ARABELLA

CHAPTER1

EVA'S RETURN

Eva’s POV

Fifteen years since the fire.

Sometimes it still found me without warning—the smell of smoke, the c***k of burning wood, the heat licking my skin as I ran through the house screaming my sister’s name. Celine was so small, her eyes wide with terror as flames swallowed everything we knew. I remembered reaching for her. I remembered being dragged away. I remembered believing, with a certainty that still hollowed me out, that she never made it out alive.

That night killed Arabella Monroe but i survived and i am back to avenge the death my parents and only sister ( Celine Monroe)

I opened my eyes to crystal chandeliers and soft music, to champagne glasses clinking beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Plaza Hotel ballroom. Manhattan’s elite moved around me in tailored tuxedos and glittering gowns, laughing easily, untouched by tragedy.

I had trained myself not to flinch at wealth. Not to resent it. This world no longer intimidated me.

This was the world that owed me everything, the world that took everything away from me.

I stood near the entrance of the ballroom, my emerald Versace gown hugging my body like it had been designed with vengeance in mind. My back was bare, my dark hair falling in careful waves, every detail calculated. Green was the colour of envy, ambition, and money. It was the colour of power. I wanted to be remembered.

Eva Sterling never had a tragedy in her past.

She was an enigmatic art gallery owner who had entered Manhattan society six months ago as if she had always belonged here. Eva Sterling did not wake screaming from nightmares. She did not remember blood on her hands or smoke in her lungs.

Tonight, Eva Sterling will meet her target.

I did not drink from the champagne glass in my hand. My fingers traced the rim instead, steady, controlled. Fifteen years of preparation had led to this night. I could not afford to make any mistakes.

My gaze swept the room and found him almost immediately.

Alexander Blackwood.

Six foot three, devastatingly handsome in a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, dark hair deliberately imperfect, sharp jawline, and piercing blue eyes that had stared confidently from the cover of Forbes more times than I cared to count.

The son of the man who murdered my family

My heart slammed against my ribs, but my face remained serene. I had imagined hating him. I had not imagined this—this unsettling awareness, this flicker of something dangerously human behind his smile.

Control your emotions, Arabella, Madame Selene’s voice echoed in my mind. Emotions are weapons. Use them. Do not let them use you.

Xander moved easily through the crowd, greeting politicians and CEOs, his smile polished but faintly hollow. There was fatigue in his eyes, something worn beneath the privilege.

Good. Broken men were easier to manipulate.

“Excuse me, miss,” a voice said. “You look deep in thought.”

I turned to find Edwin Reed—the CFO of Blackwood Empire—studying me with polite interest.

“Just admiring the view,” I replied smoothly. “The Blackwood family certainly knows how to host an event.”

He smiled. “Edwin Reed.”

“Eva Sterling.” I returned his handshake, firm and confident. “I own the Sterling Gallery in SoHo.”

Recognition lit his face. “Ah, yes. Your work has been… provocative.”

“That’s one word for it.”

My eyes drifted back to Xander. “I was hoping to discuss potential collaborations. I assume Blackwood Empire has an art acquisition program?”

Edwin’s expression softened. “You should speak directly to Xander. It’s his project.”

Too easy.

As he led me through the crowd, I rehearsed my steps. Make an impression. Spark curiosity. Disappeared before he could place me.

We were ten feet away when I stumbled.

Just enough.

The champagne glass tilted, golden liquid spilling across Xander Blackwood’s crisp white shirt.

Gasps rippled through the room.

“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, hand flying to my mouth. “I’m so sorry—my heel—”

He looked down at his shirt. For one terrifying second, I thought I’d miscalculated.

Then he laughed.

The sound was warm, genuine, and entirely unexpected.

“Well,” he said, amused eyes lifting to mine, “that’s one way to get my attention.”

Something twisted in my chest—something I hadn’t prepared for.

“I’m mortified,” I said, grabbing napkins and dabbing at his shirt, my fingers brushing against his chest. Solid. Warm. Real. Focus. “Please, let me pay for the dry cleaning—”

“It’s just a shirt.” His hand closed over mine, stopping me. His grip was gentle but firm. “And you are…?”

“Eva Sterling.”

“Xander Blackwood.” His gaze held mine. “The art gallery owner?”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I make it my business to know interesting people.” He smiled slightly. “I’ve been meaning to visit your gallery.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I would think the CEO of Blackwood Empire has more important concerns than contemporary art.”

“Sometimes art is the only honest thing in a dishonest world,” he said quietly. “Apologies for the language.”

I laughed despite myself. Damn it.

“Then be honest with me,” he continued, leaning closer, his cologne rich and dark. “Can I take you somewhere less soaked in champagne?”

I should have played coy.

Instead, I handed him my card.

“Visit my gallery,” I said. “If you can guess the name hidden in my favorite piece, then maybe I’ll consider dinner.”

His eyes lit up. “A challenge?”

“Think of it as a test of character.”

I walked away before he could say more, my heart pounding.

“Eva.”

I looked back.

“I’ll be visiting you soon,” he said, smiling.

I disappeared into the crowd, my left shoulder tingling beneath the fabric of my dress where a crescent moon birthmark lay hidden. A reminder of the sister I had lost. Of the family that fire had stolen.

This is for you, I told the ghosts of my past. For justice.

Outside, the cool Manhattan air hit my skin. My phone buzzed.

Unknown number: Challenge accepted. Expect me tomorrow. —XB

My breath caught.

Tomorrow.

I didn’t notice the woman across the street, half-hidden in shadow, watching me with hazel eyes and familiar features I would have recognized—if I had looked up.

But I didn’t.

I didn't get much sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see Xander grinning, feel his hand warm against mine, and hear his sincere curiosity. I was enraged. One conversation with the enemy's son left me lying awake at three in the morning like a teenager after her first dance. I had spent fifteen years erecting walls around my heart, changing from a broken Arabella to a cold, calculating Eva. Staring at my penthouse bedroom ceiling, I told myself to get my act together. He serves as a tool. Nothing more

However, at nine in the morning, my phone buzzed with a text message from the same unidentified number: "Opening hours? I get up early. -XB"—my heart skipped a beat, betraying me. I forced myself to wait five minutes before typing back, "11 AM to 7 PM." However, I guess I could make an exception for you, Mr. Blackwood." He replied right away: "Noon. It's Xander, too. With my hands shaking a little, I put the phone down. This was excellent. This was how the strategy was working. It didn't matter that my stomach was churning with excitement. I worked as a professional.

I arrived at the Sterling Gallery by 11:30 AM with my hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, my signature red lipstick and a cream silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers. Professional, elegant, and unreachable. I had positioned myself in front of my favourite piece, an eerie abstract by a young artist named Marcus Chen. The piece's violent reds and dark blues somehow conveyed the grief and rage I had carried for fifteen years. Sophie, my assistant, a perceptive woman in her thirties who had brought the gallery when Madame Selene bought it for me, arched an eyebrow. "You're wearing your war paint." "I don't know what you mean." "That lipstick. You only wear that shade when you are going to destroy someone” She grinned. "Who's the target?"

"A potential client."

"Uh-huh. And does this 'potential client' happen to be six-foot-three, devastatingly handsome, and worth about $3 billion?"

I shot her a look. "How did you—"