Revenge Served Cold I Reclaimed My Love and Power

Ten years ago, I mustered the courage to confess my feelings to him. He smiled faintly, saying he liked me too, but he wasn’t ready for a relationship. Instead, he suggested we aim for Ivory Heights Academy together, painting a picture of a shared dream.

But just days later, I saw him stepping into a sleek car belonging to a wealthy girl. Desperation clawed at me as I tried to stop him. He stepped out, his gaze cold and unyielding.

“Your affection for me means nothing,” he said, his voice cutting through me like a blade. “Amara can take me to places you never could. Even if she’s just toying with me, I’d rather be her plaything in luxury than waste my time on worthless emotions.”

I stood frozen, my heart splintering as his words echoed in my mind. Then, Amara Sterling emerged from the car, her tone dripping with contempt. “Run her over and claim insurance,” she ordered the driver, her voice as sharp as the roar of the Bentley’s engine.

My legs buckled, and I crumpled to the ground, trembling. Amara walked around to him, looping her arm through his as if to stake her claim. She cast me a look of pure disdain, sneering, “Hah, a pauper.”

He glanced at me one last time, his expression unreadable but distant, and said, “Forget me.”

Ten years later, I returned to the city, no longer the forgotten face of my youth but a rising star in the business world. Fate played its hand with perfect irony; a class reunion, held at my very own private club, brought me face-to-face with ghosts of the past.

——

Midnight Reverie wasn’t just a venue; it was a testament to my success, a haven reserved for Bellemont’s elite. When I acquired it, profit hadn’t been my intention. It was a carefully crafted sieve, separating the influential from the insignificant, ensuring only the best crossed its thresholds.

Only those commanding wealth exceeding a hundred billion or wielding significant social clout could earn an invitation. Tonight’s guest, however, was exceptional: Jaxon Alderidge, the man steering Bellemont’s economy.

He was a minimalist in every sense. No wine, no indulgent luxuries, just coffee. And not even the extravagant kind. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, we sealed a multi-billion-dollar deal with the ease of old friends.

Just as his phone buzzed with a call from the city office, I excused myself from the room.

Outside, Westley Kingsley, my assistant, approached. His tall frame, sharp features, and undeniable charisma commanded attention.

"Ms. Calloway, a second-generation real estate heir, has just arrived at Amber Crescent Pavilion downstairs. Would you like to meet him?" Westley asked, his smile carrying a touch of intrigue.

I cast a glance back at the private room, where Jaxon was engrossed in his call, then nodded. "Alright, let’s see what this is about."

Waiting around for Jaxon didn’t make sense; his calls had always dragged on for ages. As a businesswoman, my time was currency, and networking with industry leaders was how I invested it. Anyone Westley deemed significant was certainly worth my attention.

I descended to Amber Crescent Pavilion, a fine bottle of wine in hand, and knocked softly on the door.

"Come in," a voice called from within.

I stepped inside, my smile poised and courteous, but as my eyes swept the room, I froze mid-step.

The faces before me were painfully familiar, yet time had rendered them distant, almost foreign. At the head of the table, commanding the room with effortless authority, was Amara. Even after a decade, the memory of her Bentley’s roar and those scornful words, “Hah, a pauper,” remained vivid, etched like a scar.

And then, my gaze landed on him, Gabriel Montgomery. The man who had dismissed my love as worthless now sat by Amara’s side, cradling a delicate little girl as though he had mastered the art of tenderness.

My mind drifted back to five years ago, in Cedarwick, where I had stumbled upon him. He had been locked in negotiations, cornered by coercion to drink. When he refused, the price of his defiance had been a sharp slap across his face.

I stepped in to diffuse the tension, sensing the situation teetering on the edge of chaos. He turned to me, his eyes glassy, and muttered that he wanted a drink.

As the night wore on, he surrendered to the haze of alcohol. Disheveled and crumbling under the weight of his own emotions, he said it was a matter of dignity, a line he wouldn’t cross.

But wasn’t this the same man who once sneered he’d rather be toyed with in opulence than drown in “worthless feelings”? Now, after five long years, he spoke of dignity as if it were a sacred relic he’d just unearthed.

But hadn’t he once claimed he’d rather be toyed with in luxury than entertain worthless feelings?

Why, after five years, had he suddenly unearthed his so-called dignity?

I asked him how much his dignity was worth; I’d buy it.

He cried, his tears streaming down, but stubbornly wiped them away and said it wasn’t for sale. Instead, he told me he’d give it to me for free.

I told him, "If you dare to give it, I dare to take it."

That night, I brought him home. But when I woke up, he was gone.