At the Soren estate, serenity masked tension.
Amelia Hartley—Charles's current fiancée—sat in the sunlit atrium, flipping through fashion magazines with apparent ease. But her fingers gripped the pages too tightly, her smile too poised.
Her assistant leaned in, whispering, "Miss Bennett has been spotted entering LTX Holdings."
Amelia's smile didn't falter, but her eyes turned sharp. "So it begins."
She closed the magazine with a quiet snap. "She's back to destroy him."
"Should we warn Mr. Soren?"
"No," Amelia said coldly. "Let him underestimate her. He always did. And that mistake cost him once already."
She stood, heels clicking on marble.
"I'll handle Isabella."
⸻
Later that evening, Isabella returned home to find an unexpected guest waiting by her private elevator.
Amelia.
Clad in haute couture, poised and venomous.
"I thought billionaires had better security," Amelia said with a smirk.
Isabella pressed the elevator button without glancing at her. "Or maybe I don't find you threatening."
"You should."
Isabella turned slowly. "You stole a broken man and called it victory. That's not threat—it's pity."
Amelia's face darkened. "You think this is just about Charles?"
"It's always just about Charles for you," Isabella said. "That's the difference."
Amelia stepped closer, voice low. "Walk away, Isabella. Before you lose more than your pride."
Isabella's gaze sharpened. "I already lost everything once. What's left is mine to reclaim—or burn."
The elevator dinged open. Isabella stepped in, unbothered, powerful.
"Tell Charles," she added without looking back, "next time, I won't be so polite."
The doors slid shut.
And Amelia knew—the woman Charles once discarded was now the one he should fear most.