Chapter 8
FIVE YEARS LATER
ALICIA
:
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I stood in front of the full–length mirror, adjusting the sleeves of my tailored black blazer. The material hugged my waist perfectly, flaring just slightly over my hips. Underneath, a silk burgundy blouse peeked out -soft, expensive, seductive without trying too hard. My pencil skirt ended just above my knees, paired with sheer stockings and black heels sharp enough to kill. My makeup was flawless. Clean brows, warm gold eyeshadow, full lashes. A deep red lip that said I didn’t come to play.
I looked… dangerous.
Confident and professional.
Today was my first day as the CEO’s temporary assistant. What they didn’t know was that I had designed every step that brought me here. Every inch of the distance I’d covered had blood on it. And I wasn’t done walking.
I smiled at my reflection, and for a second, I looked like any other woman chasing a career. But I knew better. This wasn’t about ambition. This was war.
I hadn’t always looked this composed. Not five years ago.
Back then, I was just a broken girl trying to make sense of the wreckage. Fresh out of prison and after my eye surgery, I walked straight to the hospital with trembling legs, hoping to see my grandmother–the only soul I ever truly loved. She had raised me. Protected me. Believed in me when no one else did.
But she was gone.
The nurse barely looked up when she told me my grandmother had died nine months earlier. Nine. Months.
I stared at her, numb. “Who was with her when she passed?” I asked.
“No one,” the nurse replied. “After you stopped coming, she had only one visitor. She kept asking after you. Then your mother came once. The next day, she died. Cardiac arrest.”
My knees hit the floor before I could stop them. I let out a sound that didn’t feel human. They took everything. They even took the chance to say goodbye.
That night, I went back to the house where I’d grown up. I crouched in the shadows, watching like a ghost. It had rained earlier, and the streetlights flickered as a sleek luxury car pulled up to the driveway.
The house hadn’t changed. Not the peeling gate. Not the overgrown grass. Then I saw Patricia.
She stepped out, laughing like the world had never done her wrong. Hanging off her arm was a man half her age, drunk on lust and whatever fake charm she was peddling. They kissed like teenagers, stumbling inside.
She’d upgraded. The flashy car, the boy toy, the new money swagger–I wanted to rip it all apart. And maybe I would. My fingers curled tight around the toolkit in my coat pocket as I thought. ‘Let’s see how happy you’d
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be when your brakes give out.‘
I didn’t move.
The rain started again–soft, then harder, until it was pounding. I stayed rooted there, soaked to the bone, watching, burning.
Something snapped inside me.
I walked up to the car and used everything prison had taught me. It wasn’t hard. I tampered with the brakes, wiped the handle, and walked away into the storm.
But when I got back to the one–bedroom apartment Amara had arranged for me, regret sank in. I sat on the edge of the bed for hours, soaked and shaking. I wasn’t like them. I told myself I would undo it first thing in the morning.
I never got the chance.
By dawn, Patricia was in the ICU. The news said it was a tragic accident–run off the road. She had fallen into a coma. No chance of waking up soon.
The satisfaction I felt scared me.
I visited the hospital pretending to be her daughter. I stood by her bed, surrounded by machines, her face ghostly beneath the oxygen mask. Her eyes were open but vacant, her body unresponsive.
I leaned close to her ear and whispered, “This is just the beginning. I’m coming for your daughter next. I’ll make sure she begs for death–but I won’t let her have it.”
A tear slid down Patricia’s cheek.
I smiled as I walked out.
Back at the apartment, I stared at my reflection for hours. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel guilt. I only saw purpose.
I decided that night–I needed to disappear. No one would expect Alicia–the poor blind ex–convict–to rise from the ashes. But someone new? Someone refined, educated, unstoppable? That woman could destroy
Diana.
1 called Amara.
She didn’t ask questions. Just listened.
“I want a new name,” I told her. “A new life. And I want it far from here. Is it possible?”
She said, “If you’re sure, I’ll make it happen”
And she did.
The Evelyn Foundation gave me what they gave every survivor they rescued–five hundred thousand dollars. Enough to start again. Amara handed me the envelope and her card.
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“Stay in touch,” she said, smiling.
I promised.
But I didn’t call.
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I loved her too much to involve her. Amara was the only good thing left in my life. And I knew the path I was choosing didn’t have room for good people.
I watched the news on my phone while packing for school. Diana’s face filled the screen–bright, radiant, laughing as she posed beside her fiancé.
Damien Stone.
The billionaire. The man everyone admired.
I stared at his picture. Then at hers.
“You ruined my life,” I whispered. “You smiled while they caged me. And now you’re engaged to a man like that? No. No, Diana. You don’t get to have everything. Not while I have nothing.”
I knew I couldn’t just walk up to someone like Damien. He was untouchable. Powerful. Clean. But if I couldn’t have him, I could destroy what she had with him.
Still, I had to be strategic.
Diana was now way out of my league–rich, famous, protected. I couldn’t fight her as Alicia. So I went to school under a new name. I graduated top of my class. I learned how the world worked. How power was played. I became someone you’d never associate with a prison record.
Now I was ready.
Today, I wasn’t just walking into a building.
I was walking into a trap I’d built myself.
And Diana didn’t even know I was coming.
Now, I was Cia Jones–a first–class graduate with a Business Administration degree polished enough to blind the arrogant. I had clawed my way up from nothing, dressing every scar in charm and every trauma in silk. Nobody knew me. Not really. But I knew them. Especially her.
Months ago, I submitted a pristine application to StoneCore Industries. I knew exactly what I was doing. I didn’t want just any role–I wanted proximity. I wanted to get so close to Damien Stone that even his shadow would know my scent. During my internship, I played my part. Efficient, intelligent, helpful—but never desperate. I let him notice me. I made sure of it.
And when his beloved executive assistant suddenly fell sick with a severe case of food poisoning—one she hadn’t seen coming–I just happened to be the best option to step in temporarily.
What a beautiful coincidence.
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Now here I was, zipping up my suitcase with perfectly manicured fingers, dressed elegantly with a cinched waist, gold accents, and heels that said I belonged on the arm of a billionaire.
I walked over to my small dresser, where her picture hung–Diana.
That perfect smile. That stupid engagement ring. That air of undeserved joy.
I picked up a red marker and slashed a bold “X” across her face.
“Day one, Diana,” I whispered, my voice steady. “Let’s see how this plays out.”
By the time I arrived at the private hangar, Damien was already there, standing near the plane like he owned the skies. Tall, powerful, buttoned up in a black tailored suit and dark sunglasses. When he saw me, his eyes lingered. Not long–but long enough.
“You’re looking sharp,” he said.
I gave him a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Thank you, sir.”
The jet lifted us toward a city so clean it felt like fiction–Astoria. A city where business was gold and secrets never stayed buried. Damien gave quick instructions to the driver as we landed. He had a dinner meeting tonight, and he wanted to freshen up first.
At the hotel, he personally booked two rooms–50 and 51. He handed me the key to Room 50 and disappeared into his own.
By the time we arrived at the high–rise restaurant for his meeting, the tension in the air was already thick. The clients were two smug–faced executives who had been stringing him along for months. This deal meant a lot to him–something about infrastructure and international funding. Whatever. All I needed to know was that failure wasn’t on his wishlist tonight.
When they offered him wine, Damien took a sip, then shook his head. “I’m good.”
They laughed. “Come on, Mr. Stone. Just a little more. It’s bad luck not to toast properly.”
He hesitated.
Perfect.
I leaned forward, taking the glass gently. “If it’s alright, I’ll drink on his behalf.”
They chuckled in approval. “Now that’s a capable woman.”
Damien gave me a look. “Cia, what are you doing?”
I smiled. “Sir, I know alcohol upsets your stomach and you tend to have bad hangovers. You have a big meeting tomorrow. 1, on the other hand, can drink just fine and still show up at work at 6:00 am. sharp. Let me take one for the team.”
He shook his head with a smirk. “Suit yourself.”
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And so I drank. Not recklessly, but with purpose. They kept pouring, and I kept handling it like a pro- because I was one. I’d practiced for this. I knew how to hold my liquor and control my expressions. But they didn’t need to know that.
When the meeting finally ended and we stepped out into the cool night air, I let the act begin.
My steps faltered slightly. I giggled unnecessarily. My hand clutched Damien’s arm like it was my lifeline. The driver opened the door, but I leaned on Damien instead.
He caught my waist as I stumbled. “Are you drunk?”
I gave a sheepish laugh.
“For real?” he scoffed. “You showed off knowing you can’t even handle yourself?”
I looked up at him, dazed but teasing. He stared for a second–too long–then let me go. I dropped dramatically onto the back seat, still playing the part.
“Take care of her,” Damien muttered to the driver as he got behind the wheel himself.
“Okay, sir.”
In the backseat, I flopped around like a chaotic little doll, slurring nonsense and laughing. The driver tried to calm me down. I rolled my eyes and leaned against the window dramatically.
By the time we got to the hotel, he helped me out of the car, struggling to hold me upright. Damien opened his door to Room 51, then paused when he heard my voice.
“Don’t touch me!” I shouted, shoving the driver’s hand. “Do I know you?! Monster!”
The poor man froze.
Damien turned back, brows raised. “Cia?”
Then I pointed at him like I’d seen the face of my savior.
“You!” I shouted. “I know you!”
He sighed. “I’ll handle her, Go.”
Damien wrapped an arm around me and guided me toward Room 50. “You’re going to get a serious query this. Who gets drunk on a business trip?”
“You care,” I whispered dramatically. “You love me.”
He pushed the door open and nudged me inside. “I care about your job. Now go to sleep.”
But I staggered again, spinning around, then threw my arms around him. “Hey! You can’t leave me again!”
He froze. “What?”
for
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I leaned in, whispering, “I know you. From high school.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. You were my crush. You left me… and I waited. And now, here we are.”
He stared at me, puzzled. “Have we… met before? I mean–before StoneCore?”
I smiled up at him. “Mmmhmm. In high school. And in my dreams.”
He tried to pull away again, but I locked my arms tighter around his neck.
“Now that I’ve found you,” I whispered, “I’m never letting go.”
Then, with every ounce of practiced innocence, I kissed him.
His breath caught. His lips didn’t move at first. Just wide eyes, locked on mine.
Then…. I smiled against his lips.
My plan was working.
