That evening, city lights flickered through Isabella's penthouse windows like a constellation come to earth.
She stood alone on her balcony, sipping red wine, the wind playing gently with her hair.
Behind her, her assistant Ava approached quietly.
"Ms. Li," Ava said, "the media picked up your appearance at Whitmore Group. Social media is exploding."
Isabella raised an eyebrow. "And what's the narrative?"
"They're calling you 'The Phoenix of New York.' Some are saying you're reclaiming everything he took."
Isabella gave a quiet laugh. "Let them talk. That's exactly what I want."
Ava hesitated. "There's more. Mr. Whitmore requested a private meeting."
Isabella swirled her wine. "He's starting to feel the pressure."
Then her tone hardened. "Schedule it. I'll give him ten minutes—and not a second more."
—
The next day, Liam arrived early at the Sky Lounge, a secluded, members-only rooftop bar.
He stood when Isabella entered, her white dress rippling behind her like a banner of war.
She sat opposite him, calm, composed.
"I underestimated you," Liam began.
"I know," she said flatly.
Liam clenched his jaw. "I made mistakes."
"Correction: you made decisions," she said, eyes glinting. "Mistakes are accidents. Betrayal is a choice."
He exhaled sharply. "Then why meet me?"
She leaned in, her voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "Because I want you to know that this—everything you built on my back—it's going to fall. And when it does, I want you to remember this moment."
Liam looked away, but the damage was done.
She stood, dropped a folded newspaper on the table—it was tomorrow's headline from her own media outlet:
"Phoenix Rises: Isabella Li Reclaims Her Throne"
She left without looking back.
The game had begun, and Isabella had already played her first three moves in silence.
And Liam?
He was already losing.