[ #Stary Writing Marathon ]THE SLAYER’S VENGEANCE

Chapter 4 : The Devil’s Invitation

Light rain fell outside as heavy thunderclouds burst in the distance. Rossi marched across the marble floor, her every footstep echoing the rage burning inside her. In her hands, she gripped the red dress and the shredded pieces of the letter.

She found her father, Harrison, standing near the window. He looked desperate, staring out at the storm as if searching for an escape. Rossi didn't say a word at first. She simply walked toward him and threw the pieces of paper and the red silk dress onto the designer sofa beside him.

"Explain this, Father," she said, her voice low, vibrating with suppressed anger. "How can someone put this in my room in your presence? And why are you acting like a ghost in your own home?”

Harrison remained standing, his back to her, eyes still fixed on the storm outside. But the unknown fear was rising clearly across his face. He wiped his face with a trembling hand before finally turning toward Rossi.

Even then, he couldn't look her in the eye. "Leonard did this," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Do you really think my guards could stop a man like him?" A terrifying fear was now fully visible on his face—a look Rossi had never seen before.

Rossi was completely stunned. Before she could find her voice to protest, Harrison spoke again, "He is waiting for you at the hotel. I am powerless here, Rossi. Do not keep him waiting."

Without another word, Harrison grabbed his coat and walked away, leaving her alone in the cold silence of the penthouse.

Harrison’s words left a trail of unanswered questions in Rossi’s mind. She was now standing alone in the vast, silent penthouse. She walked slowly toward the sofa and sat down, her gaze fixed on the blood-red dress.

Her eyes were filled with tension, yet a flicker of defiance remained. Only one question burned in her mind: to go or not to go? After a long silence, she stood up and gripped the red silk in her hand.

"I will come to meet you," she whispered to the empty room, her voice regaining its cold confidence. "But I will not be wearing this gift from you.”

The night was dark, and the heavy rain turned the world outside into a blur. Inside her room, the silence was absolute, broken only by the rhythmic thud of her own heartbeat. Rossi sat before her vanity mirror.

She didn't put on the silk dress. Instead, she tied her hair back, applied a bold streak of red lipstick, and pulled on a black leather jacket over her simple T-shirt and blue jeans. She looked like a storm ready to collide with another.

Meanwhile, at the Grand Imperial Hotel—a masterpiece of modern architecture—three black cars pulled up to the entrance.

Guards in sharp suits stepped out, moving with military precision. One of them opened the rear door, and Leonard Russell stepped out.

He wore a long black coat and a hat that partially shaded his cold eyes. An umbrella was immediately held over him as he walked into the lobby.

The moment he entered, the chatter of the city’s elite died down. The wealthy and influential personalities present in the hall fell silent, feeling the heavy, imperial aura he brought with him.

The atmosphere shifted as the guests returned to their conversations once Leonard disappeared into the VVIP corner. Outside, a black car screeched to a halt in front of the Grand Imperial Hotel. Rossi stepped out of the vehicle before the driver could even reach for the door handle.

She walked toward the main entrance with a steady pace. The moment she stepped inside, a wave of shock rippled through the lobby. Every head turned, and conversations died down once again.

She wasn't wearing a luxury gown or diamonds like the other women in the hall. Instead, she stood there in her leather jacket and simple jeans.

Every eye was focused on her, but Rossi didn't care for their opinions. She walked with absolute confidence and elegance, her gaze fixed. She didn't need to ask for directions; she already knew exactly where Leonard was waiting.

Rossi reached the VVIP corner and stood before Leonard’s table. Leonard looked up, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. He noticed immediately that she wasn't wearing his red dress, but instead of getting angry, a dark, intrigued smile played on his lips.

"Sit down, Rossi," Leonard said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Rossi didn't respond immediately. She pulled the chair back with a loud screech, deliberately ignoring his calm tone, and sat down with her arms crossed. She looked away, staring at the rain-streaked window, showing him that his presence didn't intimidate her.

The silence at the table was not empty; it was heavy, suffocating, and filled with the unspoken promises of a coming storm. Leonard didn’t speak. He simply leaned back, his eyes—cold as the winter sea—tracing the defiance etched into Rossi’s face. He looked at her leather jacket, her messy hair, and that bold streak of red lipstick.

Rossi felt his gaze like a physical weight. Every cell in her body wanted to scream, to flip the table, to run back into the rain. But she didn't flinch. She crossed her arms tighter, her chin tilted upward.

"Is this the part where you tell me how much I cost?" Rossi asked, her voice cutting through the sophisticated hum of the VVIP lounge. It was sharp, meant to hurt, meant to show him she wasn't afraid.

Leonard’s dark smile didn’t falter. He picked up his crystal glass, swirling the dark liquid inside. "You think too little of yourself, Rossi. And far too much of your father's debts."

"Then why am I here?" she snapped. "Why the dress? Why the threats? If you want to kill me, do it. But don't expect me to play along with this sick game."

Leonard set the glass down with a slow, deliberate click that made Rossi’s heart skip a beat. He leaned forward, the shadows from the dim chandelier falling across his sharp features.

"Your attitude," he began, his voice a low, dangerous velvet. "It’s charming. Truly. You think your pride is a shield that will protect you from me. You think that by wearing those jeans and that jacket, you’ve kept your soul. But tell me, Rossi... does a bird think it’s free just because it refuses to sing in its cage?"

Rossi’s breath hitched. "I am not your property, Leonard."

"Aren't you?" He raised an eyebrow, a cold flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Your father signed the papers. He handed over the keys to your life as if he were settling a bill for a cheap meal. So tell me, who is the real monster here? The man who bought you, or the man who sold you?"

The words hit Rossi like a physical blow. She wanted to defend Harrison, to say he was forced, but the memory of her father’s trembling hands and his refusal to look her in the eye stopped her.

"What did he do?" she whispered, her voice losing its edge for a split second. "What kind of debt could possibly be worth his own daughter?"

Leonard leaned back again, the mystery returning to his face. "That is a question for Harrison. And believe me, the answer he will give you is much better than any truth I can provide. He knows exactly what he did. He knows why it had to be you."

He gestured to the lavish dinner that the waiters were now silently placing on the table—delicacies that looked like art, yet smelled like ashes to Rossi.

"Now," Leonard said, his tone turning eerily calm, almost hospitable. "Enjoy your dinner, Rossi. Eat. Drink. Prepare yourself. Because tomorrow, the world you knew will be a memory, and the world I own will be your reality."

He stood up, adjusting his black coat. He didn't look at her again. He didn't need to. He walked away with that same imperial aura, his guards following him like shadows into the night.

Rossi was left alone. The silence of the VVIP corner was now louder than the storm outside. She looked at the expensive food, then at her own trembling hands in the reflection of the polished table.

Questions swirled in her mind like a whirlpool. What did her father hide? Why was Leonard so calm? And if she was now 'his', why did he leave her here instead of taking her? She felt like a pawn in a game where the rules were written in blood, and her own father was the one holding the pen.