Prologue
The room is dark. A mysterious-looking woman appears, her pupils golden, her skin olive. Her hair wavy, long, and black. She is barefoot, wearing only a black dress. She is adorned in jewelry: Golden bracelets on her wrists and ankles, along with earrings on her lobes, and a large necklace draping down her chest. She has a beaming smile on her face, as she waits in excitement for what is about to take place. She materializes a leather sofa from thin air and lays down, lounging seductively across it and sipping on a chalice of wine. She speaks with a calm and pleasant disposition:
"Ah, finally. You've arrived. I was beginning to wonder if anyone still cared for stories of broken souls and desperate bargains. What you're about to witness is no fairy tale. No, it's far darker — twisted by power, soaked in blood, and laced with secrets even angels fear to speak.
Our heroine? Vicious, yes. Arrogant? Absolutely. But she ends up dead, you see. And death, as you'll soon learn, is merely a cruel doorway — a joke that fate plays on those who think their story is over. Death is never the end, not for you mortals anyway.
Oh heavens, I'm not going to spoil everything for you. That would not be very fun now would it? But to sum it up: The poor girl will have to carry the burden of tremendous power, and she must use it to earn forgiveness for her past life or suffer the consequences. Such a torturous existence for her, but at the same time amusing for the rest of us.
The city below? That so-called City of Angels? It will tremble beneath her shadow. And she will tremble as she carries the weight of the city's darkness and corruption on her shoulders, praying that it does not consume her, that she does not fall with it. And me? Well, I'll be here… watching. Waiting in pleasant anticipation for this performance to take place, like you are right now.
So settle in, dear reader. Grab some wine! Watch closely and remember — not all monsters wear their fangs openly. Some hide behind a smile. They don't go about roaring, seeking whom to devour like some do, but rather they simply watch. Here's where it all begins.
Oh, how deliciously this story begins. And I promise, this story will be an interesting one. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"
Ch.1
The boardroom buzzes with nervous silence.
It is ten in the morning at The Price Corporation Headquarters, and nobody dares speak louder than the hum of the projector. Fluorescent lights glare off the polished wooden table where a dozen carefully selected executives sit stiff-backed in leather chairs. The Downtown Los Angeles skyline looms in the background, exposed by large glass windows –the Hollywood sign visible, nestled deep in the mountains. Charts glow against the screen at the front — projections, circuitry models, graphs.
And at the head of the table, like a queen holding court, sits Jenny Price. Her tailored blue pantsuit fits her tall and slender figure. Reddish-brown curls and a bronze-caramel skin complexion frame a striking, symmetrical face: full lips, green eyes lined with precision. She taps one manicured nail against the glass of her tumbler — sparkling water, no ice. Her high heels rest on the chrome bar beneath the table, crossed elegantly, like she has nowhere better to be and yet wants to leave.
She isn't listening. She never really does.
Across from her stands Dr. Sable Marquis, tall, with pale white skin, and crisp in a red sweater, worn blue jeans, and brown Chelsea boots nervously plays her PowerPoint presentation. The projector screen has been lowered from ceiling above Sable. Dr. Sable's copper-red bobbed hair swayed slightly as she gestured toward the diagram on screen: a human silhouette wrapped in luminous threads.
Jenny sighed.
"So, Sable—"
"Doctor Sable," Sable interrupts, tightening her grip on the remote. She cracks a fake smile, trying to repress the disrespect and embarrassment she feels.
Jenny rolls her eyes. She adjusts her posture – sitting up straight, legs crossed underneath the table. A bitch really tried her, especially one she's paying, so she shoots a menacing glare at Sable.
"...Sable," Jenny says, doubling down. "Is it Marquise?"
"It's… Marquis," Sable corrects. "It's French. The 's' is silent—"
"Yeah whatever," Jenny waves her hand. "So our fearless head of R&D is gonna show us her new... innovation." Her tone drips with sarcasm, her smile all venom. "Take it away."
Sable gawkily hesitates then pushes on. "Okay so this is the Fiber-Optic Neural Transmitter. Our team has been developing it for months. It uses microchips to send signals from the brain, through a fiber-optic feedback suit, and directly into electronics: computers, TVs, smartphones—"
"Yeah whatever," Jenny interrupts again. "What do the profit margins look like?"
Sable falters, clearly thrown off. "Well… the profits could be exponential, Ms. Price. This is groundbreaking technology. It'll change how we interact with our environment forever—"
Jenny leans forward, voice smooth as a scalpel. "Okay, Sable—"
"Jenny!" she snaps, jaw clenched. Sable catches herself. "It's Doctor Sable."
Jenny smiles wider, relishing the humiliation ritual. She is amused by Sable's fragile ego and can see right through her front of professionalism and decor. The rich girl and the nerd are the most natural of enemies, that's true whether in high school or Corporate America.
"This is good work. Think of all the money we can make! We could sell this to the DoD, snag some juicy government contracts."
Sable awkwardly cringes. "Respectfully, Jenny, I don't think that's a responsible way to use this technology. This device can help people. It has the capability to improve the human condition—"
"Yeah, no shit!" Jenny snaps. "It'll improve our profits. Am I right or wrong?" Sable isn't landing the plane fast enough for Jenny, and she doesn't want to hear any more diatribes about helping humanity. After asking her question, Jenny scans the room.
"I dare one of you to say something stupid," Jenny ponders.
The other executives nod silently, afraid to do or say anything else.
"Meeting adjourned."
The room begins to empty. Sable saves her PowerPoint presentation, unplugs the HDMI cable, and grabs her laptop. As Sable walks out, she stares icy daggers at her employer, while at the same time hoping Jenny doesn't notice. Jenny uncrosses her legs and begins responding to emails and text messages on her PricePhone, and Sable quickly turns her head to face the doorway. She decides to wait for her colleague Tom – her heart racing, hoping that Jenny didn't see her earlier. Tom, average-sized, spectacled, brown-haired, and scrawny middle-aged White man with a cup of coffee in his right hand notices the tension. Raising his eyebrows and gritting his teeth nervously, Tom quickly follows Sable and the two walk out of the office.
As everyone exits, Jenny doesn't talk to anyone, she doesn't even feel like she needs to. She gathers her files, her tumbler, and struts out of the office with gravitas like Naomi Campbell would strut down a runway – her luscious natural curls bouncing up and down the length of her head with each step, as she heads straight for the door and into the hallway.
In the hallway, Jenny walks back to her office alone. Her black and red-bottomed Christian Louboutin stilettos click-clack across the marble floor, the sound sharp and authoritative. Jenny opens the door and steps inside. The office is a fortress of glass and stone, decorated in shades of charcoal, chrome, and blue. Behind her desk, is a massive window that exposes the city below, allowing natural daylight to come into the office. On her desk, an old photo sits in a silver frame — a rare relic of warmth in the cold room. Jenny sinks into her chair and crosses her legs, staring at the photo.
Three smiling faces. Her father, Harold Price, a bald and fair-skinned Black-American man at the time in his early-thirties stands behind a sofa with his hands on the shoulders of two young biracial girls: One on the left with a short and red curly afro, and the other on the right with straight black hair tied in pigtails.
Jenny sighs. She touches the glass. It's been five years already since her father passed, and she never really had a chance to process it. She was told that she'll be taking over the company the moment she graduated from business school, and that was that. No time to grieve, or mourn, just thrust into the role she'd been groomed for her whole life.
"I hope I'm making you proud Dad," she murmurs.
"I miss you."
Her eyes drift to the other girl on the right. The smile in that picture felt like something that has been destroyed and rusted away by time, heartbreak, and trauma.
"Gina..." Her voice cracked, barely audible. Jenny's eyes begin to well with tears.
She sets the photo back down and sits up straight, she grabs a Kleenex and wipes the tears from her eyes before tossing it in the trash can next to her desk.
"Damn," Jenny mutters to herself, sniffling and shaking her head.
She logs into her desktop and gets back to work: Emailing shareholders, responding to leave requests, signing off on an inventory report. Time to be Jennifer Tanya Price again —President and CEO of PriceCorp, the world's youngest billionaire and its wealthiest woman. The grieving daughter and emotionally checked-out older sister can wait. Just don't call her Jennifer. She hates that.