Alaia tightened her grip on the metal letter opener hidden up her sleeve. She took a deep breath, forcing the cold, calculating look off her face. She let her shoulders slump, softening her features into a mask of pure vulnerability.

She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

The assistant immediately tried to step inside, but Alaia blocked the threshold with her body, her eyes wide and fearful.

The assistant frowned, looking down his nose at her. "Mr. Darrius is waiting in the car downstairs. You are to come with me immediately."

Alaia didn't snap at him. Instead, her eyes instantly welled up with tears. Her lower lip trembled. "Is... is my father here? Did he see the news? Is he here to help me?"

Her voice cracked perfectly. The assistant's eyes flashed with deep contempt, but his rigid posture relaxed. He bought the act completely. She was just a broken, hysterical girl.

"Follow me," he ordered.

Alaia sniffled, grabbing a coat and following him to the elevator.

They descended to the underground parking garage. A massive, black stretch Lincoln was idling in the darkest corner. The bodyguard opened the rear door.

Alaia slid into the backseat. The heavy, suffocating stench of expensive cigar smoke hit her lungs. Darrius Dudley sat in the shadows, his face hard and unforgiving.

He didn't look at her. "You made a spectacular fool of yourself tonight," Darrius spat, his voice dripping with disgust. "You dragged the Dudley name through the mud for a worthless actor."

In her past life, Alaia would have cried and begged for his understanding. Tonight, she just wanted to stab him.

But she needed him. She forced a sob from her throat and threw herself across the seat, grabbing his tailored sleeve.

"Dad, I'm so sorry!" she wailed, letting huge, fat tears roll down her cheeks. "Austen lied to me! I didn't know what to do! I was so scared!"

Darrius yanked his arm away, brushing his sleeve as if she had soiled it. But the pathetic display fed his massive ego. His harsh glare softened just a fraction.

"Stop crying," Darrius commanded. He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "The video showed Gabriel Alvarado. How did you get in his car?"

Alaia's heart went cold. There it was. The old fox didn't care about her broken heart; he smelled the money and power attached to Gabriel's name.

She wiped her eyes, playing dumb. "I... I don't know him. He just saw me crying and gave me his coat. We didn't even speak."

Darrius scoffed, clearly not believing her. "Pack your things. You are moving back to the estate tomorrow. The family will handle your PR from now on."

Alaia knew exactly what "handle" meant. He wanted to lock her up, monitor her, and use her as bait to lure Gabriel into a business deal.

But she needed to be inside that toxic house. She needed to reclaim the twenty percent stake in Apex Properties her mother had left her.

She nodded meekly, keeping her eyes glued to the floorboards. "Okay, Dad. I'll be good."

Darrius smirked, satisfied with his absolute control. He gestured to the door. "Get out."

Alaia stepped out into the exhaust-filled garage. The Lincoln sped away. The second the taillights disappeared, the tears vanished from her face. Her expression turned to stone.

She went upstairs and packed a single suitcase, taking only her crucial documents and a few modest dresses.

The next morning, the Dudley family driver picked her up and drove her to the sprawling, opulent estate in Beverly Hills.

Alaia walked into the grand foyer. Her stepmother, Devona Gutierrez, was sitting on a velvet sofa sipping tea. Devona's eyes flicked over Alaia, flashing with undisguised hatred.

Her half-sister, Asia Henson, was lounging nearby, blowing on her freshly painted nails. Asia smirked. "Congratulations, Alaia. You're the biggest joke on the internet today."

Alaia kept her head down. She didn't fight back. She walked over and spoke in a soft, defeated voice. "Aunt Devona. I'm sorry for the trouble. I'll stay out of your way."

Devona blinked, caught off guard by the total surrender. She forced a tight, fake smile. "Just go to your room."

Asia rolled her eyes, bored by the lack of a fight.

A maid led Alaia up the stairs to the smallest, most isolated guest room at the end of the hall.

The door clicked shut. Alaia dropped her suitcase. She walked over to the window, looking down at the perfectly manicured rose garden.

Her fingers brushed against her chest. "Let the games begin," she whispered.

A few days later, the Dudley estate was buzzing with chaotic energy. Maids rushed through the halls carrying massive floral arrangements. Darrius had announced he was throwing a grand "welcome home" banquet for Alaia.

Alaia stood on the second-floor landing, looking down at the preparations with dead eyes. She knew exactly what this was. It wasn't a welcome party. It was an auction. Darrius had invited the wealthiest, most repulsive old men in Los Angeles to sell her off for business connections.

That afternoon, Devona knocked and pushed her way into Alaia's room, followed by two maids carrying a garment bag.

Devona smiled, her eyes gleaming with fake affection. "Alaia, darling. I had this flown in from Milan just for you. I want you to be the most beautiful girl in the room tonight."

The maids unzipped the bag, revealing a breathtaking, silver sequined haute couture gown.

Alaia gasped, playing the grateful daughter. "Oh, Aunt Devona, it's beautiful. Thank you."

She reached out to touch the fabric. As her fingers brushed the side zipper, she felt a strange, thick bump in the seam. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

Devona left the room, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

The second the door locked, Alaia threw the dress onto the bed and flipped it inside out.

She inspected the zipper. The heavy-duty nylon thread had been meticulously unpicked and replaced with cheap, fragile cotton thread. The moment she took a deep breath or twisted her waist, the entire side of the dress would rip open, exposing her to a room full of billionaires.

It was Asia's work. A pathetic, vicious attempt to humiliate her.

In her past life, the dress had ripped. The paparazzi outside had taken photos through the windows, and she had become a laughingstock.

Alaia let out a cold, sharp laugh. She walked over to her suitcase and pulled out a small sewing kit.

She didn't try to fix the zipper. She grabbed a pair of sharp fabric scissors. Without a second of hesitation, she jammed the blades into the seam and violently cut the entire side and back of the dress wide open.

The sound of tearing silk filled the room. The conservative, elegant gown was now in pieces.

She didn't possess the skills of a master tailor, nor did she have a sewing machine to reconstruct the garment. But she had an impeccable eye for fashion and a ruthless sense of survival. Alaia went to work with what she had. She used the fabric scissors to deliberately distress the torn edges, making the jagged cuts look like an intentional, avant-garde design choice. She grabbed a handful of ornate silver safety pins and diamond-encrusted brooches from her jewelry box. Instead of hiding the tear, she used the pins to violently bridge the gap across her exposed skin, transforming the ruined zipper into a plunging, dangerous backless design held together by gleaming metal. It wasn't a professional repair, but a brilliant, punk-couture statement.

Two hours later, the sabotage was gone. The dress was now a lethal, skin-tight weapon of war.

At 8:00 PM, the banquet was in full swing. The grand hall was packed with men in tuxedos, their greedy eyes scanning the room.

Asia stood near the bar in a puffy pink princess dress, constantly glancing up at the stairs, vibrating with excitement to see Alaia's downfall.

Darrius stood in the center of the room, checking his watch, his face turning red with impatience.

Suddenly, the motion-sensor lights on the grand staircase clicked on. The sharp clack of a stiletto hitting the hardwood echoed through the hall.

The loud chatter instantly died. Every head turned.

Alaia stepped onto the landing. The silver sequins caught the chandelier light, making her look like she was dripping in liquid diamonds. The massive, plunging back exposed her flawless, pale skin all the way down to her lower waist.

She didn't look scared. She kept her chin high, her eyes cold and commanding. She walked down the stairs with the slow, hypnotic sway of a predator entering a cage of prey.

Asia's smug smile shattered. Her jaw dropped open, her eyes bulging as she stared at the dress that was supposed to fall apart.

Devona gripped her champagne flute so hard the crystal nearly cracked. She muttered a vicious curse under her breath.

The old men in the crowd were completely paralyzed. Their eyes were filled with raw lust, but Alaia's overwhelming, icy aura kept them frozen in place. No one dared to approach her.

Darrius's eyes lit up with extreme greed. He realized his daughter wasn't just a pretty face; she was a masterpiece. Her value had just skyrocketed.

Alaia reached the bottom of the stairs. She glided past a stunned waiter, plucking a glass of red wine from his tray. She locked eyes with Asia, her lips curving into a mocking sneer.

A balding real estate tycoon, sweating through his suit, finally broke the trance. He waddled toward Alaia, a sleazy, confident grin plastered on his face.

Alaia didn't step back. She simply smiled, raising her left hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. As she did, she slowly twisted the heavy, black obsidian ring on her index finger.