POV: Selena
Revenge tasted nothing like I imagined—it was colder, sharper, and hungrier.
Two years had passed since the night my life ended in the ballroom of the Evercrest Charity Gala, but the memory still clung to me like smoke on silk. I could still hear the applause faltering, still feel the flash of camera on my skin, heat of every stare as the handcuffs bit into my wrists. I had been Selena Hart then—darling of the philanthropic scene, rising star in corporate PR. Now, Selena was dead.
I was Elena Marlowe.
The name fit like armor—sleek, polished, impenetrable. Elena didn't cry into the night. Elena didn't freeze under pressure. Elena didn't believe in love, or luck, or anyone's good intentions. She ran Marlowe Strategies, a boutique consultancy that crafted reputations for luxury brands, and she was very good at it. Enough to rebuild the bones of a life from the ashes of the old one. Enough to make the men who destroyed me believe I had vanished into the quiet void of exile.
But I hadn't vanished. I had been watching. I had been waiting.
The office was warm with the faint scent of bergamot and leather-bound portfolios. I had just finished scanning quarterly projections for a Geneva-based watchmaker when there was a knock on the door. Grace, my assistant, entered with a cream envelope balanced on her fingertips.
"Good morning ma." She greeted, with her usual warm smile hung on her lips.
"Good morning Grace," I responded, "How may I help you."
"Ma, take a look at this," she said, slipping the cream envelope to my table.
"And what is this?" I asked, still strapping away the envelope from the proposed letter.
"It's a new client," she said, placing it in front of me. "It's an urgent request which they only want you to be a part of."
"But why would they?" I asked, my brow furrow in suspense as I continued strapping out the envelope every layer.
"The company's portfolio says it all. And the people in question proposing to work with us is one of the biggest company currently in the New York."
I broke the seal, the paper crisp beneath my nails, and scanned the letterhead. Veyenne Couture.
The name was familiar in the way you remember a storm you once nearly drowned in—its sound bringing the taste of salt and fear to your tongue. Then my eyes slid to the ownership line.
Blackwood Holdings.
My pulse slowed, my focus narrowing to a fine, and dangerous point. It was the same Damon Blackwood. The man whose name had hovered in the shadows of my downfall like a ghost I could never quite touch. I had never met had a one-one encounter with him, but I had felt his presence, his reach, in the way my career collapsed overnight.
The man was a phantom in the corporate world—half legend, half predator. And now, for the first time, I had a doorway into his empire.
"Hmm…" I moaned, "I'll take it," I said before Grace could even ask.
"Yes," Grace celebrated as though she had just scored a goal in a soccer match.
"Why the so much excitement, Grace?"
"Madam, am just happy for the growth of this company. Of your company." She added, "Accepting this proposal is a very big milestone to us to step into the full highlight we have ever been searching for."
"You're right anyway."
I told myself it was professional. That the contract fee was simply too good to pass up. But the truth was simpler, sharper and not because of the proposal fee. I wanted him to look me in the eyes when I burned his empire to the ground.
******
The next morning, my heels clicked across the marble of Veyenne's headquarters, a white cathedral of glass and steel in midtown Manhattan. Inside, the boardroom hummed with tension. The brand was in trouble, its European sales bleeding out after a disastrous PR scandal. My job was to cauterize the wound.
I was halfway through my presentation on restructuring the brand's image when the door opened. And there he was.
Damon Blackwood didn't enter rooms. Rooms seemed to fold around him. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a perfectly cut charcoal suit, his presence was both magnetic and suffocating. His gaze swept the table until it locked on mine.
For a moment, I forgot the sound of my own voice.
The smirk came next—slow, subtle, and devastating. It wasn't the smirk of a stranger. It was the smirk of a man who recognized exactly who I was, even if I wore a different name.
I forced myself to keep speaking, my words flowing over the thrum of adrenaline in my blood. His attention never wavered, his fingers resting against the arm of his chair like he was already measuring how I would fit into his plans.
When the meeting ended, I gathered my files, ready to retreat to the safety of anonymity. But a woman intercepted me with a cool smile.
Written on the gold plate hung on her shirt was 'Mrs. Stephaine Coleman'--Branch Manager
"Miss Marlowe, not so soon." she said. "Mr. Blackwood would like you to report directly to him from now on."
For a flick moment, I froze, "And what if I don't accept?"
"Dunno, but I think he would really be angry with that."
"To hell with your CEOs anger. I am also a CEO for crying out loud and giving commands in such a manner is very rude." I snapped, "I believe you're his manager so please tell him I can't."
Immediately without waiting for another reply I walked fast past through her when her voice cut through the already tensed air. "But I think you're missing something young lady,"
I turned, my eyes locked with hers as I refuse to allow any words escape my lips. Only my eyes said it all.
"He knew you were going to react in this manner, so he decided and taught it wise to grant our fee to the sum of $1,500,000 monthly excluding our allowances."
I chuckled outwardly, but deep inside me all my being needed that money. To increase the portfolio of my company. To clear the loan I took to start my company in the first place and to increase my lifestyle.
Also going back to the draw board of really knowing who this Damon Blackwood was.
Immediately I switched expression, stretching out my hand for a shake, "Very well, I will discuss with my team and get back to you."
That night, my apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond the glass. I was still unpacking my thoughts from the encounter when I noticed it—a small black envelope resting on the floor, just inside my door. No return address.
Inside was a photograph. A photograph of my father, younger, standing beside a tall, elegant woman I recognized from society pages: Margaret Blackwood. Damon's mother. They were smiling like they shared a secret.
On the back of the photograph, in fresh red ink, were ten words:
"This is why you'll never win, Selene. I know you