THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

I want to kill him.

The urge is so potent, so all-consuming, that it takes every ounce of my willpower to remain still, to keep my hands clasped gracefully around the champagne flute instead of reaching for a weapon. The vision is vivid: the satisfying jerk of his body, the brilliant, shocking crimson blooming across his crisp white shirtfront. I can almost see it oozing out, drenching the polished floor in a shimmering, wet stain.

A slow smile touches my lips as I swirl the pale gold liquid in my glass. Satisfied? Perhaps. I have mentally sketched out fifty different ways to end Ethan Croft, and yet, it never feels like enough. The hatred is a fire that burns brighter and hotter than anything else I have ever felt.

"Miss Ashford, I am so delighted to see you tonight."

The voice pulls me out of my head. I divert my attention from the scumbag across the room to the lovely woman now standing before me. Dahlia Johansson offers a broad, genuine smile. She is the legendary organizer of this fashion show and the director of Aethelred House, a name that commands reverence in American fashion. Receiving her personal invitation two months ago was a shockwave through the industry. But then again, who am I kidding? I had well expected the exclusive envelope to arrive at my doorstep. My current collection has set the world on fire, and Aethelred House needs my name.

"You are too kind, Dahlia," I say, flashing a perfect smile. "The show was amazing. I loved the last segment with all the black and white pieces."

Her eyes light up. "Precisely! It's about the narrative. I told the team, we are not just dressing bodies, we are draping characters in a story. And your work, Vanessa, has that very same cinematic quality. It's why I knew you simply had to be here."

She then laughs, a light, tinkling sound that perfectly suits the surroundings. "I look forward to working with you, Miss Ashford."

We make a bit more small talk about fabrics and trends before someone calls her away. As soon as she's gone, my eyes snap back to where he was standing.

He's gone.

My heart does a little jump. Did he leave? No, he can't have. The party is just getting started. I start moving through the crowd, trying to look casual as I scan the room.

The after-party is in a cool, industrial-looking loft. The ceiling is high, with big, modern art pieces hanging down. Everyone is dressed in their best, wearing crazy-expensive outfits and sipping cocktails. The whole place buzzes with noise and energy.

"Vanessa!"

The shrill call of my name cuts across the sophisticated din. I turn to see Samantha Falls waving enthusiastically. I had the profound misfortune of being seated next to her during the show. She is a minor television actress and a professional talker, who spent the entire hour rambling about her auditions and her co-stars. She has now mistakenly decided we are the dearest of friends. We are not. She waves her hand, motioning for me to join her little circle. I can see two or three people flanking her, all now looking in my direction.

Having no choice, I weave my way over, offering a polished, impersonal smile to her companions– a gallery owner, a tech investor, and someone whose name I immediately forget.

The next ten minutes are torture. I have to smile and nod while they talk about boring famous people I don't care about. My head starts to ache from all the fake socializing. All I can think about is that I've lost sight of him.

I can't take it anymore. I make an excuse and slip away, moving through the sea of designer dresses and suits.

And then I see him. A flash of his perfectly styled brown hair. Even after all these years, i can recognize him just by the back of his head. And I hate that I can.

His mistress and also my ex-best friend is clinging to his arm a few feet away from me. He's talking to some important-looking guys, probably lying through his teeth. I look at them and wonder, do they have any idea what he's really like? Can they see the terrible person hiding behind that charming smile?

He hasn't noticed me yet.

But that's the plan. It's not time.

I glance at the delicate diamond watch on my wrist. There are still eight minutes left.

I can wait. I've been waiting for five years. What's eight more minutes? I've spent all this time planning his downfall. I can stand here a little longer.

I take a small, subconscious step back to steady myself, and my shoulder bumps softly into a solid form behind me. I turn, and my gaze lands first on the crisp, pristine white of a dress shirt, layered beneath a impeccably tailored black suit. It's a man's chest. I crane my neck up, and my eyes lock with a pair of cool, analytical grey ones. He is looking down at me, and his gaze is piercing, seeming to see right through my social mask.

I quickly put a polite distance between us. "My apologies," I say, my voice smooth and detached. "That was clumsy of me."

The man is undeniably handsome in a classic, tall-dark-and-handsome way. In another life, another moment, I might have appreciated the sharp line of his jaw or the intensity in his expression. But not now. I have got something important on my plate to deal with.

"No harm done," he replies in his deep voice. I expect him to move on, to continue his evening, but he doesn't. He simply stands there, hands tucked casually into his pockets, looking completely at ease, as if our brief collision had anchored him to this very spot.

I feel a flicker of impatience. I check the time on my wrist again. Four minutes left now. "If you'll excuse me," I say, not waiting for a response before I turn my back to him, my eyes scanning the crowd once more for Ethan Croft.

I find him. His mistress has drifted away, likely in search of another glass of champagne. Perfect. But I can still feel the weight of that grey-eyed stare from behind me. It's a tangible pressure between my shoulder blades. What does he want? Whatever. It doesn't matter. He is not part of the plan.

My entire world narrows to the countdown in my head. When there is only one minute left, I begin to glide forward, ignoring the heated stare from the stranger. I calculate it perfectly, it will take six to seven steps to reach Ethan. By the time I arrive, the lights will be gone.

And just as planned, it happens.

The entire loft is plunged into a sudden, profound pitch black. A collective, startled gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by a rising wave of confused whispers and murmurs.

A voice cuts through the darkness in an authoritative manner. "Everyone, please remain where you are! The lights will be back on in a second!"

I know better. They will be off for three full minutes. And that is all the time I need.

I am now standing directly in front of Ethan Croft, so close I can smell his expensive cologne. He is just a shadow in the dark. "What's going on?" he mumbles to himself, and the sound of his voice sends a shiver of pure distaste down my spine.

Oh, how I wish I could reach out in the darkness and rip that head of his. But that is a pleasure saved for later.

I take one final, silent step, closing the last of the distance between us.

"Ethan," I whisper into the blackness.

"Sorry, who is this?" he asks in confusion.

Instead of answering, I raise my hand and flick the lid of my vintage silver lighter. A small, defiant flame sparks to life, illuminating the space between our faces. In the sudden, intimate glow, I see the familiar lines of his face, the smug set of his mouth.

I let the flame catch the reflection in my eyes as I meet his bewildered gaze.

"Hello, husband," I speak in a hushed, deliberate tone. A slow, cold smile forms on my lips.

The shock that transforms his features is a pure, unadulterated joy to behold. His eyes widen, his jaw goes slack, the color draining from his face in an instant. It is the look of a man seeing a ghost.

I snap the lighter shut, plunging us back into darkness. Without another word, I turn and walk quickly away, my movements silent and sure through the disoriented crowd. Just as I reach the main exit, the lights flicker back on, flooding the loft with a brilliant, jarring light. I pause at the door and turn for one last look over my shoulder.

There he is, Ethan Croft, still standing frozen in the same spot. He looks pale as a sheet, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. He brings a trembling hand up, wiping his face again and again, as if he could erase the vision burned into his retinas.

A scoff escapes me. I turn away and push through the doors, stepping out into the cool night air before anyone can see me.

The first step is done. The seed has been planted. For the next two days, Ethan Croft will be trapped in a private hell, questioning his own sanity, trying to convince himself it was a hallucination, a trick of the light. Because in his world, I am dead. He will not be able to guess that i am alive and breathing. Afterall, he is the one who left me to die.

It will drive him to the edge. And when he is teetering there, vulnerable and paranoid, the second phase of my plan will begin.

But as I walk away, a faint, unsettling prickle runs down my spine. I can't shake the feeling that a pair of eyes watched me every step of the way out from the shadows.