𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏:

373 Words
π™Žπ™šπ™§π™–π™₯π™π™žπ™£π™– π™‘π™–π™‘π™šπ™― ~Present Day – Milan, Italy | 3:14 A.M. Hindi ako natutulog sa gabi. Not because I’m scared. Not anymore. But because power doesn’t sleep β€” and neither do ghosts. The city outside my penthouse window is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence na alam mong may naghihintay langβ€”something about to break. Or bleed. Sa taas ng lungsod, I don’t see people. I see pawns. And me? I’m the f*cking queen. --- My reflection in the glass is unfamiliar. Long black hair, twisted into a braid like a noose. Skin glowing faintly from the soft gold chandelier light. Eyes rimmed with dark kohl, cold as marble. Once upon a time, I smiled in mirrors. Now I smirk. --- πŸ“± Phone buzzes. Encrypted line. Matteo. > β€œπ‘―π’† π’Žπ’π’—π’†π’…,” his voice says flatly. β€œπ‘Ίπ’π’–π’•π’‰ 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓. π‘Ίπ’•π’Šπ’π’ π’‚π’π’Šπ’—π’†.” My pulse pauses. Then restarts β€” slow and sharp. 𝙇π™ͺπ™˜π™žπ™–π™£ π˜Ώβ€™π˜Όπ™£π™œπ™šπ™‘π™€. The man who broke me. The man who taught me how to burn. The man I buried in my chest like a blade. I hold the wine glass tighter β€” and it shatters in my hand. Blood drips over crystal. Red on black. Beautiful. > β€œπ‘»π’†π’π’ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 π’Žπ’†π’ 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒆,” I say, dead calm. > β€œπ‘­π’π’“ π’˜π’‚π’“?” > β€œπ‘­π’π’“ 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆.” --- 𝙇π™ͺπ™˜π™žπ™–π™£ π˜Ώβ€™π˜Όπ™£π™œπ™šπ™‘π™€ Somewhere underground – Unknown location I stopped counting the days. Pain doesn’t keep time. It just eats it. Chains dig into my wrists. The concrete floor is wet. The air smells like rust and regret. They think I’m broken. Let them. They don’t know who I built in my place. Her. π™Žπ™šπ™§π™–π™₯π™π™žπ™£π™–' π™‘π™–π™‘π™šπ™―. --- I hear the guards outside. Laughter. Guns. Stupid boys. They think I’m still the king. But I never was. She is. --- π™Žπ™šπ™§π™–π™₯π™π™žπ™£π™– ~Back in Milan I stare at the blood on my hand. Naalala ko yung huli niyang halik. It was desperate. Bitin. Like he knew he’d never get another. And now… maybe he won’t. > β€œπ‘»π’“π’‚π’„π’Œ π’‰π’Šπ’Ž. π‘©π’“π’Šπ’π’ˆ π’‰π’Šπ’Ž 𝒕𝒐 π’Žπ’†β€”π’…π’†π’‚π’… 𝒐𝒓 π’‚π’π’Šπ’—π’†.” > Matteo hesitates. β€œπ‘¨π’π’… π’Šπ’‡ 𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 π’†π’π’†π’Žπ’š, 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒂?” I don’t answer right away. Instead, I look at my reflection again β€” no ring
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