Chapter 4
1058 Words
Moreau Corporation – Executive Office
I felt it before I saw it.
The shift. The drop in temperature. The weight of unseen eyes crawling up my spine.
Then, the doors exploded open.
The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot. Heavy boots thundered against the polished floors as men poured into the room, their movements quick, precise—dangerous.
Guns. At least six of them.
I barely had time to react before Rafael moved.
His grip closed around my wrist, yanking me backward as he pivoted, his other hand reaching beneath his jacket. The glint of metal flashed just as the first man raised his weapon.
I saw it before it happened. The tightening of his fingers, the shift in his stance.
He was going to shoot.
I didn’t think.
I moved.
I twisted out of Rafael’s grasp, grabbed the heavy glass paperweight from Damien’s desk, and hurled it with every ounce of force I had.
It struck the gunman’s wrist with a sickening c***k. His fingers spasmed. The gun clattered to the floor.
Then Rafael moved.
A blur of motion. A sharp twist. A sickening crunch.
The man screamed as Rafael disarmed him with brutal efficiency, sending him crumpling to the floor.
And then all hell broke loose.
The second gunman raised his weapon.
Rafael was faster.
A shot rang out. Not from them. From him.
The bullet hit its mark—shoulder, not fatal, but enough to drop the man to his knees, howling in pain.
A third rushed forward. I felt the shift of air before I saw him, the weight of movement barreling toward me.
Instinct kicked in.
I ducked. Twisted.
His arms missed me by inches.
I spun, grabbing the chair beside me, and rammed it into his ribs. He staggered, cursing.
A hand grabbed my wrist—strong, unrelenting.
Damien.
I barely had time to react before he wrenched me around, slamming me into the desk. My breath whooshed from my lungs as the edge bit into my spine.
His grip tightened, his face inches from mine, breath warm against my skin.
“You should’ve stayed dead, little sister.” His voice was low, dark, laced with something almost like amusement.
I met his gaze, ignoring the sharp ache in my back. “You should’ve made sure I was.”
His fingers clenched, but I saw it—the flicker in his eyes. A flash of uncertainty, of something he hadn’t accounted for.
Me.
Still standing.
Still fighting.
I smiled.
Then I drove my knee into his stomach.
His breath hitched. His grip loosened just enough.
I wrenched free, grabbing the letter opener from his desk, flipping it in my hand. The blade wasn’t sharp enough to kill, but it would hurt.
Damien took a step back, lips curling. “Cute.”
I lunged.
He dodged, barely, but the tip of the blade grazed his arm, cutting through fabric and skin.
His smirk dropped.
I didn’t stop. I pivoted, using the momentum to swing my arm again, aiming for his face.
A hand caught mine mid-air.
Not Damien’s.
A gun c****d.
Scarface.
The man Rafael had shot earlier. Blood stained his suit, his arm hung at an odd angle, but his grip on the gun was steady.
“Drop it,” he ordered, voice tight with pain.
Damien straightened, brushing his sleeve as if none of this had fazed him. “See, Alessa? You always get ahead of yourself.”
I didn’t move.
Rafael was still fighting, taking down the last of Damien’s guards with swift, calculated movements. But Scarface’s gun was trained on my head, and I knew, injured or not, he wouldn’t hesitate.
Damien stepped closer, voice softer now, almost gentle. “Give it up.”
I tilted my head, heart hammering against my ribs.
And then I smiled.
His eyes narrowed. “What—”
The office doors slammed open again.
This time, it wasn’t his men.
It was mine.
Black-clad security forces flooded the room, weapons raised, moving with trained precision.
Scarface barely had time to react before he was tackled, the gun ripped from his grip.
Damien’s smirk vanished.
Slowly, I turned back to him. “You were saying?”
Silence.
Then, he exhaled, shaking his head with something almost like admiration. “You planned this.”
I lifted a shoulder. “Of course.”
His jaw ticked.
“I spent three years waiting for this moment, Damien,” I continued. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come prepared?”
For the first time, he looked truly cornered.
I stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “You stole my company. My life. But I rebuilt. And now?” My fingers curled into fists. “I own you.”
His nostrils flared. “You think this is over?”
I smiled. “No. I think it’s just beginning.”
Then I turned.
“Take him.”
Two of my men stepped forward, gripping Damien’s arms.
He didn’t fight. Didn’t struggle.
But as they dragged him past me, he leaned in, voice low. “You have no idea what you’ve started.”
I didn’t flinch.
I just smiled. “You have no idea what I’ve already finished.”
Moreau Corporation – Parking Garage
The night air was crisp, thick with the scent of rain and gasoline.
I slid into the backseat of the black sedan, exhaling slowly. My hands were steady, my pulse controlled, but adrenaline still thrummed beneath my skin.
Rafael climbed in beside me, rolling his shoulders. “That went well.”
I shot him a look. “We were almost shot.”
He smirked. “Almost.”
I let out a breath, shaking my head. “Damien won’t go down without a fight.”
He hummed. “I hope not.”
I turned to him, studying the sharp lines of his face, the amusement glinting in his eyes. “You enjoyed that.”
His smirk widened. “Didn’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was—yes.
I did.
I had spent three years waiting for this moment. Three years clawing my way back. And now?
Now, I was in control.
But this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
As the car pulled away, the city lights blurring past us, I knew—
Damien wasn’t finished.
And neither was I.
- Writer
