FALLING FOR MY REVENGE

THE MAN IN BLACK

"Victor."

The name followed me everywhere.

Through the detective's office.

Through the drive home.

Through the sleepless night that came after.

Victor. He is my father.

The man who had abandoned us before I was old enough to remember his face.

The man my mother never spoke about.

The man who was supposed to be nothing more than a name.

He was a ghost to us.

Yet somehow, he was now connected to the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the wall.

I was unable to sleep. I couldn't think straight.

I was unable to stop hearing Detective Harper's voice.

The only word we could make out was Victor.

My heartbeat raced faster. My chest tightened.

Why would Mom say his name?

Maybe I was just overthinking, because he is not the only Victor in the world. No it's definitely him.

What did he have to do with any of this?

Had she seen him?

Did she speak to him?

Was he even alive?

Questions. I had so many questions. And not a single answer.

A knock sounded on my door.

I didn't respond.

A second later, Kelvin walked in anyway.

He walked in looking devastated, and drained

Typical.

He carried two mugs of coffee.

One for himself, and one for me.

I accepted mine gratefully.

"You look terrible."

I shot him a look. Incredible. I didn't even noticed I did.

"You too."

"Fair."

For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

The silence wasn't uncomfortable.

It was familiar.

The kind of silence only twins understood. Most times silence spoke louder than words would.

Eventually Kelvin sighed.

"You're thinking about him."

I didn't have to ask who he meant.

The only person I was thinking about now was Victor.

"Wouldn't you?"

"Honestly?"

He shrugged.

"I spent most of my life pretending he didn't exist."

"So did I."

"Then don't let him take up space in your head now."

I laughed bitterly.

"Kind of hard when Mom's last word was his name."

That shut him up.

Because he didn't have an answer for that.

Neither did I.

---

The next morning, reality reminded me that grief didn't stop the world from moving.

My phone started ringing before I even got out of bed. I stretched sluggishly out of bed. I forgot how cold the floor used to be. I didn't put my socks on last night before I slept.

I have been forgetting a lot these days. I don't think straight anymore.

The modeling agency again.

I ignored the first call. I reached out to my phone.

Then the second call came in. I watched it ring. Then the third. I watched it ring too.

By the fourth, Kelvin threw a pillow at my head.

"Answer it."

I groaned.

"I don't want to."

"Tough."

The phone rang again.

I reluctantly accepted the call.

"Hello?"

"Kira."

It was Madison Brooks on the phone.

The woman responsible for my contract.

Her voice softened immediately.

"I heard about your mother."

My throat tightened. The news traveled so fast.

"I'm so sorry."

"Thank you."

"We completely understand if you need time."

A lump formed in my throat. I feel emotional.

Most agencies wouldn't care.

Miss work equals lose opportunities. That's simple.

But Madison sounded genuine.

"Actually," she continued, "there's an event tonight."

I closed my eyes. Of course there was.

"There always is."

She laughed softly.

"It's important."

"I don't think I'm in the mood."

"I know."

Her tone became serious.

"But every major sponsor attached to your contract will be there."

I rubbed my forehead. Wonderful.

Exactly what every grieving daughter wanted. A room full of rich strangers. But nothing seems to move me anymore.

"You don't have to stay long."

I didn't say anything, I stayed silent.

"Kira?"

"What if I completely embarrass myself?"

"Then you'll embarrass yourself in designer clothing." She answered immediately.

I couldn't help it. A tiny laugh escaped me.

But still. It didn't sound real.

"Fine."

"That's my girl."

The call ended. I stared at my phone. Then at Kelvin.

"Tell me I don't have to go."

"You have to go."

"Traitor."

---

Hours later, I stood outside one of the most expensive hotels in Los Angeles.

I already hated it. Luxury cars lined the entrance.

Photographers crowded the front.

Everyone looked beautiful, perfect, and successful.

Meanwhile I felt like a walking emotional disaster.

The only reason I was here was because my future depended on it. I stepped inside.

The ballroom was enormous.

Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead.

Music drifted through the air.

Conversations echoed from every direction.

I suddenly missed my tiny apartment.

At least there, nobody expected me to smile.

I grabbed a glass of water and found the quietest corner possible.

Unfortunately, peace lasted less than five minutes.

"Miss Morgan?"

I turned. A reporter walked towards me. Fantastic.

"Can I help you?"

His smile looked fake.

"First of all, congratulations on your contract."

"Thank you."

"And condolences regarding your mother."

There it was. The thing I had been dreading. Can't everyone stay mute while I heal?

"Thank you."

His eyes lit up.

His eyes did the same way sharks reacted to blood.

"How are you coping?"

Poorly. Mare glance anyone could see it. I don't look fine. Yet everyone I met always asks that question curiosity disguised as care.

"I've been better."

"Do you believe the police theory?"

What was he trying to do? Everyone was supposed to mind their business.

"What?"

"The robbery."

My grip tightened around the glass.

"I'm not discussing that."

"But there are rumors—"

"No." I shut him.

He blinked.

"I just have a few questions."

"And I said no."

Unfortunately, reporters traveled in packs.

Another appeared. Then another. Then another.

It is beginning to get awkward.

Questions flew from every direction.

"Did your mother have enemies?"

"Was she involved with anyone?"

"Do you think the killer is still out there?"

"Have the police identified a suspect?"

My breathing became uneven. There was too many voices. Too many people. It was just too much.

I took a step back. Then I took another step.

"Leave me alone."

Nobody listened to me.

They never did. They were already getting on my nerves.

One reporter pushed closer.

"Miss Morgan—"

"Enough."

The voice cut through the chaos instantly. It was deep, cold, and powerful.

Every reporter fell silent.

I looked up. And saw him.

For a moment, everything else disappeared.

The crowd. The noise. The ballroom.

It was gone.

All I could see was him.

He was tall, had broad shoulders.

He was on black suit. His hair was dark

He looked like those men I saw on magazine covers. And those men who got into trouble.

Possibly both.

His expression was unreadable.

Yet somehow every reporter immediately backed away.

Very interesting. The stranger stepped forward.

"She said leave."

Nobody argued with him.

Nobody questioned him either.

Within seconds the crowd scattered.

Just like that, they were all gone.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

"Who are you?"

One corner of his mouth lifted.

"A thank you would be nice."

I narrowed my eyes.

"A thank you."

His smile widened slightly.

"There we go."

I folded my arms.

"You still haven't answered my question."

He simply studied me.

As though trying to figure something out.

Finally he extended his hand.

"Damian Blackwood."

The name hit me instantly. Of course.

Everyone knew Damian Blackwood.

He is a famous billionaire, CEO, media favorite, and a business genius.

And apparently impossible to ignore.

I stared at his hand.

Then at him.

Then I looked back at his hand.

"I don't shake hands with strangers."

His eyebrow rose.

"Good thing I introduced myself."

Damian seemed amused by my reaction.

And it annoyed me, a lot. Because I wasn't joking.

"You don't smile much, do you?" he asked.

"Not recently."

His expression changed immediately. It changed so fast.

Just briefly. Understanding, and sympathy.

Gone before I could examine it.

"I'm sorry about your mother."

The words were simple.

But unlike everyone else's condolences...

These sounded genuine.

That bothered me more than it should have.

"Thank you."

Silence settled between us. I started getting comfortable. That was strange. I don't get along with strangers.

Then I noticed what he was looking at my phone screen.

More specifically—

The photograph displayed on it.

A picture of me and Mom.

Damian's gaze lingered on the image.

Longer than normal.

Long enough to make me uncomfortable.

"Did you know her?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Damian looked surprised. Just for a second.

Then his expression smoothed out.

"No."

I knew he was lying. I could sense it. Maybe he wasn't completely lying. But he is not saying the either.

I felt it instantly.

The same way people sensed storms before they arrived.

Something was off. Very off.

Before I could question him further, another guest approached.

It was a businessman.

He looked older than Damian.

"Mr. Blackwood."

Damian nodded.

"I'll be there shortly."

The man walked away.

Damian looked back at me.

"It was nice meeting you, Kira."

The fact that he knew my first name shouldn't have surprised me. Yet somehow it did.

"You too."

His eyes held mine for a second longer.

Then he walked away.

I watched him disappear into the crowd.

Something about that conversation bothered me.

I just couldn't figure out what.

---

An hour later, I decided I'd suffered enough.

The event was ending.

My social battery was dead.

And I desperately wanted my couch.

As I headed toward the exit, I realized I'd forgotten my purse.

Wonderful. I had to go back.

After retracing my steps, I finally found it near one of the private hallways.

I grabbed it.

A familiar voice echoed from around the corner.

It was Damian.

I hadn't meant to listen. I really don't want to.

But then I heard something that made me stop walking.

"...she's already asking questions."

My pulse slowed.

Questions? About what?

I walked slowly. I wanted to go closer, but I didn't.

A second voice responded.

Too quietly for me to hear.

Then Damian spoke again.

His tone had changed. He sounded more serious.

"If she's anything like her mother..."

My heart raced faster now.

He said mother. My mother.

"...she'll find the truth."

Every muscle in my body locked.

What truth?

What was he talking about?

And how did he know anything about my mother?

I took a step closer.

Very carefully, and silently.

The conversation continued.

But before I could hear more, a hand landed on my shoulder.

I nearly screamed. A hotel employee.

"Miss?"

I spun around quickly.

When I looked back— The hallway was empty.

And Damian was gone.

He disappeared so fast; as though he'd never been there.

But it was too late. I had heard enough.

Damian Blackwood knew something.

He knew something about my mother.

Something he wasn't telling me.

And for the first time since her death...

I had a new suspect.