Victor and Esther Croft have returned from the Maldives today. I watched them from a distance, rolling their expensive suitcases through the airport. As much as I hate their son, I hate them just as fiercely.

They were never the innocent, unaware parents. They were cut from the same rotten cloth, always looking the other way, always enabling his worst behavior. My very first real strike is aimed at them, and every detail is meticulously planned.

It will be completely different from the mind games I've been playing with Ethan. I'm not going to simply appear and scare them. No, that would be too easy. I don't plan to reveal myself to them at all. Their punishment needs to be quieter, a slow poison that seeps into the foundation of their perfect little world.

Now, as I sit in my office at Aethelred House, I watch the four of them in the Crofts' living room on my screen. They're laughing, talking about their trip, showing off trinkets. Just a moment ago, Natasha gushed about how she wishes to go there for her honeymoon. The entire conversation makes me sick. It's all so fake.

They just got back yesterday. My original plan was to begin tomorrow, to let them settle in. But watching them, so smug and comfortable, makes my skin crawl. My patience is wearing dangerously thin. Why wait? I think it will be perfectly fine to start today.

Right at that moment, my desk phone rings. I quickly click the live feed window closed, erasing the evidence, before picking up the call.

It's Dahlia. "Vanessa, are the initial sketches for the finale gowns prepared?" she asks, her voice all business.

"Yes, they're ready," I say. "The atelier has already started on the muslins for the first two designs. The fabric sourcing is underway."

"Excellent. Please bring them to my office right away," she orders. "I have the marketing team here, and we need to finalize the visuals for the first campaign shoot."

"I'll be right there," I reply and hang up.

I stand, gathering the large portfolio of sketches from my desk. But before I head out, I pull the desktop screen back up. My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up a specific encrypted server. I type in a single command: RELEASE PACKAGE ONE. I hit enter. A progress bar flashes and then disappears. Done.

A slow smile touches my lips. I feel a deep, thrumming sense of satisfaction. All I have to do now is wait for the news to break.

~

It's been six grueling hours since I walked into Dahlia's office. Six hours of non-stop work-finalizing sketches, arguing with the marketing team about the "vision," and overseeing the first frantic preparations for the campaign shoot. The shoot itself went well, they tell me. The models looked stunning. But honestly, I don't care about hemlines and lighting right now.

The moment I'm back in my own office, I close the door and finally turn on my personal phone. It buzzes violently, notifications flooding the screen. And yes, there it is. My smile returns, wider this time, as I scroll through the news alerts popping up one after another.

It's trending. And why wouldn't it be? The Crofts have worked very hard to be significant, and now their name is being dragged through the mud. I click on one of the top articles from The New York Chronicle.

"SCANDAL IN THE TEXTILE EMPIRE: SOURCES REVEAL VICTOR CROFT'S ALLEGED LONG-TERM AFFAIRS," the headline screams.

Below it are a series of grainy but damning photos-photos I meticulously doctored-of Victor in cozy, intimate-looking situations with various women. The narrative I fed to Noah, an ambitious journalist at the Chronicle, was simple: a heartbroken insider from the company revealing Victor's decades of infidelity.

Perfect. This was my first real attack. Publicly shaming Victor Croft for something he, for all his other faults, never actually did. The irony is delicious.

I sink into the plush white chair behind my desk, scrolling through the article with a sense of triumph. I sent Noah the fabricated pictures this morning along with the false narrative. It was almost too easy. Manipulating stories is simple when no one knows the real one.

I can only imagine what is happening in that house right now. Esther, with her pride and her perfect socialite image, must be losing her mind.

I scoff and turn on the live feed from their living room. The scene is exactly what I hoped for. They are in the middle of a heated argument. Esther is standing, her face flushed and tear-streaked, waving her phone-likely displaying the very article I just read. Victor is on his feet, his hands raised, trying to placate her.

I put in my Bluetooth earpiece, and their voices fill my ears.

"You're lying!" Esther shrieks. "How could you? All these years! With my friends? You've made a fool of me!"

"Esther, listen to me! It's not true!" Victor's voice is strained, desperate. "These photos are fake! Someone is setting me up!"

"Shut up!" she hisses, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger toward him. Her entire body is trembling with rage and humiliation. "You've ruined us! My phone has not stopped ringing! The entire Ladies' Auxiliary Club has seen it! Everyone is laughing at me!"

Just then, the front door swings open and Ethan storms in, his face a dark cloud. He's clearly seen the news. For a fleeting second, Victor's eyes light up with a pathetic hope, seeing his son as a potential ally.

"Ethan, thank God! You have to call the lawyers, the PR team...we need to issue a statement immediately! These pictures are fabricated! It's a targeted attack!" Victor pleads, grabbing his son's arm.

But Ethan roughly shakes him off, his own expression twisted in disgust. "How could you do this, Dad? To Mom? To me? It's despicable, even for you."

Victor stumbles back as if struck. "You believe this? You believe I would be this stupid? I'm telling you, I didn't do anything!" His voice rises to a frantic scream, echoing through the marble foyer. "None of it is real!"

But no one is listening. Esther is sobbing into her hands, and Ethan is glaring, his arms crossed, a picture of judgment which is so hypocritical of him because he did the same to me with Natasha. They are a triangle of dysfunction, and Victor is completely, utterly alone in his truth.

The argument escalates, a tornado of accusations and denials. "You've embarrassed me for the last time, Victor! I want you out of this house tonight!" Esther shrieks, her voice raw.

"Use your head, woman! Why would I risk everything? Someone is trying to destroy me!" he bellows back, his face purple with rage.

"Maybe because you're a selfish, pathetic man who never knew when he had it good!" Ethan snarls, adding fuel to the fire. He rubs his forehead in annoyance. "The company's sales are going down."

Esther, overwhelmed, turns and storms up the grand staircase, sobbing about calling her lawyer. "I'm done! I am finally done!"

"Esther, wait! Please!" Victor pleads, rushing after her. On the landing, he grabs her wrist, trying to force her to look at him.

"Don't you touch me!" she screams, shaking her arm away with a fierce, violent jerk.

The motion throws Victor off balance. His expensive loafers slip on the polished wood.

My eyes widen a little, my feet rising from my seat on their own as I watch, utterly transfixed. It happens in a horrifying, slow-motion instant. Victor Croft flails, his arms windmilling uselessly. Then he pitches forward. His body tumbles down the long, curved staircase, hitting each step with a series of sickening, heavy thuds. He lands in a broken, motionless heap at the bottom, his head resting at an unnatural angle against the cold marble.

This was not in the plan.

But... fuck.

I can't stop the smile that creeps across my face. A sense of dark, profound satisfaction washes over me, so intense it steals my breath. This turned out better than I ever thought.

On the screen, Esther freezes at the top of the stairs, her hands flying to her mouth. A second later, a blood-curdling, primal scream of pure panic rips through the speakers of my computer.

"VICTOR!"

But, well... Victor does not respond. A dark, crimson pool begins to spread around his head, stark against the pale marble. Ethan rushes to his father's side, his own panic rising. The mother and son cry his name over and over, as if their sheer desperation could rewind the last minute and wake him up. Idiots.

"I-I'll call an ambulance!" Ethan stammers, fumbling for his phone with shaking hands. Esther just nods, her body trembling, tears streaming down her face in a perfect performance of shock and grief.

I've seen enough. I close the live feed and lean back in my chair, a profound, chilling satisfaction settling deep in my bones. I was meant to torture Victor a bit more, to draw out his public humiliation, but I suppose this was fine, too. It was... efficient.

I dial Alexander's number. He picks up on the second ring, his voice a low, steady rumble. "How did it go?" He already knew I was executing the first phase today; I'd sent him a text earlier.

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face as I look out at the burning colors of the sunset. "It went better than I imagined," I tell him, my voice light. "The scandal broke. They had a massive fight. And Victor... he took a rather nasty fall down the main staircase. It looked very serious. The ambulance is on its way."

I can almost hear his smirk through the phone. "A fall? How... unfortunate for him." He pauses, and I can picture him lounging back, already plotting. "So, since he's going to be in the hospital for a while... why not drag it out a little longer?"

A cold shiver runs down my spine. "What are you implying?" I ask, even though I can already guess. I know my brother. The quiet, calculating rage he carries is far more ruthless than my own burning fire. He hates the Crofts with a depth that sometimes frightens even me.

His voice is casual, almost lazy, as he suggests. "You know... we could always cook something up in his IV. Nothing too obvious. Just a little something to ensure he stays in that hospital bed forever. A permanent... complication."

The line goes silent and I think about it for a second-a single, suspended moment where the ghost of Daphne Ashford flickers to life inside me. Daphne would have been horrified. Daphne would have gasped, her hand flying to her heart. She would have never agreed to this, never even entertained the thought of cold-blooded murder. She was all soft and believing in second chances.

But Daphne is gone. She was left in the fire, a sacrifice to my own naivety. The woman I am now is carved from colder, harder stone. She cares about nothing but the sweet, slow taste of revenge. She looks at the world and sees a ledger that must be balanced, drop for drop.

The ghost of Daphne vanishes, extinguished by the memory of smoke and betrayal.

A strange calm settles over me as I reply, "Yes, I'll make sure Victor Croft stays in the bed forever."

"Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked. A man reaps what he sows." – Galatians 6:7

I've always found that particular verse to be strangely comforting. It's not about forgiveness. It's about the unbreakable law of cause and effect. You plant pain, you harvest suffering. Simple.

Two days have passed since Victor Croft's "unfortunate accident." I wonder what his reaction will be if he sees me standing in front of him. Will he be as terrified as his son, haunted by the ghost of a dead woman? Or will the shock be too much, stopping his frail, treacherous heart right there? I can't have that. I won't let him die this soon, and certainly not by something as simple as a heart attack. That would be a kindness, and he deserves none.

The sun is shining today in a way that feels almost mocking, like the world is pretending everything is fine. It's a beautiful, crisp morning, completely at odds with the darkness curling in my chest as I walk through the automatic doors of Bloom Hospital.

I wanted to come the moment they wheeled him in, to see the panic fresh on his face. But that would have been reckless, a surge of emotion that could unravel my careful plans. Patience is a discipline.

The news cycle has already moved on from the Crofts' scandal. But the damage is done. Their reputation is in tatters, and from what I've seen on the business feeds, Ethan is running around his company like a headless chicken, trying to stop the bleeding as sales drop.

Good. Let him feel the pressure.

The hospital lobby is all bright lights and efficiently working. I approach the main reception desk with a solemn expressionl. The woman behind it has a kind but tired face, her fingers poised over a keyboard.

"Good morning," I say, my voice soft and deliberately a little hesitant. "Could you please tell me which room Victor Croft is in?"

She looks up, her expression shifting into a polite but firm mask. "I can check for you. May I ask your relation to the patient?"

I let my smile turn a little sad, a practiced look of worried concern. "He's my uncle. His son, Ethan, and I are cousins."

Her eyes flick over me, taking in my expensive but understated coat, wondering if I am telling the truth. I can see the doubt there. It's understandable.

"And your name, ma'am?"

"Margot," I say without missing a beat. It's the name of Ethan's second cousin, a wild girl who ran off with a motorcycle-riding drug dealer years ago and was never spoken of again. A perfect scapegoat.

The receptionist's lips tighten slightly. She's about to refuse. I can feel it.

Before she can speak, I lean in just a little, my voice dropping to a confidential tone. "My Aunt Esther is just... overwhelmed. She sent me to check on him." I gesture with the tasteful wicker basket in my hand. It's filled with beautiful, wax fruit-shimmering apples and perfect, fake pears.

Why on earth would I spend money on real food for that man?

The mention of Esther, the wife, seems to tip the scales. The receptionist's suspicion softens into a weary acceptance. People send strange relatives all the time in a crisis. She types, clicks, and nods.

"Room 407. West wing, take the elevators to the fourth floor."

"Thank you so much," I say, my smile genuine now for a completely different reason.

I turn and walk toward the elevators, the wax fruit shifting silently in the basket. The ride to the fourth floor is smooth and quiet. The hallway is hushed, the air smelling of antiseptic and quiet suffering. I find Room 407, its number stamped on the door in dull silver. I take a quick glance up and down the hall. Empty. For the past two days, my surveillance showed Esther only visits in the evening, a quick, duty-bound stop. And Ethan is too busy trying to save his crumbling empire to play the devoted son.

I turn the handle and peek inside. There he is, Victor Croft, lying in the expensive-looking private room bed, his eyes closed. A strange feeling washes over me, seeing the man who was once my father-in-law after five long years.

He looks older, frailer under the harsh hospital light, but it doesn't soften anything. For a second, the memory of his face flashes before me– the cold, displeased look he wore on the day they set fire to my parents' house.

I close the door securely behind me. The soft click of the lock is the only sound. I place the useless basket of fake fruit on the side table with a quiet thud and look down at him. Indifference, anger, and a cold thread of pity twist together inside me.

He'll be fine in a couple of days, the doctors said. Ready to go home. But that can't happen. He can't just walk out of here.

My hand slips into the deep pocket of my coat. I pull out a small syringe and a capsule bottle. Inside is a powerful, fast-acting sedative designed to induce a deep, medically-induced coma. It's not meant to kill, not today. It's meant to trap. To make him a prisoner in his own body.

My hands are steady as I fill the syringe, tapping out the air bubbles. The adrenaline makes my nerves buzz. I find the port in the IV line connected to his arm and push the plunger slowly. The pale yellow liquid disappears into the clear tube, heading straight for his bloodstream.

I sit down in the chair beside his bed, watching him. The doctor said it would take ten to fifteen minutes for the full effects. I don't have that kind of patience.

"Victor Croft," I call, my voice flat. "Wake up."

He doesn't stir, lost in a drugged, natural sleep. A smirk touches my lips. I get up, lean over the bed rail, and wrap my hand around his throat. Not enough to truly cut off his air, but enough to startle, to frighten, to drag him back from the dark. I squeeze, my grip firm.

Within seconds, his eyes fly open, wide and disoriented, and land directly on mine. Panic floods them instantly.

"Hello, father-in-law," I sneer, not letting go. His face begins to turn a mottled red. His free hand flies up, smacking weakly at my wrist, his body struggling against the sheets.

"Y-you... how..?" he gasps, trying to form a coherent sentence, his mind clearly reeling from the shock of seeing me-alive, here, furious.

"Shocking, isn't it?" I say, my voice a low, venomous whisper. I finally release my grip and step back. He collapses against the pillows, coughing, trying to drag air into his lungs. "You might think you're dreaming, but you're not. I've really come back from the dead." I add that with a dry chuckle.

"What is... how can you be here?" he stammers, his voice rough with fear and confusion.

I let out a short, cold snort. "That's not the important question you should be asking. You should be asking why I am here."

He gulps visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The fear in his eyes is a physical thing. It's everything I wanted to see. "W-why are you here?"

I lean in again, fast, pinning him to the bed with one hand on his chest. My face is inches from his. "You killed me, remember?" I hiss, the words dripping with five years of bottled rage. "You, your wife, and that scumbag son of yours killed my family and left us to burn!" My chest rises and falls. "And I am here to take everything back, piece by piece. I won't let you have a single moment of peace! This is just the start, Victor. I swear on my parents' souls, I'll ruin you all!"

His body trembles violently under my hand. With a sudden, desperate burst of strength fueled by pure terror, he shoves me back. "N-no!" he yells, the sound ragged.

I laugh, the sound cold and mocking in the sterile room. "What can you even do, Victor? Look at you. Your own wife and son see you as nothing but a stain on their precious family name. A public embarrassment. A shame they're forced to visit."

"That isn't true!" he snarls, his anger cutting through the fear. He makes a frantic lunge for the nurse call button on the bedside table. My hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist mid-air. I twist it back, bending his arm at a painful angle, and lean close.

"You have no power here, Victor Croft," I whisper, my voice a deadly promise. "All you're going to do now is rot in this bed."

He grits his teeth, tears of pain and rage in his eyes. "You're a monster," he chokes out.

But then, his words cut off in a sharp, wet grunt. His free hand flies to his chest, clawing at the hospital gown. His eyes bulge, and he collapses back onto the pillows, his body seizing, muscles going taut and rigid. A low, pained groan is forced from his lips with every strained breath. I step back, watching dispassionately. The medicine is taking effect, exactly as planned. My work here is done.

Watching him like this doesn't make me feel sympathy. It doesn't stir any emotion at all. It just feels... correct. Like he deserves it.

Suddenly, the sharp click-click of the door handle being tried from the outside cuts through the sound of his suffering. My heart lurches, a spike of pure panic shooting through my veins.

"Is someone in there?" a faint, familiar voice calls from the hallway. It's Esther. "It's locked."

Shit.

"Ethan, are you in there?" she calls, her voice getting louder, tinged with impatience.

On the bed, Victor gives one last, shuddering gasp. His eyes are rolling back, his body going slack. Any second now, he'll be gone, sinking into a deep deep sleep.

But right now, I have a much bigger problem. I have to get out, and Esther is right outside the door. I spin around, my eyes darting to the window. I run to it, yanking the blinds aside. It's a sheer drop four stories down to a concrete courtyard. There's no fire escape, no ledge. Jumping will be basically committing suicide.

Think, Vanessa, think!

"Hello?" Esther barks, and I hear her rattling the handle more forcefully now. "Who's in there? I'm calling security!"

Panic claws at my throat. She wasn't supposed to be here until evening!

I need to come up with a solution or else my five year long plan will be ruined and that is something I cannot afford.

"How can the door get locked by itself?"

Esther's voice is a sharp whip-crack in the hallway which is directed at a flustered nurse. "My husband is sleeping in there! How could he possibly have locked it?"

I hold my breath, peering through the narrow crack of the closet door. It's suffocating inside, dark, cramped, and smelling of stale linen and antiseptic. Every breath feels too loud. Hiding here was a last-second, desperate decision. If I hadn't, Esther would be questioning me right now, or worse, I might have already done something recklessly voilent to silence her.

She keeps barking at the poor nurse, her words clipped and entitled. The nurse finally manages to stammer out an apology about the automatic lock possibly engaging if the door was shut too firmly, and then her quick footsteps retreat down the hall.

Esther huffs, a sound of pure irritation. I watch through the slit as she strides into the room and drops into the chair beside Victor's bed, her back to me. Her perfectly coiffed hair doesn't move an inch.

"Dear God, Victor," she sighs, her voice that particular brand of cranky I once mistook for sophistication. Now, it just grates on my nerves. "How can you sleep through all that commotion?"

I need to get out. Now. Before she turns around, before I lose the last shred of my control and decide to shut her up permanently.

"Victor!" she yells suddenly, her voice sharp. "What kind of bear are you? Victor! Wake up!" She probably shakes his shoulder; I can see her arm move. It won't be long now before she realizes this isn't normal sleep.

She was supposed to find him like this in the evening. This timing is... inconvenient. But it's fine. It's not like they'll ever trace it back to me.

Her voice shifts, the annoyance bleeding into confusion, then a thread of real concern. She's on her feet now, leaning over him. "Victor, are you joking me? Wake up already!" She pats his cheek, harder now. When he remains utterly still, a marionette with cut strings, her panic finally breaks through.

"Help! Someone, help!" Her cry is sharp, genuine fear replacing the drama. Within a minute, the room fills with the soft squeak of rubber soles and urgent voices. Nurses and a doctor rush in.

"He's not waking up! No matter what I do!" Esther cries, her voice trembling with performative tears. "What's happened to him?"

"Please, Mrs. Croft, try to calm down," the doctor says in a practiced, placating tone as he begins his examination. I wish I could see her face clearly, the panic, the confusion. I'd love to laugh right in it.

After a moment, the doctor's voice turns grave. "He's unconscious. His vitals are stable, but he's completely non-responsive. We need to run a series of tests immediately. A full neurological workup, toxicology screening, the works to understand why."

"What kind of medicine did you people put him on that he's like this?" Esther accuses, her fear morphing back into haughty blame. "He was perfectly fine yesterday!"

Typical Esther. Always the drama, even when it's real. She'll milk this for every ounce of sympathy she can get.

The closet door opens with a soft, careful creak. The noise is swallowed by the urgent murmurs of the doctor and Esther's escalating, tearful demands. Everyone is clustered around the bed, their backs to me.

For a single, frozen second, I stand in the doorway of the closet, exposed. Then, moving with a silent, deliberate speed I learned from a lifetime of fleeing worse things, I slip out.

I don't look back. I don't glance at Victor's still form or Esther's dramatic silhouette. My eyes are fixed on the open door to the hallway. In three long strides, I'm through it, turning sharply away from the nurses' station and toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. The heavy door swings shut behind me, muting the sounds of the crisis.

I take the stairs two at a time, my heels echoing too loudly in the concrete enclosure. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of adrenaline and triumph. I did it.

By the time I push through the door into the bright, bustling main lobby, I've forced my breathing to slow. I can't look like I'm running. I smooth my coat, lift my chin, and walk with purpose toward the exit.

The receptionist from earlier looks up as I pass her desk. Our eyes meet. A jolt of alarm shoots through me, but I don't let it touch my face. Instead, I offer her a small, polite smile-the smile of a concerned niece leaving after a difficult visit. She gives a tired, automatic smile in return and looks back at her computer.

Almost there. The automatic doors whoosh open, welcoming the crisp outside air. A wave of relief hits me. I step out, intending to melt into the flow of people on the sidewalk.

And that's when I crash right into a solid wall of charcoal-grey wool and muscle.

Strong hands fly up to catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can stumble back. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. I look up, an apology already dying on my lips.

My eyes meet a pair of cool, familiar grey ones.

Ceron Morrison stares down at me, his expression one of mild surprise that quickly sharpens into intense scrutiny. His grip on my shoulders is firm, unyielding.

My heart is still thundering, a chaotic echo of the closet, Esther, Victor's seizing body. For a second, the world tilts-the crisp hospital air, the scent of his subtle cologne, the piercing grey of his eyes all crashing into the dark adrenaline still coursing through me.

I blink, forcing composure to settle over me like a shield. I straighten up, pulling back from his hold. Before I can form a breathless apology, he speaks.

"Are you alright?" His voice is low, closer to concern than accusation.

"I'm fine," I say, my own voice thankfully steady. I offer a small, polite smile. "I do apologise for bumping into you. I wasn't looking where I was going."

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his impeccably tailored dark trousers, his gaze never leaving my face. A hint of amusement touches his lips. "It seems to be a habit of ours. The first time was at the Aethelred show, if I recall."

"Oh," I say, the memory flashing. "Yes, I suppose it was."

"I must say, Miss Ashford," he says, and that look is back (the one that feels like it's trying to peel back my layers.) "This is an unexpected place for a meeting."

My mind races. "An old family friend is undergoing treatment here," I lie smoothly, gesturing vaguely back toward the building. "I was just paying a visit." The words taste like ash, considering what I just left behind.

He nods slowly, as if filing the information away. "A kind gesture."

I need to turn this around. "And you, Mr. Morrison? What brings you to a hospital on a Sunday?"

"Due diligence," he replies easily, his tone neutral. "Morrison World is considering a philanthropic partnership with their pediatric oncology wing. I prefer to see the facilities for myself."

It's a perfectly reasonable, even noble, explanation. Yet, something about the timing feels... pointed.

I start to step sideways, offering another polite smile. "Well, I won't keep you. Have a good day."

"Actually," he says, the single word stopping me in my tracks. "If you're not rushing off... are you busy? Do you have other plans?"

Why is he asking me? It's Sunday. The question feels loaded.

"Nothing planned yet," I admit, keeping my tone light and formal.

Then, to my genuine surprise, he asks, "Would you care to join me for a cup of coffee?"

My breath catches. Is he asking me out... like that? The thought sends a bizarre, unwarmed flutter through my chest, immediately followed by suspicion.

He seems to read the hesitation on my face. A faint, knowing smile appears. "I assure you, it's nothing of that sort. Purely a discussion about the Winter Couture project. I have a few thoughts on the phoenix narrative. If that's acceptable to you."

Oh. Of course. Now it makes sense. Business. Always business.

Should I say yes? I was going to go home, watch the live feed of the Croft family implosion, and lose myself in work. That was the plan.

But Ceron Morrison is an enigma. Ever since that first moment at the show, his gaze has fallen on me in a way I can't quite explain. It irks me. It intrigues me. And right now, intrigued is a better feeling than the cold, clinical triumph still humming in my veins.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "A cup of coffee would be fine."