Ruin Me Gently

POV: Sable The glass trembled in my hand. “Take it,” London ordered, voice cold and deliberate. I did. Because what else was I supposed to do when every eye in that godforsaken restaurant was on me? Some watched with curiosity, others with mockery. A few filmed discreetly. The Brinchfort name drew attention; their scandals, even more. He didn’t blink. “Now pour it over your head.” The laughter from the corner table echoed like a slap. My throat clenched. The scarlet wine swirled in the crystal stem, dark and thick like blood. My heels wobbled as I stood—slowly, shakily, like a deer walking into a lion’s den. Across the room, Delilah, London’s fiancée and the girl who hated me most—tilted her head with a wicked little smirk. Like a queen watching her executioner work. This wasn’t just humiliation. This was war. I took one last breath and tipped the glass. The wine cascaded over my head in slow motion. Cold. Sticky. Shameful. Gasps. Laughter. Even applause from the far table. The taste of Merlot stung as it dripped past my lips. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. I just stared straight ahead—at London. He watched me like I was nothing. Like he hadn’t kissed me in the shadows of St. Elizabeth’s Hall. Like he hadn’t whispered how obsessed he was with me under the stars, drunk on my laugh and the shape of my collarbone. Now, I was a joke. His joke. And he had the whole world watching. I walked out, drenched in expensive wine and disgrace. But something inside me shifted that night. As the cameras clicked and whispered captions swirled online—bratty intern gets disgraced by the Brinchfort’s—I felt the birth of something new. The death of the old Sable. And the rise of something much, much darker. ****Two Years Later They say revenge is best served cold. But I like mine served in a backless black dress, with blood-red lipstick, and heels sharp enough to pierce an ego. The invitation had arrived a month ago—handwritten, gold-foiled, smelling of power. The Brinchfort Charity Gala. Black-tie. No entry without a name. I wasn’t invited. But I was going. “Are you sure about this?” Harper asked, biting her thumbnail as she watched me through the mirror. “You haven’t seen him in years. You don’t owe them anything.” I smirked as I twisted a diamond pin into my curls. “Oh, but they owe me.” The penthouse was silent aside from the soft clinking of my jewelry. My reflection stared back at me, unfamiliar but thrilling. Bold eyes. Strong chin. Dangerous smile. Gone was the trembling girl who poured wine over her head for a man’s amusement. Tonight, I was fire wrapped in velvet. The car ride was quiet. The city buzzed with Friday night chaos, but I was calm. Still. Like a loaded weapon Location: Manhattan – Brinchfort Tower POV: London London Brinchfort ran a hand through his hair, jaw clenched. The article was already trending. Again. Some old footage of that dinner—her, soaked in red, face stoic, walking out like a fallen queen. People never forgot drama. He should’ve been over it. Over her. But he wasn’t. No one knew who she really was. Not anymore. She vanished the night after the scandal. No resignation letter. No warning. Her small, tight apartment was empty. The roommate clueless. Her digital trail—wiped. He had looked. More than once. The last time, a year ago, he hired someone to track her down. Waste of money. Not even a whisper of Sable Morrigan since that night. Until now. A red envelope arrived this morning—anonymous, unmarked—inside was a photo. A woman in a black power suit, stepping out of a Rolls. Her face mostly hidden. But the eyes… Those haunting gray eyes. It couldn’t be her. Could it? “Sir?” his assistant, Elle, knocked on the door. He straightened. “Yeah?” “There’s a new PR firm downstairs for the Empire gala project. You’re late for the meeting. He frowned. London stood slowly. The photo in his hand trembled. S. Black. No. It couldn’t be. But if it was—he wasn’t letting her walk out this time.