THUGRELLA
CHAPTER ONE
THUGRELLA.
“Rogue Queen,” steps onto the club stage, music thumping.
Lights hit her like a weapon—audience captivated, she’s untouchable.
First glimpses of her cold precision: watching men, nothing marked for later.
Isabella Valdore stepped on the stage, her heels clicking against the polished marble like a metronome counting down a deadly rhythm. She paused for a fraction of a second, inhaling the scent of leather, perfume, and faint smoke that leaked from the VIP section of Club Rogue. Every detail mattered tonight—the cameras, the exits, the men and women who thought they were untouchable.
A hush rippled through the private section as the neon lights flickered, brushing the polished black leather and velvet drapes in pink and electric blue. She felt it—the hum of power and indulgence, the quiet arrogance of men who thought the world belonged to them.
She smiled ever so slightly, just enough to hint at charm, but the smirk didn’t reach her eyes.
The moment her feet hit the raised stage, the spotlight claimed her. “ROGUE QUEEN,” was born. The sequined top clung like armor, heels sharp enough to puncture ego, and every movement was deliberate, fluid, a predator wrapped in silk and neon. Heads turned, breaths caught. She was intoxicating, untouchable.
From her perch on the stage, she studied them—the first potential targets of her careful revenge. Faces blurred into opportunity, each one a step closer to justice. And then she saw him.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t move toward the stage. He just watched. Maverick Ronan Blackwell—an enigma wrapped in designer threads, tall, lethal in his calm, composed way. Her pulse ticked faster than the bassline pulsing through the club. He was different. Dangerous.
And for reasons she couldn’t yet name, irresistible.
She circled the VIP tables, letting the lights catch the glint in her eyes. Every glance, every sway of her hips, was measured, teasing, a subtle promise she didn’t intend to keep. She noticed the small cracks: a jittering hand, a glance too long, a drink trembling in the wrong fingers. She memorized everything, cataloged everything. Tonight, she danced—but the hunt had already begun.
The music hit a crescendo. She flipped her hair over one shoulder, eyes locking briefly with Maverick’s. There was recognition there—mutual curiosity, a spark of challenge. But she didn’t linger. ROGUE QUEEN’s world was precision, patience, and control. Emotions were a luxury she couldn’t afford.
When the lights dimmed and the last beat of the song echoed, she slipped off the stage as silently as a shadow. Applause washed over the room, but her mind was already elsewhere, counting, planning, observing. Maverick watched her retreat, and she allowed herself the tiniest flicker of intrigue. Maybe he would be more than a complication. Maybe he wouldn’t be.
Either way, she was ready. Tonight, the game had begun. And Princess THUGRELLA always played to win.
I smiled as I made my way to the closet room, deep down I knew I had finally captured his attention towards me, that has always been the plan, “Maverick Ronan Blackwell,” I called out slowly tasting his name with the tip of my tongue allowing my taste bud savor its sweetness.
A wicked grin appeared on the corner of my lips. Let the party begin, I muttered under my breath.
The morning sunlight hit my eyes through the linen of my curtain, my body stirred under the thin sheet, muscles sore from the previous night, the Pounding bass of club rogue still echoing in my head, for a few seconds, the minimalist girly decor and interiors of my room reminded me that I'm still Isabella Valdore Jennings. I am just Isabella—no stage, no lights, no audience—just a girl alone in her tiny, carefully curated world.
I rolled to the side of my bed, eyes tracing the familiar details of my room: a small bookshelf bowed under worn novels, a chipped coffee mug from some forgotten café, and a faded photograph tucked into the corner of a frame, my father smiling at me through the picture frame, my fingers lingered on the glass for a heartbeat, a silent acknowledgment of the life stolen from me.
My apartment smelled faintly of coffee grounds and city dust, the hum of early traffic drifting in through the cracked window. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood, barefoot on the cool floor, stretching slowly. Each movement reminded me that ROGUE QUEEN—the lethal, magnetic persona that had held the room captive last night—was gone, at least for now. Here, I am just Isabella, alive and careful, like a ghost learning how to breathe again.
My routine was small but deliberate. I made my bed with precision, arranging the pillows just so, straightening the edges of the blanket. Control, I reminded myself, was everything—even in tiny things. I moved to the small dresser, running my fingers over the surface until I found what I was looking for: a leather-bound journal. I flipped it open, scanning the carefully scripted notes—observations, plans, targets, small sketches of the men I had cataloged at the club. Every name, every detail, etched with patient precision.
A faint smile tugged at my lips, almost imperceptible. Satisfaction. Revenge was a slow game, and I was patient. But beneath that thrill, a quieter ache lingered—the loneliness, the weight of my own past pressing in like the walls of the orphanage I had once called home. My mother’s screams, the endless corridors, the cold meals… all reminders that Isabella Valdore Jennings had survived, yes, but at a cost.
The city stretched below me, sun glinting off windows and cars, indifferent to my plans, my pain, my vengeance. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and let the quiet settle around me. For now, Isabella Valdore Jennings existed only in this tiny room, in this fragile morning light. But I knew the night would come again, and with it, THUGRELLA (rogue queen) would rise.
And when she did, the world wouldn’t know what hit it.
The rumbling sound of my hungry stomach called me back to reality, I quickly rushed to the bathroom had a quick shower, dressed in my casual shorts and bodycon singlet, and stood in front of the mirror admiring myself for a good amount of time before tying my hair up in a ponytail, I knew I had prepared for the day.
