Early the next morning, the estate stirred to life.
Dorothy was up before dawn, neatly dressed in a deep grey suit that spoke authority and elegance. She quietly slipped out of the house, her heels clicking softly down the hallway. By the time the others were waking, she was already halfway to the office.
Meanwhile, Theo, still adjusting to being home, decided to clear his mind with a match at the tennis club. He'd always found rhythm in sport—precision, focus, and control. It helped him breathe.
As he stretched by the courts, a tall man in his early thirties approached—sharp jawline, quiet fire in his eyes.
"You new here?" the man asked, gripping a tennis racket with familiarity.
"Yeah, just joined," Theo said with a smile, extending his hand. "Theophilus Basilio."
"Nathaniel Morgan," the man replied, shaking it. "Welcome to the club. Want to play a set?"
"Sure."
The game was fierce but clean. Nathaniel had the upper hand, landing sharp volleys and calculated serves. Theo fought hard, but in the end, Nat took the match.
"Alright," Theo said between breaths, wiping his forehead with a towel. "You win this one. But you owe me a rematch."
Nathaniel chuckled, the first real smile he'd cracked in weeks. "Anytime."
They walked off the court together, chatting casually, when a voice interrupted them.
"Theo! There you are," Dorinda called, stepping gracefully onto the court in a flowing summer dress, sunglasses perched on her head.
Nathaniel froze. His whole body stiffened as he slowly turned toward the voice.
She walked over, hands behind her back, swaying gently. Her presence was magnetic—elegant, delicate, and laced with just the right hint of drama.
"Dorinda Basiliou," Theo said. "Meet Nathaniel Morgan. We just played a game."
She extended her hand casually. "Hello."
Nathaniel's throat tightened. D… Basiliou… The necklace. The letter. The betrayal. His pulse roared in his ears, but he forced a smile.
"H-hello," he managed, shaking her hand briefly. Her touch was cold. Or maybe it was just him.
Theo glanced between them. "Everything okay?"
Nathaniel blinked and forced composure. "Yes… sorry, I was just… surprised. You're very beautiful, Miss Basiliou."
"Thank you," she replied, with a pleased little smirk.
But Theo didn't miss the way Nathaniel's hand trembled slightly—or the flash of something dark in his eyes when he turned away.
Nathaniel offered a short nod. "I'll see you around."
As he walked toward the locker room, his knuckles whitened around the racket.
So this is her… The woman who drove my brother to his grave…
He clenched his jaw, fire rising in his chest. Now I have a face. And a name. And this time, she won't vanish with a letter and a necklace. She will pay…
As Nathaniel stepped toward the club's entrance, still simmering with silent rage, his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a thud.
A young woman had accidentally dropped a heavy sports bag filled with tennis balls, one of which bounced and struck her hand. She winced, and a thin trail of blood appeared where the impact had cut her skin.
Nathaniel, instinctively composed and always the gentleman, stepped forward. "Are you okay?" he asked gently, his voice lower now, laced with concern.
She looked up.
Her eyes locked with his—clear, intelligent, yet holding a warmth he hadn't expected. He reached for her hand and held it tenderly, brushing his thumb over the shallow wound.
Without thinking, he bent slightly and pressed a soft kiss to her palm. "Sorry. That looks like it hurts."
She gave a short laugh and a radiant, disarming smile. "Oh, no. It's just a scratch. But thanks." Her voice was smooth, and her smile... it was the kind that softened hardened men and made time slow down.
As she bent to gather the tennis balls, Nathaniel dropped to help. Their hands met over the same ball, fingers brushing.
That moment hung in the air.
Her laughter faded. His breath hitched.
They both looked up—faces inches apart. The chemistry pulsed like a current between them.
Dorothy was the first to pull away, clearing her throat and looking down. She quickly gathered the rest of the balls and tucked them into the mesh sports bag. Nathaniel watched her silently, trying to mask the rising tide of curiosity—and something else he couldn't name.
Just as they stood up, words forming on their lips, a voice interrupted.
"Mr. Morgan," Kat, the club manager, called out, walking toward them. "Please, I need your signature on this document before I can deposit your membership dues to the bank."
Nathaniel hesitated but took the clipboard.
"Of course," he said, signing quickly.
Dorothy, bag in hand, gave a quick nod and smile before walking away toward the park path, her silhouette slowly fading into the distance.
Nick took the signed sheet and walked off, leaving Nathaniel alone again.
He turned, eyes following the woman with the wild smile and soft hands, watching her disappear through the hedges that lined the courts.
Who was she?
He hadn't even gotten her name.
And yet… something inside him stirred—something that made his revenge burn less violently for just a moment.
But only for a moment.
"Oh dear… she's pretty," Nick said with a teasing smirk as they walked off the court.
Nathaniel didn't answer immediately. His eyes were still on the path where Dorothy had disappeared.
"Yes," he finally muttered, almost to himself.
"Well," Nick continued, nudging him with an elbow, "looks like someone just found a reason to hang around here more often."
Nathaniel's jaw tightened. "No, Nick. I didn't come here to flirt or fall in love. I came to fulfill a mission. I have a score to settle… a brother to avenge."
Nick's grin faded. "Just be careful, Nat. Sometimes, revenge blinds a man until he can't see when he's walking straight into fire. Or worse… falling in love with it."
Nathaniel didn't respond. But the warning stayed with him.
Later that week, he caught wind of a birthday party being hosted at the Basiliou residence. Dorothy and Dorinda…
He considered going—not for the celebration—but to deliver a gift to Theo, an excuse to get closer. To observe.
But an unexpected emergency at the office delayed him.
A few days later, fate handed him another opportunity: Dorinda.
He met her at a charity event and was quick to play the charming stranger. She melted easily under flattery, revealing more than she realized in her desperate need for sympathy.
"Oh, I have a twin sister," she said, sighing dramatically. "She hates me. Always wants to be the center of attention. Even now, with me so sick and barely hanging on—she acts like I'm the burden."
Nathaniel listened, his expression unreadable. "That's… sad. And what are you sick with, again?"
"Lung cancer," Dorinda whispered, lowering her lashes. "But please, I don't like to talk about it. I don't want pity."
He nodded solemnly. "I understand. You're very brave."
She gave a weak smile and leaned in, pleased with his attention.
"Tell me," Nathaniel said carefully. "I heard there used to be an administrator named Denmark who worked closely with your family company. Do you know anything about him?"
She blinked, surprised. "Oh. Yes. Denmark… he was very close to my sister. Too close, if you ask me, everyone suspected they were lovers. Not that she would ever admit it."
"And you? You weren't close to him?"
Dorinda scoffed. "Please. Men like him never looked twice at me when Dorothy was around. She steals everything. Attention, love, trust. Always playing the hero."
Nathaniel watched her.
It was so easy for her to cast Dorothy as the villain. Yet… there was something off. The rehearsed sadness. The lies are spoken too smoothly.
Still, she seemed too frail. Too absorbed in her petty war with her sister.
This woman… is incapable of murder, Nathaniel thought. She couldn't have driven a man like Denmark to his death. Not with this level of weakness.
But her twin?
That was someone he needed to meet again.
Badly.