn’t flinch. “Does trouble make you money?”

That earned a raspy laugh. “Pretty trouble pays my rent, sweetheart. You’ll do fine. Stage name?”

I hesitated. Amara Belladona was dead. “Eris.”

“Eris,” he repeated, rolling it on his tongue like he was already selling it. “Goddess of chaos. I like it. You start tonight.”

And just like that, I became someone else again.

The first time I walked onto that stage, every eye in the room clung to me. Men hungry, drunk, greedy all the same. They saw a body, not a weapon. That suited me.

I moved with precision, every step deliberate, every glance calculated. Beauty was my blade, and I wielded it like I’d been trained. The music pulsed, red and violet lights flashing across my skin. Inside, I was empty. No fear. No thrill. Just control.

Then he walked in.

I noticed him instantly. Not because he sought attention he didn’t need to. He carried himself like the room already belonged to him.

Tall. Sharp suit. Expression unreadable. His presence shifted the air. For the first time, I felt something that wasn’t boredom.

He sat in the back, a corner seat reserved for men with power the kind who never blended in because they didn’t have to.

And he watched me.

Not like the others. Not with lust. Not with possession. His gaze was steady, dissecting me piece by piece.

My breath caught, but I didn’t falter. If anything, I danced harder, meeting his eyes, daring him to blink. He didn’t.

For the rest of my set, his gaze never left mine.

When the music ended, the room erupted with cheers, but it was his silence that stayed with me.

Later, in the hallway backstage, I adjusted the straps of my dress when I sensed him behind me.

I didn’t turn. “Private rooms are upstairs. Talk to Victor.”

“I didn’t come here for that.” His voice was smooth, deliberate.

I turned then. My eyes met his.and up close, he was even more dangerous. Money clung to him like a second skin. So did authority.

“Then what?” I asked, sharp.

He extended his hand not politely, but like a demand. “I’m Williams Smith. And you are?”

I didn’t move. Didn’t take it. “No one you need to know.”

Silence stretched. He didn’t argue, didn’t push. He only studied me a moment longer, then lowered his hand and walked away, unhurried, assured as if he’d already won something I didn’t understand.

The music swallowed the tension, but whispers soon replaced it.

“That’s him,William’s Smith.” one of the girls murmured as she brushed past me.

“The billionaire who got left at the altar,” another whispered, voice tinged with awe. “Fiancée ran off with his business partner.”

“Rumor is he’s broke now,” a third snorted. “Or maybe not. Men like that don’t stay down for long.”

Their words tangled in the air, feeding the curiosity I refused to show. My face stayed cold, expression unreadable. But my pulse hadn’t steadied since his eyes met mine.

I told myself it was nothing. Just another man with too much money and too many secrets.