RUTHLESS DEVOTION: THE EMPIRE BETWEEN US

LITTLE BIRD

Amilah stood in the center of her bedroom, her bare feet sinking into the carpet surrounded by a graveyard of silk and chiffon. Every dress she had tried on felt like a lie.

In less than an hour, the grand ballroom of the Royal Palace Hotel would fill with the city's apex predators, billionaires who bought and sold lives before breakfast, supermodels who breathed ice, and elite designers who held the keys to the Fashion kingdom.

And then there was her. A girl who had crawled out of obscurity six months ago to open a boutique out of a tiny spare room. Her only ticket into the den was a single dress she had designed in the dead of night, bleeding over the fabric until it unexpectedly went viral on social media.

The harsh ring of her phone shattered the silence. She didn't want to answer it, but her fingers moved on instinct.

"Boss!" Beryl's voice cut through the line, breathless and dizzy with excitement. "Are you ready for your big night?"

Amilah closed her eyes, a cold sweat breaking out across her collarbone. "I don't think I should go, Beryl."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"I don't belong there," Amilah whispered, the truth tearing out of her chest. "I'm going to walk into that room, and they are going to look right through me. I'm a startup designer, Beryl. I'm a nobody."

"Amilah, listen to me," Beryl said her tone shifting from excited to fiercely protective. "They didn't invite you out of charity. That means something. And you know how many calls we've gotten today alone asking about that dress? Wear it to the gala. Let them see it on the person who made it."

"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll talk to you after."

The line went dead, leaving Amilah alone with the quiet thrum of her own racing heart.

Slowly, she walked into her dim studio. In the center of the room bathed in the pale moonlight spilling through the window, stood the mannequin. It wore the white gown that had gone viral a few days ago. Amilah approached it, unzipped the heavy silk and slid into it.

The fabric didn't just fit; it claimed her. It clung desperately to the hourglass curves of her petite body, tracing the slope of her hips with agonizing perfection. Every time she inhaled, the deep V-neckline dipped, offering a tantalizing glimpse of her cleavage. It felt too bold and exposing. But then she took a step. The high slit on the right side parted from her mid-thigh down to her toes, revealing a breathtaking flash of fair skin against the pooling white silk. It was a masterpiece of tension, subtle when she stood still and scandalous when she moved.

She twisted her dark hair into a loose, messy bun, letting a few stray strands frame her face to soften the look. A touch of minimal makeup, a pair of matching heels that made her stride feel deliberate, and when she was satisfied with her look ,she picked her clutch and her invitation card and left for the gala.

---

A few miles away, an armored black Maybach cut through the neon-lit streets like a shadow. Inside the rear cabin the silence was absolute.

In the back seat, Lowin Vance sat with two fingers pressed to his right temple, jaw set in that particular way it always was when he was somewhere his mind had not entirely agreed to be. He radiated a cold, lethal authority the kind born from a lifetime of being the most powerful man in any room he ever entered. The Vance Empire didn't just rule the city's skyline; it ruled its economy.

Beside him, the frantic, rhythmic tapping of long acrylic nails against a glass screen was grating on his nerves. Victoria Jackson was checking her phone again and again.

"Why do you keep checking your phone, Victoria?" Lowin's voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a low, dangerous rumble that immediately froze the air inside the car.

Victoria flinched, quickly sliding the device into her designer purse. "No, it's nothing, Lowin. Just checking some messages."

Victoria was his secret, kept entirely behind closed doors. For nearly a year, their relationship had been confined to the dark, hidden away because she was the lead model for the Vance Empire's fashion department. He couldn't afford the PR circus of publicizing them, at least not yet. Tonight was a transaction, a calculated peace offering to quiet her complaints after he had casually skipped her biggest milestones. His schedule didn't have room for a woman, and his empire always came first. He appreciated her elegance. He liked her sharpness. But love? Love was a vulnerability, a weakness he had buried a long time ago.

"You know the rules for tonight," Lowin murmured, his tone flat and unreadable. "We cannot be seen arriving together. The driver will drop you at the front. I'll use the underground VIP entrance and find you inside."

"Okay, no problem," she muttered, offering a practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

The Maybach slowed to a crawl in front of the Royal Palace Hotel. Outside, a wall of paparazzi erupted into a frenzy, their camera flashes exploding like lightning strikes against the dark sky. The driver stepped out, opening the door for Victoria, and she glided into the spotlight instantly transforming into the untouchable supermodel the world adored.

The door clicked shut, plunging the back of the car back into darkness. As the Maybach began to roll toward the underground ramp, Lowin casually glanced out the window. And then, his universe narrowed. Across the street, completely isolated from the crowd stood a woman. She was staring up at the towering opulent hotel as if she were looking at a executioner's block. She wasn't moving. Her small hands were white, clutching a silver purse against her chest like a shield. She looked so soft. So remarkably fragile amidst the harsh neon and concrete of the city.

Then, she took a single, hesitant step forward. The movement caused the white silk of her gown to part. The high slit sliced open, revealing a flawless pale thigh that caught the dim streetlights.

Lowin's head tilted slowly. His dark eyes darkened further as a slow, predatory smirk curled the corner of his lips. He had spent his entire life studying prey, and he could read her in a heartbeat. She doesn't belong here. She was a lamb walking willingly into a den of wolves.

And suddenly, the boring predictable gala tonight became infinitely more interesting.

Amilah felt like she was suffocating. The noise of the crowd outside the hotel was a physical weight against her chest. Her heart was beating so violently against her ribs, she was terrified it would bruise her skin. Turn around, a voice inside her head screamed. Go home.

Before she could retreat, a reporter broke through the velvet ropes, a microphone thrust into her space.

"Your gown is absolutely breathtaking," the reporter said, microphone extended, clearly meaning it. "Are you comfortable sharing who you're wearing tonight?"

Amilah blinked and straightened. "Thank you so much," she said, and her voice came out steadier than she'd expected. "I designed it myself. It's from my latest collection."

The reporter's eyebrows climbed. "You designed this?" A genuine beat of surprise. "That's extraordinary. What's the name of your label?"

"Amizee Trends." She said it clearly. Planted it like a flag.

"Well, this might just be the most talked-about look of the evening. Enjoy the gala."

Amilah let out a long, shaky breath and used the momentum to push through the heavy glass doors of the hotel.

Inside, the opulence was blinding. Gigantic crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings, casting a golden glow over a sea of tuxedos and haute couture. A live orchestra played a slow, haunting waltz that seemed to pulse through the marble floor. People were laughing, sharp, aristocratic laughs as they clinked crystal glasses, trading millions of dollars in whispers.

Amilah felt entirely invisible. Needing air, and a pocket of silence, she turned away from the grand ballroom, slipping into a dimly lit quiet VIP corridor. She walked blindly, her head down and her mind spinning.

Thud.

She didn't just walk into someone; she crashed into them. It was like hitting a wall of solid marble clad in expensive wool.

"Ouch!" Amilah hissed, a sharp intake of air tearing from her throat as she recoiled from the impact. Her foot slipped on her heel, her balance failing her.

Before she could fall, a large, warm hand shot out of the shadows. It clamped around her waist with terrifying speed and unyielding strength, pulling her flush against a broad chest.

"Careful, little bird," a deep, velvety voice rumbled above her. The tone was smooth, laced with a dangerous amusement that made the hairs on the back of Amilah's neck stand up. "You look lost."

Amilah snapped her head up, her breath dying completely in her throat. The man towering over her was devastatingly handsome but it was a cruel, sharp kind of beauty. His dark curls fell perfectly across his forehead, casting shadows over a pair of piercing, predatory eyes. He wore a tailored Armani suit that framed his broad, imposing shoulders, and the top two buttons of his shirt were casually undone, revealing the hard, shadowed muscle of his chest. He radiated a quiet, suffocating authority of a man who didn't ask for permission for anything.

Amilah stared, entirely paralyzed her lips slightly parted as she felt the heat of his palm burning through the thin silk of her gown.

Amused by her utter silence, Lowin raised his free hand and snapped his fingers twice, right in front of her eyes. The sharp sound broke the spell. Amilah gasped, her cheeks flushing a deep, furious crimson as she scrambled to find her footing.

"Aah-I-I'm so sorry, sir," she stammered, her voice shaking as she tried to pull back. "I wasn't looking... I didn't mean to..."

Lowin didn't let go immediately. His dark eyes slowly and deliberately swept down her face, tracing the frantic pulse point in her neck, before mapping the dangerous, plunging neckline of her white dress. A rare, dark smile crept onto his lips, a smile that would have terrified his competitors, because it meant he had found something he wanted to break.

"It's okay," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that vibrated straight through her core. His hand finally slid off her waist, his fingers lingering just long enough to feel her shiver. "Just make sure you watch your step from now on."

Without waiting for her reply, he stepped around her, his towering silhouette melting effortlessly back into the bright crowded ballroom.

Amilah stood frozen in the dim corridor, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her skin was tingling where he had touched her, a terrifying sensation of having just been hunted.

Deep in the shadows of the corridor, hidden behind the thick base of a marble pillar, Victoria Jackson stepped out. She had seen everything. Her eyes were wide, burning with a toxic, venomous rage as she stared at the back of Amilah's head. Lowin never smiled and he never touched strangers.

With trembling, furious fingers Victoria ripped her phone from her clutch. She aggressively typed a message, her eyes locked on Amilah's white dress before hitting send. Sliding the phone away, she wore a mask of pure malice as she slipped silently back into the gala, leaving a trap waiting to be sprung.