Marisha's birthday party was in full swing, a dazzling spectacle of wealth and glamour. The five-star hotel ballroom glittered under crystal chandeliers that hung like constellations, transforming the space into a fairytale kingdom for one night. Guests arrived in their finest attire—socialites, business associates, and of course, the media, ready to capture every smile and warm embrace from the lady of the hour.
Marisha looked breathtaking in an ivory-white gown adorned with lace and crystals. Her smile was sweet, her gestures graceful, her words enchanting. She welcomed every guest warmly, including the orphaned children she'd specially invited to bolster her image as a woman with a heart of gold. A separate table was set up just for them, filled with child-friendly treats.
"Happy birthday, Mrs. Zayden. May you be blessed with a child soon..."
"Marisha, you truly have an angel's heart. The world needs more women like you."
"Your generosity is unmatched—a real role model."
The compliments came in waves, as if the entire room had conspired to praise her. But they only saw the mask. They didn't know what lurked behind that flawless smile.
But Irish did.
Standing just outside the spotlight, Irish watched everything with cold detachment. She wasn't an official guest, but she hadn't come to celebrate. She was here on a mission, and this was only the beginning.
Irish wore a crimson red dress, backless and sinfully fitted, clinging to her curves like a battle flag unfurled on the battlefield. Her hair cascaded in loose waves, and her lips—painted the same shade as her dress—curved into a smirk laced with poison.
She observed Marisha, radiant at the center of attention, bathed in camera flashes, adored by the crowd.
And not far away stood Zayden, her target, deep in conversation with business associates. The man was tall, broad-shouldered, with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass and an aura of power that was impossible to ignore. Irish studied him intently—the way he carried himself, the effortless command in his posture. He was the perfect blend of authority and allure.
Every woman's dream.
Including Marisha's. But Marisha was sorely mistaken if she thought she could keep this fairytale intact. Not after what she'd done—stealing another woman's husband, destroying Irish's family, driving her parents to their graves. Did she really think she could live happily ever after, basking in parties, media attention, and the title of Mrs. Zayden Malik?
Irish exhaled slowly, her gaze shifting to the massive LED screen displaying a slideshow of Marisha and Zayden's most intimate moments—their laughter, their embraces, their tender kisses.
A crooked smile played on her lips.
"How about we replace that with footage of my parents' deaths, Marisha? Surely you haven't forgotten the man who once warmed your bed?"
Her voice was barely a whisper, but its venom cut through the festive air like a blade.
With an elegant flick of her wrist, the screen flickered.
In an instant, the romantic montage vanished.
In its place—news clippings from a decade ago.
Her parents' obituaries.
The faces staring back from the screen were Irish's mother and father—victims of a woman who now stood frozen in the middle of her own birthday party.
Irish sipped her champagne, her eyes never leaving the screen, then flicking to Marisha, who looked like she'd just been stripped naked in front of the entire room.
"You thought a cheap gold-digger like you could live happily ever after as a respectable wife?" Irish murmured, her smile dripping with mockery. A soft, taunting laugh escaped her, a laugh laced with unfinished vengeance.
The guests grew restless. Whispers spread like wildfire. All eyes were now glued to the screen.
"Apologies! A technical error!" The MC scrambled onto the stage, flustered. "We'll fix this immediately! So sorry for the inconvenience!"
The screen went black. The music resumed. Glasses clinked again.
But Irish knew, one person in this room would never recover.
Marisha.
The woman's face was ghostly pale, her eyes darting wildly, searching for the source of the sabotage. Her hands trembled as she gripped the event coordinator's arm, demanding the screen be fixed, biting her lip to suppress her panic.
It had all happened in minutes.
But for Irish?
This was just the first movement in the symphony of destruction she'd orchestrated.
She drained the last sip of her champagne, her gaze locking onto Zayden as he slipped into the hallway toward the restroom.
With deliberate grace, she set her glass down.
Then she followed.
Her stilettos clicked softly against the marble, each step a predator's promise.
It was time.