ALLURA'S POV
ONE YEAR LATER
I walked through the airport terminal, my suitcase gliding silently behind me. Mr. Quinn and Russo were already waiting near the exit. I offered them a small, practiced smile, and they bowed in unison—a gesture that had become routine. My chaperone loaded my luggage into the trunk as they ushered me toward the waiting car.
Six months ago, Xavier had orchestrated the complete overhaul of my life: a new identity, a polished personality, and a new history. To make our story believable, I had completed my schooling at Yale, the same prestigious university his supposed fiancée had attended. Three months after that, he publicly proposed. His grandfather was predictably furious, because she was and rich orphan, yet not entirely unsatisfied—it was a critical step toward Xavier's succession. Thanks to God that no one except himself and Russo knew she was comatose.
While I was abroad, he ensured my mental health and stability were paramount, arranging constant checkups and follow-ups. I was finally ready, my spirit mended, and my resolve crystalline. I would help him set the stage, and when the curtain rose, I would claim my revenge.
Next week is the wedding, which will immediately precede the succession ceremony. I only hope the performance goes flawlessly.
AT SKY COOPERATION, BIRMINGHAM, LONDON, UK.
I stepped out of the car. The sun was mild, a welcome warmth that felt refreshing after my long stint abroad. The security detail lined up in a precise row, their synchronized bows a silent, deferential welcome.
I didn't acknowledge them. As Samantha, I had to embody elegance and icy class—which meant acknowledging my servants was strictly unacceptable.
I entered the private elevator with Russo and Mr. Quinn, who positioned themselves immediately facing the doors, forming a human barrier as per instructions.
I subtly adjusted the cuff of my watch, clearing my throat. "How has Xavier been?" I asked, allowing a hint of curiosity into my tone. I hadn't truly seen him in months. During his brief visits abroad, he had been fierce, guarded, and completely unwilling to open up about the pressure he was under.
"He's been working harder than intended, Miss," Russo replied, his voice measured. "He's never taken a day off nor has he had a good meal since you left.
The elevator gave a faint ding—a silent signal we had arrived at the executive floor. As I stepped out, the hushed, cavernous space seemed to hold its breath. A line of staff, from assistants to directors, stood in a neat row, bowing in near-unison as I passed. The silence was broken only by the click of my heels on the polished marble.
I was led directly to the office door: a colossal, seamless pane of translucent glass.
The floor manager, visibly trembling, cleared his throat. "Sir, Miss Samantha is here."
"Let her in," a voice commanded, stern and cold.
As the manager reached for the handle, the door swung inward from the inside, and a woman stumbled out, tears streaming down her face. Perhaps he's angrier than usual today.
We stepped inside. The office was decorated almost entirely in stark, sterile white, from the low-slung chairs in the visitor area to the wall-sized library shelves. He was seated at the far end, shrouded in the deepest shadows of the room. It took effort to distinguish his figure, a sharp silhouette against the city skyline view.
"You may leave," he told the manager, who nodded vigorously and walked out in a near-run, pulling the glass door shut behind him.
"You're back," Xavier stated, his voice flat.
"Yes, I am," I replied, moving past the luxurious seating to the sleek white bar. "And this room is quite stuffy. Don't you think a little natural light might help?"
"Frost Industries hasn't been doing well," he said, ignoring my comment and changing the topic. "Thanks to Dawson, they've racked up enormous short-term debt trying to finance a failing expansion." Xavier paused. "The market knows it's unstable. Do you think purchasing their convertible bonds wouldn't cost us too much?"
I let out a soft, sarcastic laugh, already pouring myself a generous glass of Johnny Walker. "Magnús is a desperate man and, worse, a careless executive." I hummed, swirling the amber liquid. "Acquiring those bonds won't be hard, but the yield is currently too low. I'll be able to bargain the price lower because he's desperate to offload the short-term liability before the next rating downgrade hits."
I took a slow sip. "After acquiring enough convertible debt, we'll wait for the market to panic. Then, we can convert the bonds into common shares at a preferential rate, making us a major shareholder. We'll use that position to launch our revenge through shareholder activism. But for now, let's leave it be."
Before I could finish, Xavier snatched the glass away, tossing the contents and the remainder into a nearby waste bin. I hadn't realized he had stood up.
"We're going to see Old Giovanni for his marriage anniversary with his sixth bride. I'm sure you don't want to smell like whiskey."
"Seriously? It was just a sip," I protested, but he grabbed me by the chin, forcing my gaze up.
"A drop of water made the ocean, sweetheart. Remember, I call the shots, and you listen."
I smiled, pushing his hand away gently. "Thank you for the reminder, my biggest benefactor. I'll forever remember your saving grace." I walked toward the door. "I'm out shopping for the event dress. You better come soon; all eyes are on us."
He smirked, retrieving his suit jacket from the back of his chair and draping it over his shoulder. We walked out of the office side-by-side, maintaining the carefully crafted image of a loving, powerful couple—when, in reality, we were nothing but partners in benefit, united by our very own revenge.
HOURS LATER, THE MALL.
The dresses at the designer boutique were exquisite, each mannequin showcasing an absolute showstopper. Thanks to my refined sense of style, finding a great-fitting outfit was easy.
I tried on dress after dress, not to appease him, but because he was watching. For each one, he'd simply nod and tell me to buy it if I liked it. He watched me shop with an unnerving intensity, even directing me toward certain colors—a stark contrast to Magnus, who was always buried in his phones or a magazine.
Perhaps it was for the media, you might think. But how do I explain the focus he held, the way his dark eyes would subtly intensify with an emotion I found hard to define every time I stepped out in a new dress?
Xavier wasn't the type to speak much in public, but he held a massive temper—a rage he had never once directed toward me. When he was annoyed, it manifested as a kind of flirtatious, almost challenging, anger. He didn't realize that this only made him less intimidating to me.
After a long series of choices, we finally settled on a white, off hand gown with a bell skirt, decorated with seventy tiny golden pins and slim black strips. The final touch was a pair of classic black stiletto heels.
He chose a matching white suit. Unlike the custom-made ones he usually wore, this one, and its matching trousers, fit so perfectly he truly looked like Prince Charming stepped out of a movie.
He moved closer, wrapping his hands around my waist as I fixed his tie. "This dress looks stunning on you," he complimented, and despite myself, a small flutter of giddiness stirred in my stomach.
"You look quite handsome, if I must say so myself," I replied, staring into his ocean-blue eyes that seemed to draw me in faster than a black hole.
Emperor hotel, The Anniversary Gala.
The scent of jasmine and expense hung heavy in the air of the ballroom. Old Giovanni's anniversary party was a spectacle of wealth and influence—a dazzling, insincere gathering of the city's elite.
As Xavier guided me across the marble floor, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back, every flashbulb, every whispering cluster of guests, was drawn to us.
The slow, intimate waltz was led by the host, Old Giovanni, and his sixth bride, Laura, but it was Xavier and I who effortlessly commanded the room. We weren't just dancing; we were presenting a masterclass in power and devotion.
"Smile, Samantha," Xavier murmured, his voice low, close to my ear, sounding genuinely warm yet utterly devoid of true emotion. "Remember the script: utterly devoted, slightly smug. No one suspects a thing."
"Do they ever?" I countered, my smile wide and bright, the very picture of a blissfully attached woman. The white dress felt like armor, the golden pins catching the chandelier light.
I spotted Magnús Dawson immediately. He was here with his wife, Tasha. While Tasha was surrounded by a gaggle of socialites, laughing a little too loudly and displaying her new diamond necklace, Magnús stood alone, his face a miserable mask of forced happiness. He looked like a man about to crack under the strain of keeping up Tasha's public status while his ledgers were hemorrhaging money.
"He looks stressed," I observed quietly to Xavier. "She's spending his way into bankruptcy, and he has to wear that face."
"Good," Xavier replied, pulling me slightly closer. "Keep your eyes on him, but look at me. Look like I'm the only thing that matters."
I turned my head fully, meeting his intense blue gaze. For a fleeting second, the practiced performance fractured. I saw a flicker of something raw and possessive in his eyes, something that went beyond strategy.
"You're enjoying this too much," I observed.
"Only because I know you are," he countered, reaching up to brush a stray curl away from my cheek with a deliberate, gentle touch.
Suddenly, Magnús broke away from the wall. He walked directly toward us, forcing a hesitant Tasha to follow.
"Mr. Xavier, isn't it? And his stunning partner," Magnús started, extending a hand to Xavier with an oily, practiced charm. "Magnús Dawson, of Frost industries. And this is my wife, Tasha. We haven't been formally introduced, but it's a pleasure to finally meet the couple everyone is talking about." He ignored Xavier's non-committal handshake and turned his focus entirely to me. "Samantha, that dress is breathtaking. Truly, you outshine every woman in this room. You have impeccable taste—I heard the Platinum Gala next month is going to be magnificent, and frankly, you've already won the night."
Tasha, whose entire personality seemed built on gathering compliments, glared daggers at her husband and then gave me a sickly sweet, jealous smile. Magnús, blind to the tension, was only focused on his own performance. He was trying to elevate his social status using our visibility.
Xavier's jaw tightened. His hand slid from my back to my hip, a slow, territorial gesture. "Mr. Dawson," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register that only we could hear. "Mind your wife. I can't tell you the consequences of crossing what's mine, can I?
Magnús stammered, his face flushing crimson. "I—I was merely paying a compliment, Xavier. To solidify a new business acquaintance, of course."
"You heard him, darling," Tasha hissed at Magnús, her contempt barely concealed even in my presence. I suppressed a smile. The plan was working.
Instead of backing down, I leaned fully into Xavier. The anger radiating off him was palpable, yet strangely electrifying. I reached up, pulling his head down toward mine, initiating a deep, public kiss. It was an act of pure defiance and theater, designed to solidify our image and destroy Magnús's last shred of composure.
The sudden shift in attention was seismic. Flashbulbs exploded. The paparazzi, always lurking on the edges of Giovanni's events, went wild.
When I finally broke the kiss, I looked straight past a completely floored and embarrassed Magnús, whose wife was now giving him the absolute stink-eye.
"Let's go pay our respects to the host," I suggested, my voice utterly calm.
Xavier smirked, his anger instantly replaced by cool satisfaction. He guided me away from the mortified couple.
We approached Old Giovanni, who was seated regally on a velvet chaise next to Laura. Xavier bowed slightly, and spoke in perfect, fluid Italian:
"Lunga vita alla fenice drago della mafia Giovanni. Possa la tua unione con la signora Laura prosperare per molti anni a venire."(Long live the phoenix dragon of the Giovanni mafia. May your union with Mrs. Laura prosper for many years to come.)
Giovanni gave us a long, assessing look. "Xavier," he said, his voice gravelly but devoid of malice. "I hosted this anniversary for my wife, and yet you two are dominating it. Go, enjoy yourselves. But perhaps leave some of the spotlight for the newlyweds."
Xavier didn't miss a beat. His lip curled slightly, a sharp, disrespectful edge to his smile. "With all due respect, Grandfather," he countered, his public voice dropping just low enough to exclude Laura, "perhaps everyone here knows who the reigning couple is."
Giovanni simply smirked, a deep, knowing expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Ah, the reigning couple. Remind me, Xavier, when is your marriage and succession ceremony scheduled? Or are you content to forever play the prince?"
The jab hit deep. Xavier's smile vanished. He changed the subject with lethal speed, his tone becoming dangerously casual. "Speaking of events, Grandfather, I couldn't help but notice. Your favorite little call boy, Lucas Turner, isn't here. Did you finally decide the old manor was too far to travel?"
Giovanni's face went rigid. For a split second, I saw the true, terrifying Dragon beneath the composed facade. Laura, sensing the volatile shift, quickly reached up and began smoothing the silver hair at his temple, silently urging him to maintain composure.
"That was a close call," I whispered to Xavier as we walked away, the adrenaline prickling my skin. He had pushed Giovanni right to the edge.
"He respects strength, Samantha," Xavier corrected, ignoring my warning. "And he respects nothing more than his reputation."
"You risked everything to poke the bear about that boy," I chastised him quietly, even as I leaned into his side, playing the part.
He placed his hand on my lower back and led me deeper into the party. "This was only the beginning," Xavier replied, his blue eyes cold and triumphant as they swept over the room. "I plan to do much worse to the old man."
"Now, where shall we sit to watch Magnús completely self-destruct?"