Bound By Revenge

The city greeted me with rain. Not the soft, cleansing kind but a restless drizzle that slicked the streets and made everything shine like glass. From the back seat of the cab, I watched towers of steel blur past, each higher and colder than I remembered. Eight years was long enough for the skyline to change, yet the air smelled like ambition and exhaust and something metallic lodged in the throat. When I left this place, I promised myself I'd never come back. But promises are easy to make when you're bleeding. I tugged my coat tighter, fingers brushing the old photograph tucked inside the pocket –my father at his desk, smiling at something off-camera. He never smiled again after the Morrells crushed him. Now, standing at the edge of their empire, I wasn't the same girl who'd run away. I had a new name, new papers, and a plan that had taken years to sharpen. Revenge doesn't age; it just learns patience. The cab stopped in front of Morrell Empire, a thirty-story monument to arrogance. Every inch of glass reflected the world it ruled over. For a moment, my throat tightened. I told myself it was anger, not fear. "Miss?" the driver asked. "Yes." I paid him, stepped out, and let the drizzle touch my face like a dare. Inside, the lobby glowed with gold and marble. The floors were polished enough to mirror my nerves. A receptionist smiled, too perfect to be real. "Good morning. Name, please?" "Nicole Adams. I'm here for the marketing consultancy." She nodded, handed me a visitor badge, and gestured toward the elevators. "Twenty-five. Someone from HR will meet you." The elevator doors closed, sealing me in with my reflection: sleek hair, neutral lipstick, calm eyes. The calm was an illusion. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might betray me before I even began. Breathe, Mila. Just breathe. When the doors opened, voices floated from the hallway, one deep and commanding enough to slice through the noise. I didn't need to see him to know. Mathew Morrell. The man whose signature had ended my father's life. My fingers curled around my badge. I stepped aside, pretending to check my phone as a group of executives passed. And there he was exactly as the magazines showed him: tall, immaculate, the kind of man the world either feared or worshiped. He didn't notice me. Good. I wasn't ready for that encounter, not yet. I slipped into a side corridor, waiting for my pulse to slow. "Can I help you?" The voice came from behind, lower, smoother. Not Mathew's. I turned and met a different version of him. Softer edges. The same sharp jaw, but a warmth his brother lacked. His tie hung loose, as though he'd already fought the day and refused to lose entirely. "I....uh....was told to wait here for HR," I said, forcing composure. He studied me with a faint, amused smile. "You're new." "Is it that obvious?" "Only because you're still breathing. Most people around here hold their breath when my brother is near." That smile was disarming, the kind that made you forget your script. I almost laughed. Almost. He extended his hand. "Phil Morrell." For a split second, my stomach dropped. The brother. The one the tabloids rarely mentioned. "Nicole Adams," I said, accepting his hand because not doing so would raise questions. His grip was firm, warm, steady, a pulse of life I didn't expect. "Well, Nicole Adams the consultant," he said, still holding my gaze, "welcome to the jungle. Try not to let my brother eat you alive." His tone was light, but something flickered behind it, a warning, maybe, or curiosity. Before I could answer, an assistant called his name. He released my hand slowly, like a secret he wasn't sure he wanted to keep, and walked away. I watched him disappear down the corridor, heart beating too fast. The enemy's brother. This was not part of the plan. I wasn't supposed to feel anything, I was here for revenge, not distraction. But the way he said my name... it didn't sound like an interrogation. It sounded like temptation. I turned away before anyone could notice the c***k in my composure. The walls suddenly felt too close, the air too thin. Every step I took echoed like a reminder of the mistake I was already making. He was supposed to be the obstacle. Not the reason my plan started to fall apart. Back in my room, I paced the floor, every sound from the hallway making me flinch. I shouldn't have let him touch me not even that brief, careless brush of fingers. Now it lingered, ghostlike, on my skin, as if his touch had left a mark deeper than I could scrub away. I told myself it meant nothing. That I was still in control. That I could still finish what I came here to do. But when I closed my eyes, all I saw was his. Calm, unreadable, yet full of something that made me hesitate, something that looked too much like understanding. No one warned me that the hardest part of revenge isn't the waiting. It's pretending your heart isn't starting to betray you. Because no one tells you how exhausting it is to carry hatred and desire in the same breath. How they start to blur until you can't tell one from the other. I'd built my walls carefully, piece by piece, lie by lie until I believed they were unbreakable. But he had a way of finding the cracks, of standing too close, of looking at me like he could hear every thought I tried to bury. It wasn't supposed to matter. He wasn't supposed to matter. Yet every time I closed my eyes, I saw the flicker in his eyes, the one that made me wonder if he knew who I really was, or worse, if he didn't care. Revenge was supposed to be clean. Simple. But nothing about this felt clean anymore. It felt messy, dangerous... human. And I hated that. I hated how easily he slipped into the spaces I'd promised no one would ever reach. Maybe that was how revenge worked and not by burning everything else down, but by slowly setting you on fire until there's nothing left but the truth you've been running from. And the truth was simple, terrifying, and impossible to admit.