MARIECLAIE.

Days later, and the scandal surrounding the Morello Tech Empire still hadn’t died down. The media was relentless, investors remained hesitant.

I’d barely seen him in those five days. Xavier had been out constantly, doing everything in his power to salvage his empire.

I felt victorious. Truly. But the satisfaction came with a bitter restraint—I wanted him to know the truth, to understand that his own wife was the architect of his downfall. But revealing it now would ruin everything.

I stepped out of my room and descended the grand staircase. This time, I was dressed in an elegant emerald-green gown that hugged every ounce of my curves. My personal bodyguard was already waiting by the car, the key in hand. He greeted me with a nod, and I returned the gesture before leading us out of the penthouse and into the garage.

“How is your master? I haven't seen him in days.”

“He’s doing alright, madam. You shouldn’t worry.”

I almost scoffed. Like I was worrying.

The burly man opened the car door, and I slid inside without another word. Today, I was headed to my mother’s fashion company—Dress & Design. It was overwhelming, being only twenty-one and managing two massive companies, but I would do it over and over again for them.

When we arrived, the employees greeted me just as they did at Blackwood Tech—with nervous admiration. I hadn't been here in over a month, and I’d instructed the director—my mother’s longtime friend—to ensure that every designer prepared a piece for me to review. There were too many employees, and I needed to make cuts.

Mother was too kind. She kept anyone who so much as wrapped fabric around a mannequin. I, however, wasn’t so kind. But I wasn’t cruel either.

Only to those who deserved it.

The workers had their designs lined up, ready for my review. I walked slowly, my bodyguard following behind me, taking in each dress with sharp, perceptive eyes. Left to right, I observed, until I came to a stop before one atrocity.

I wasn’t wrong when I said my mother let just anyone in.

I knew fashion better than tech, and I knew when something was unsellable. This? This was an insult to the industry.

My gaze lifted to the woman who designed it. She was older than me, maybe in her late twenties, and she shifted nervously under my stare.

“Come to my office at twelve noon,” I said coolly before moving on.

I repeated the same message to five more individuals before making my way up the vintage-style staircase to my mother’s office.

Cynthia, the previous director, wasted no time catching me up on everything that had happened during my absence. With my intelligence and quick thinking, I was already piecing things together before she even finished.

When the clock struck twelve, the first woman I had summoned knocked on my office door and stepped inside.

“You asked to see me?” she said, her voice careful.

I nodded, gesturing for her to sit with a small, polite smile. “What is your name?”

“Lorna, Mrs.” she answered softly.

“Lorna,” I began, my tone measured. “I truly appreciate the effort you put into designing something of your own. However, it is simply unacceptable.”

The color drained from her face, but I didn’t stop.

“It is completely outside of our brand’s standards, and frankly, I can’t have my company associated with something so… unpolished. I think it’s best we part ways. You’d be better suited somewhere else.” I sighed, leaning back. “You may leave.”

I didn’t need to say the words you’re fired. The meaning was clear enough.

Lorna blinked, disbelief washing over her features before she let out a bitter scoff. “You’re firing me?”

“That’s exactly what—”

“You don’t get to fire me.”

I stilled. My eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I said what I said, Mrs. Morello!” she snapped. “I’m literally older than you! Don’t you have any decency in how you speak to people? You think because you married Xavier Morello, you’re all that?!”

“That is enough,” I said sharply. “Mike!”

Mike was inside in an instant.

“Take her away.”

Lorna threw one last insult at me before Mike dragged her out of my office. I exhaled, rubbing my temple.

The rest of the firings went smoother. No protests. No dramatic outbursts. Just quiet resignations and reluctant nods. Unlike Lorna.

By the time I returned home that night, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. And, as expected, Xavier wasn’t there.

I pulled out my phone, intending to check the news, but an incoming message caught my attention. An unknown number.

I clicked it.

And when the image loaded, shock was an understatement to describe what I felt.

My breath hitched. My fingers trembled.

It was Lorna. Lying on the floor, her body twisted unnaturally. Blood pooled around her head, her lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.

And the caption beneath it sent ice through my veins:

“You killed her because she told the truth.”

I gasped and nearly dropped the phone. My pulse thundered in my ears.

Mike turned sharply. “Are you okay, miss?”

I nodded, but it was a hollow gesture, my head bobbing like a rattled doll.

“I didn’t do it…” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mike didn’t hear me. He had stepped out to help me from the car. I followed in silence, my mind spinning, my hands shaking.

Inside, I barely noticed the housekeeper waiting near the stairs until she called softly, “Madam?”

I flinched, sucking in a sharp breath.

Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry to scare you, madam.”

I shook my head. “It’s fine. Just—prepare me something to eat. A sandwich.”

She nodded quickly and hurried away.

I went straight to my room, shedding my clothes as I stepped into a warm bath, replaying everything over and over in my head. I didn’t do it.

I didn’t know who had.

But I knew—without a doubt—that it was the same person from the wedding.

Who were they? Why were they after me? And what the hell did they want?

Even after eating, I couldn’t sleep. The image of Lorna’s lifeless body haunted my mind.

Desperate for distraction, I left my room, wandering through the house until I found the library. Books had once been my refuge. Maybe they could be again.

I ran my fingers along the spines, trailing over familiar titles—until my hand brushed against something odd.

A book. A dark, heavy hardcover, its pages blackened. I gripped its spine, about to pull it free when a voice sliced through the silence.

“What is this, Marieclaie?”