Revenge Wears Red

CHAPTER FIVE: THE OTHER SIDE OF DAWN

In the pale silence of early morning, a faint rustling stirred the stillness in the master bedroom of the Jones mansion. The room was a regal blend of sophistication and wealth. Walls coated in muted champagne, trimmed with intricate white molding. Golden-framed paintings and photographs adorned the walls, including a large canvas of Vincent and Ariella from their Paris honeymoon. A towering arched window overlooked the courtyard, with heavy drapes tied neatly to the side. The bed was king-sized, its tufted velvet headboard lined with golden accents. At its foot, a faintly glowing fireplace flickered silently. Everything in the room whispered opulence, from the silk bedding to the plush Persian rug underfoot.

Vincent stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of his navy-blue bespoke suit. The fabric hugged his form perfectly, the stitching precise, the lapel sharp. His silver tie was secured with a diamond-studded clip, and his shoes—black Italian leather with red bottoms—shone like polished obsidian. He smoothed his already immaculate hair, inspecting every angle of his reflection.

Ariella stirred faintly under the covers. The rustle of fabric caught her attention. Her eyes fluttered open, vision adjusting to the dim lamplight. She sat up slowly and turned toward the clock above the vanity table. It was 3:12 a.m.

“Vincent?” she murmured groggily. “Where are you going this early?” Without turning, he answered coolly, “Where else would I be going if not to my office?” He scoffed as he adjusted his cufflinks. “You really ask the most ridiculous questions.”

Ariella frowned and sat upright slowly, drawing the sheets around her. “It’s not a ridiculous question. It’s realistic. Most men are asleep with their families at this hour. Why would you be heading to work now?”

“ There’s an emergency at the company” he said, brushing a lint speck from his shoulder. “Something came up with the West Coast property.”

Vincent owned a flourishing empire of five-star hotels across the United States, all under the famed name “The Jones Dynasty.” A name that once brought pride to Ariella, but now filled her with growing unease.

Still combing his hair, he added flatly, “If you were a reasonable wife, you’d be in the kitchen right now getting my breakfast ready instead of sitting there looking confused.”

Ariella’s lips parted slightly, stunned.

Never. Never had Vincent told her to go to the kitchen especially not like that, not in that tone. Memories rushed in of early mornings when they’d both wake up late, laughing, scrambling around the kitchen in their pajamas getting food ready for the family. Even when she insisted that Vincent should go get ready for work and leave the kitchen to her, Vincent would always insist on chopping vegetables or frying the potatoes saying it made him feel useful. He would steal kisses while she stirred the eggs, whispering how lucky he was. Now this?

“I’m not getting up to cook at 3 a.m., Vincent. Not for you. Not for anyone,” she said, her voice low but firm. He hissed in irritation, checking his wristwatch. Softening her voice, she tried one more time. “Can we just talk before you go? Please? Let’s fix this. Whatever this is.”

But Vincent didn’t even let her finish. He grabbed his jacket and walked out, slamming the bedroom door with a force that made the frame rattle.

Ariella sat frozen in the echo of that slam. She turned her gaze slowly across the room until it landed on the photograph on her nightstand of she and Vincent on their fifth wedding anniversary, wrapped in each other’s arms on a yacht in the Caribbean, smiling at a future they both believed in.How did it come to this?

The roar of an engine startled her. She jumped out of bed and rushed to the window, peeking through the curtain. The Pagani was already pulling out of the gates.

Ariella watched until the taillights vanished into the darkness. A bitter smile touched her lips as tears welled up in her eyes. “So this is love,” she whispered, voice cracking. “This is marriage.”

But Vincent didn’t head to his company as he said the would. He cruised through the sleeping city, eventually pulling into the underground garage of The Monarch Hotel—one of his newest and most luxurious establishments in the city.

He entered through a private elevator, nodding at a few sleepy-eyed staff. Everyone knew not to question Vincent Jones, especially when he showed up unannounced.

“Good morning, Mr. Jones,” the night receptionist greeted softly, straightening her collar as she quickly stepped in to escort him. She led him to the penthouse suite. The hallway to the top floor was dimly lit, adorned with abstract artwork and gold-rimmed mirrors. They passed private lounges and exclusive spa doors until they reached the suite at the far end. “This way, sir,” she said, unlocking the grand double doors.

The room was decadence redefined. Velvet curtains hung from ceiling to floor, and glass walls offered a view of the sleeping skyline. A sunken lounge area held crystal decanters and a marble fireplace. The bed—round, vast, and covered in black silk sheets—sat atop a dais surrounded by tall indoor plants. The room smelled of jasmine and expensive perfume.

And lying atop the bed was a woman.

She wore a lacy black lingerie set that clung to her body like a second skin. Her legs crossed, lips painted ruby red, and her long ebony hair cascading over one shoulder, she looked every bit the siren she intended to be.

“Welcome, Daddy,” she purred, a wicked gleam in her eyes as she bit her lower lip seductively. The woman was none other than Annabel. “My little princess,” Vincent growled, his voice low and hungry.

He tossed his jacket to the floor and kicked off his shoes as he stalked toward the bed. The receptionist then silently turned and closed the door behind him.