Screams sliced through the ballroom. The screen went dead. The chandeliers flickered. Panic surged like a rising tide.

Someone yelled, “Get down!”

I didn’t move. My ears rang. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air like a curse. Across the chaos, Isabelle stood by the stage, shoulders heaving, eyes wide with something like madness. The gun still smoked in her trembling hand.

“HE IS MINE!” She shrieked. Her voice was shrill, unrecognizable.

I stepped forward. Isabelle pointed the gun toward me—but her hand shook so violently she could barely aim.

“You think he’s yours now?” she snapped. “You think just because you walked back from the grave, he’ll love you again?”

Isabelle’s finger inched toward the trigger.

BANG!

A bullet tore through the wall behind where I’d been standing. Screams exploded again. A chair toppled over. Security lunged at Isabelle, pinning her against the stage as the gun clattered to the floor.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Suddenly, a body slammed into me, causing me to drop on the floor.

But none of it mattered… Because I was in Lance McKinley’s arms. I blinked back the burn in my eyes. Then, I realized—people were watching us. Recording. Whispering.

And Dominic?

He stood across the hall, frozen, jaw clenched so hard it could’ve cracked bone. Our eyes locked.

He tried to erase me, but now he was watching me held by another man—and I could see it written all over his face.

Possession.

The kind of look that said you may have ruined me, but I still own you.

Lance helped me to my feet, one arm protectively looped around my waist. Dominic took one slow, dangerous step toward us.

“You,” he spat, his voice low and sharp. “You’ve got no idea what you’ve just walked into.”

Lance didn’t even blink. “No, you don’t. Because this time, she’s not alone.”

Dominic’s jaw clenched. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Lance didn’t flinch. “The man who actually gives a damn whether she lives.”

With that, he walked me straight out of the ballroom like the ending to every disaster movie. Reporters shouted questions. Security cleared a path. Cameras exploded behind us.

Lance covered me until we slid inside his car. We burst into the night, tires screaming against the pavement.

He glanced at me, voice rough. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a bruised cheek… and a few old wounds reopening,” I whispered.

He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I swear, if he touches you again—”

“I’m not afraid of Dominic anymore.”

Lance looked over, gaze heavy. “Good. But just in case, I brought backup.”

Silence. Then—

“I thought I lost you,” he said, voice hoarse. “Six years, and I still remember how you looked when you laughed at my terrible pizza. How you always stole the last fry. I’m still into you, Therese.”

I turned to him slowly. But before I could say anything, he tensed.

His eyes snapped to the rearview mirror. “Shit.”

“What is it?” I asked, nervous.

He looked at me. “We’re being followed.”

I turned, craning my head out for the window. And there it was—Dominic’s car—chasing after us like he had a death note clamped around his neck.

We pulled up in front of Lance’s private hotel—a quiet luxury tower tucked away from Sullivan Holdings, far from society’s lenses. He stepped out first, then opened my door like he always used to.

Not because I was weak.

But because he always gave a damn.

Dominic’s car screeched to a stop at the curb just as Lance placed a hand at the small of my back and guided me through the lobby.

I felt Dominic’s rage even without looking. His jealousy and animosity poured through the air like acid rain.

Inside, the marble floor gleamed beneath my heels. The receptionist gave a nod, no questions asked. Lance’s hand never left my back as he led me toward the private elevator.

Dominic’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Therese!”

I didn’t turn. But I heard the disbelief.

Lance pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open with a chime.

Dominic’s footsteps thundered. Lance behind us.

“Therese, don’t walk away from me.”

This time, I glanced at him over my shoulder. “I did that the night you let me die.”

The elevator doors began to close. But just before they sealed us in, he stepped forward and growled, “He’s not who you think he is.”

I didn’t blink. “And you were?”

The lift swallowed us whole.

Inside, Lance said nothing for a beat.

Then softly, “He’s not going to stop, I know.”

“He already is,” I replied.

The elevator dinged on the penthouse floor. We stepped into the private suite—warm lights, quiet elegance, and not a single memory of Dominic. Just clean air.

I walked toward the window, overlooking the city I used to belong to. My phone buzzed again.

Twenty-seven missed calls from Dominic. Then I felt Lance draping a soft blanket around my shoulders.

His voice was low. “You’re safe now.”

___

Three days passed.

The courtroom was sterile—clean lines, ticking clocks, the scent of cold paper and bitter resolve. The judge’s gavel struck once. Just once. But that single crack sliced through nearly a decade of history.

“Divorce granted,” the judge said flatly.

Dominic stood to my left. Silent. Stoic. In that sharp gray suit, he looked like the perfect corporate king. But I knew better. His jaw was tight. His hands clenched.

Rage flickered in the shadows of his eyes. I didn’t look at him as I gathered my things. Outside the courthouse, the city stretched like a freshly scrubbed canvas.

Later that night, the bar pulsed with quiet jazz and golden light, tucked into the heart of Lance’s hotel. Cola was already at our reserved booth, nursing a cocktail that sparkled like her grin.

“To freedom,” she said as I slid in beside her.

“Cheers!” I chimed in, clinking my glass to hers.

Lance joined us later—casual, charming, sleeves rolled up. The staff knew him by name, and the air shifted when he entered. He leaned over to whisper something into Cola’s ear, making her laugh.

I barely spoke. I just listened. Let the music melt into the background while the weight of the day dissolved in champagne bubbles.

No more court dates. No more waiting. No more Dominic. No more mistress along my way. By eleven in the evening, we called it a night.

Cola looped her arm through mine as we stepped out onto the quiet sidewalk, the night air cool and clear. Our heels clicked against the pavement, echoing off the sleeping buildings.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now, stripped of her usual sass.

“I think so,” I said. “It doesn’t feel real yet.”

“It will,” she replied. “You just survived hell in heels. Now it’s time to live like you own the damn fire.”

I smiled faintly. “I just want peace.”

Cola stopped walking, gently tugging my arm until I looked at her. “You’ll have it, T. You already are it. He doesn't get to haunt you anymore.”

I nodded, even though a strange chill rippled down my spine. She then got into the car and drove off.

I exhaled and walked the last block alone.

It was past midnight when I returned to my condo. The hallway was still, the lights dimmed to a sleepy amber glow. My heels clicked softly against the marble tiles as I approached the door. I pressed my thumb to the sensor, but I felt something off as I stepped inside.

I slipped off my heels, padding silently across the floor. Then I saw a jacket—draped over the back of the chair. Navy. Wool. Familiar.

My pulse thudded as I turned toward the living room.

And there he was—Dominic.

“You changed the locks,” he murmured, swirling the goblet in his hand.

I stepped back instinctively. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

I froze near the threshold, my heartbeat drumming loud in my ears. My hand instinctively tightened around my clutch, as if it could somehow protect me from everything Dominic had ever broken.

I took a cautious step and hissed, “We’re over. What do you want, Dominic?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just stood there in his tailored shirt, sleeves rolled up like he belonged in the pages of some polished magazine—except tonight, he looked haunted. Tired. Like whatever mask he wore out there had started to crack from the inside.

“I needed to see you,” he said simply, swirling the goblet in his hand like he owned the place.

“That’s not an answer,” I snapped. “I can sue you for trespassing.”

He gave a bitter laugh, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. “Trespassing, my ass. You really think locks and passwords can keep me out? I know your patterns, Therese. Every code, every habit, every soft spot you try to bury.”

I clenched my jaw. “You knew the woman I was before you left me for dead. That version doesn’t live here anymore.”

He took a slow step forward, his voice dangerously soft. “But she still looks at me the same way.”

“I don’t,” I said through my teeth.

“Yes, you do,” he said, daring to close the distance. “You look at me like you’re waiting to be disappointed, like you’re bracing for the moment I shatter everything again.”

I turned away. “Then you already know what will happen next. Get out.”

He didn’t move. I could feel his gaze like heat crawling up my spine.

“I saw the way he touched you,” Dominic said tightly. “At the hotel. In that bar. His hands were all over you like he’s earned that right.”

“He has,” I said.

Dominic’s voice dropped to a rasp. “Don’t lie to me.”

I whirled to face him, rage bubbling past the years of buried grief. “You don’t get to stand here like you didn’t destroy me. You don’t get to act like you still have a claim over me just because you're jealous now.”

“I’m not jealous.”

I laughed coldly. “You’re seething. You chased us in your car like some deranged lover in a soap opera.”

“You think you’re safe with Lance,” he spat. “But you don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Oh, but you’re a beacon of trust and moral clarity?”

His mouth opened, but I cut him off. “I died for you, Dominic. I took a hit—emotionally, physically, literally. And you didn’t even show up to the funeral.”

“That wasn’t—” he began, but his voice cracked.

I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re totally strangers now, so keep the fuck out of my life.”

He stepped closer until I could feel the storm radiating off his chest. “I won’t give up on us.”

I held his gaze. “There is no us.”

For a second, the room was silent except for the sound of our breaths. The weight of history between us was unbearable—like walking barefoot across glass we both helped shatter.

Then he stepped back, nodded once, and walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “I hope he’s everything I never was.”

“That’s none of your damn business, Mr. Sullivan.”

The door clicked shut behind him. And I collapsed onto the couch like every breath I’d held since the courtroom was finally exhaled. I didn’t know how long I sat there.

The city lights blinked outside my window, oblivious to the war unraveling inside my chest. My phone vibrated against the table, dragging me out of my fog.

Lance.

Just checking in. Did you make it home safe?

I texted back with shaking fingers:

Yes. But Dominic was here when I arrived.

His reply came fast:

That asshole. Don’t worry, I’ll be there in a few.

I should’ve said no. I should’ve insisted I needed space, clarity, time. But the truth was—I didn’t want to be alone tonight. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell chimed. I opened it to find Lance standing there in jeans, a hoodie, and holding takeouts.

“Didn’t know what you ate after exorcising demons,” he said with a soft smile. “But I brought pizza and nachos.”

I smiled faintly. “Come in.”

He toed off his sneakers at the entry, like he’d been here before. Like nothing was forced. He didn’t demand to be let in—he waited for the invitation. And that difference alone made my eyes sting.

We sat cross-legged on the couch, boxes of pizzas between us, and silence stretching like old friends. After a few minutes, Lance glanced over.

“He say anything that got under your skin?”

I nodded and replied, “The bastard still thinks I’m his property.”

Lance didn’t flinch. “Nice try. Always a delusional guy.”

“He also said you’re not who I think you are.”

He arched a brow, then shrugged. “He’s right about one thing—I am different now. But that doesn’t mean I’m hiding something. It means I’ve been through hell, same as you.”

I agreed, nodding wordlessly. We talked a little more. About work. About the news. About Cola’s chaotic dating life. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of things that remind you the world doesn’t end just because someone tried to ruin yours.

Then my phone buzzed. I ignored it.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Lance leaned over. “Do you want me to check it first?”

“No,” I whispered. “I’ve got it.”

I reached for it, expecting another message from Lance or maybe Cola.

But instead—ISABELLE TAN tagged you in a story.

My blood roared into my ears as I unlocked the screen. And there it was—

A grainy, clearly edited photo of me entering Lance’s hotel the night of the ballroom incident. Hair messy. Eyes wide. A freeze-frame of chaos—but manipulated to look like seduction.

The caption burned in my eyes...

She faked her death and slept her way back into society. I wonder how many graves she’ll crawl out of for attention. #NotTheVictim