The Man Who Let Me Go Now Wants Me Back

No screaming. No dramatics. Just a vow.

I slept for six uninterrupted hours—the kind of dead sleep only pure, unfiltered agony can drag you into.

When I finally surfaced, the villa was cloaked in darkness. The only light came from the pale blue glow of the enormous flat screen, its reflection sliding across polished marble. I flicked it on, desperate for noise, for distraction, for something to drown out the silence pressing against me.

And then I saw it.

Breaking news. Fireworks bursting over the sea. Spotlights dancing across the glossy surface of a luxury yacht.

Leander.

Down on one knee.

A diamond so oversized it could double as a planet gleamed in his hand.

Dahlia shrieked, tears streaming, flinging herself into his embrace as though the world had gifted her paradise.

The news anchor’s syrupy voice coated the scene, narrating it like the climax of some fairy-tale.

“Until now, the world knew him only as a discreet bodyguard. But tonight, Winston Salerno—heir to the Salerno empire—has revealed himself to the world.”

Cut to him, sharp in a tailored suit, hair tousled by the breeze, eyes pretending sincerity.

“I did all of it,” he said smoothly, “because I needed to stay close to the woman I adore… Dahlia.”

Cue another round of fireworks. Cue the kiss. Too long. Too sloppy. Too obscene for a public broadcast.

I laughed. A jagged, broken laugh that scraped its way out of my throat. It didn’t even sound like it belonged to me anymore.

Then my phone rang.

Her name blinked across the screen.

Dahlia.

I answered. I wanted to hear it from her, raw and unfiltered.

“Did you catch Winston’s proposal?” Her voice was breathless, high-pitched, giddy—like a ballerina who’d had too much champagne. “It was straight out of a storybook. Shame you weren’t there to see it.”

I stayed silent.

She giggled, wickedly. “Lucky me, huh? That quiet little bodyguard you used to roll around with turned out to be a billionaire. The Salerno heir. And guess what—he picked me.”

Another pause, purposeful.

“Oh, and by the way—you’re invited to the wedding.” Her tone turned sultry. “But not as a guest… as the loser.”

The line went dead.

I dropped the phone onto the couch and just sat there. Smiling. Because neither of them had the faintest clue about the storm already building for them.

I didn’t hesitate.

I dialed my father directly from the villa landline. His assistant answered in that perfectly polished voice until I cut her short with, “Put him on. Now.”

There was a beat of silence. Then his voice, careful, wary.

“Raven. Are you—safe?”

“No,” I said, my tone calm, clipped. “But I’m on my way.”

He exhaled slowly. Didn’t ask. He knew better.

“I’ve decided something.”

“What sort of decision?”

“Caius Martino.”

I let the name hang heavy in the air, sharp as a guillotine dropping.

“I’ll marry him. Today.”

I heard him suck in a breath, followed by the creak of leather as he shot to his feet.

“You… Raven, you’re serious?”

“I’m already in the dress.”

Silence stretched, stunned and trembling. Then came the eruption—genuine, greedy joy. He barked at someone nearby.

“London. Book her the earliest jet. Martino will be ecstatic. I’ll be right behind. Double her security—”

I ended the call before he could finish his sentence.

His delight curdled in my stomach, but I would still board that plane. I would go to London. I’d play the dutiful heiress, the loyal daughter, the woman clinging to power for survival. And in exchange, I’d secure the shield I needed—the war chest to fuel the inferno I planned to unleash.

But not yet.

Not before I made one final stop.

I went to her grave. The only place left where my lungs could fill without burning.

The cemetery was hushed. Cold. The air carried a silence that treated the dead with more respect than it ever gave the living.

I knelt, my coat sweeping over damp stone, fingers trembling as they brushed across her engraved name.

“Mother,” I whispered, voice breaking softer than it had in days, “forgive me.”

I pressed my forehead to the tombstone, closing my eyes. The ache in my body dulled in her presence, but the ache in my chest only blazed hotter.

“They think they’ve won. That I’m finished. But you raised me stronger than this, didn’t you?”

A tear escaped before I could stop it. I wiped it fast, refusing to let even her see me collapse.

“I won’t cry for him again. Not for her. Not for anyone. I’ll marry Martino. I’ll cloak myself in their power like steel. And then…” I rose, wind tugging my hair into my face like a ghost’s hand. “I’ll set fire to everything they love.”

---

I arrived at the private terminal dressed like vengeance incarnate.

Black silk draped my frame, clinging to every dangerous line, slit high enough to start wars. Oversized sunglasses masked my eyes, the kind women wear either to hide heartbreak or to plan annihilation. For me, both applied. My lips were lacquered in blood-red—a promise and a weapon.

I didn’t flinch as I strode across the tarmac. The jet shimmered in silver, sleek and waiting. Ground staff scattered to the sides like I was parting seas in stilettos. Let them gawk.

I boarded like I was entering a throne room, not a cabin. Each step was deliberate, my heels clicking a steady rhythm of ruin. I didn’t smile. Queens don’t smile when they’re marching into war—they only adjust their crowns.

Once seated, I pressed the call button. A flight attendant in razor-sharp uniform appeared instantly.

“Stock the jet,” I ordered coolly. “Champagne, couture, Cartier. I want to land like temptation itself.”

She blinked once, nodded, and vanished. Wise girl.

I pulled out my phone, opened my private social feed, and snapped a single photo—legs crossed, thigh revealed, champagne glass balanced with casual perfection. My shades hid my eyes. I looked untouchable. Deadly. Desirable.

The caption read:

Mid-flight, mid-chaos. Hours away from marrying my fiancé. #thrilled

I pressed post, smirk curving my painted lips.

Goodbye, Leander.