Chapter 75
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Rose slammed her apartment door with such force that a framed photo crashed to the floor, glass shattering across the marble entryway. She didn’t bother to pick it up. Instead, she kicked off her heels, sending them flying across the room where one knocked over a crystal vase, water and flowers spilling onto the pristine white carpet.
She didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore.
Her hands shook as she poured herself a drink, missing the glass entirely on the first try. Amber liquid pooled on the counter, but she ignored it, finally managing to fill the tumbler on her second attempt. She drained it in one gulp, the burn in her throat nothing compared to the inferno raging inside her chest.
“She’s alive,” Rose whispered, her voice raspy and strange to her own ears. “All this time… she’s been alive.”
The reality of what had happened at the gala crashed over her in waves. Camille, her pathetic, weak, doormat of a sister, had orchestrated her downfall. Camille, who had always been the good daughter, the perfect wife, the helpless victim, had been playing them all.
Rose hurled her empty glass across the living room where it exploded against the wall, leaving a dark stain on the cream–colored paint like a Rorschach test of her rage.
“AAAGGHH!” The scream that tore from her throat sounded animal, primal. Rose grabbed the nearest object, a glass paperweight, and smashed it into the mirror above her fireplace. Her reflection fractured into a thousand broken pieces.
Better. That felt better.
She moved through her apartment like a tornado, destroying everything in her path. Photo frames, vases, dishes, all shattered against walls, floors, windows. She tore designer clothes from her closet, ripping fabrics that had cost thousands, snapping heels off shoes, pulling jewelry apart until beads and gems scattered across the floor like tiny marbles.
When she reached the bedroom, she froze. There on the nightstand sat a photo of her and Stefan, happy, smiling, victorious. She had won him. She had taken him from Camille. He was supposed to be her prize.
Rose lifted the frame with trembling fingers. Stefan’s face stared back at her, the face she had desired for so long, the man who had been part of her meticulous plan.
“You let her do this to us,” she hissed at his image. “You coward. You stood there and let her destroy everything!” She smashed the frame against the edge of the marble nightstand, glass cutting into her palm. Blood dripped onto the photo, staining his face red. Perfect. That’s what he deserved.
Rose sank onto the edge of her bed, suddenly exhausted. Her anger momentarily gave way to the crushing weight of what she had lost. Her business. Her reputation. Stefan. Even her place in the Lewis family seemed uncertain now, the way her mother had looked at her at the gala, with such disgust and disappointment.
She had spent years carefully building this life, crafting her image, positioning herself at the top of New York society. And in one night, Camille had taken it all away.
Rose pulled her knees to her chest, a sob rising in her throat. But no, she wouldn’t cry. Crying was weakness, and she wasn’t weak. She had survived foster homes where no one wanted her. She had fought her way into the Lewis family. She had built a fashion brand from nothing.
She was Rose Lewis. She didn’t break. She got even.
Rising from the bed, Rose went to her closet and pulled out the one box she hadn’t destroyed. Inside was a burner phone, cash, a passport with a different name, and account numbers for money she had hidden away years ago,
+25 BONUS
Chapter 75
her emergency escape plan. She had always been prepared for disaster, always had a backup plan. That’s how she had survived.
But she wasn’t going to run. Not this time.
Rose walked to her bathroom, ignoring the trail of destruction behind her. Blood still dripped from her cut palm, but she paid it no mind as she turned on the cold water and splashed her face. Mascara ran down her cheeks in black rivers, her carefully applied makeup washing away to reveal the woman beneath, harder, colder, more determined than the polished socialite she presented to the world.
She stared at herself in the mirror, water dripping from her chin.
“This isn’t over,” she whispered, echoing her words from the gala. “Not by a long shot.”
The shock was wearing off now, her mind beginning to work again, analyzing, calculating. Camille had help, that much was obvious. Victoria Kane. The powerful billionaire had taken Camille in, trained her, given her the resources to carry out this revenge.
Rose laughed, a harsh sound in the quiet bathroom.
“So that’s who you are now, Camille? Victoria Kane’s pet project? Her weapon against me?” She shook her head. She doesn’t know who she’s dealing with.”
Rose wrapped a towel around her bleeding hand and returned to the living room, stepping over broken glass and torn fabric. She found her laptop buried under a pile of shredded documents and opened it.
First, she needed to understand how bad the damage was. Her fingers flew across the keyboard as she checked news sites, social media, financial reports. It was worse than she thought. #Camille Returns was trending. Videos from the gala had gone viral. Her own screamed confession was being shared millions of times.
Her fashion line was officially dead. Her remaining business partners had all issued statements distancing themselves from her. Her bank accounts were indeed frozen pending investigation.
She had nothing left. Almost nothing.
Rose clicked on a news story about Victoria Kane. The woman was powerful, yes, but not untouchable. Everyone had weaknesses. Everyone had secrets.
Including Camille.
11
Rose leaned back, her mind racing. Camille had faked her death. There would be legal implications to that. Insurance fraud, perhaps? And what about Victoria’s role in the deception? There had to be something there, one angle Rose could exploit.
She pulled out a notebook and began to write, ignoring the blood that occasionally smeared the page. She listed everyone connected to Camille and Victoria. She noted possible vulnerabilities, potential allies. She mapped out scenarios, strategies, points of attack.
By dawn, Rose had filled dozens of pages. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep, her hand throbbed where the glass had cut her, but her mind was clear. The path forward was taking shape.
She stood and stretched, surveying the destruction of her apartment in the gray morning light. It looked like a war zone, which was fitting, because that’s exactly what this was now. War.
Rose walked to the window and looked out over the Manhattan skyline, the sun just beginning to rise behind the skyscrapers. Somewhere out there, Camille was celebrating her victory, thinking she had won.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, sister,” Rose whispered against the glass. “You took everything from me. Now I’m going to take everything from you. And this time, I won’t fail.”
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Chapter 75
She turned from the window, a cold calm settling over her. The initial storm of rage had passed, leaving behind something more dangerous, calculated, patient vengeance,
Rose stepped over the broken glass and torn fabric without backward glance. She needed a shower, fresh clothes, a new phone. She needed to contact the few people who might still be loyal to her. She needed to start rebuilding.
Because this wasn’t the end of her story. It was merely the beginning of a new chapter, one where she would no longer be fighting for Stefan or social status or a fashion empire.
Now, she was fighting for pure survival. And there was nothing more dangerous than a woman with nothing left to lose.
Rose smiled as she stepped into the shower, letting hot water wash away the blood and tears and makeup. Let Camille think she had won. Let Victoria Kane believe they had destroyed her completely.
They had no idea what she was capable of.
As steam filled the bathroom, Rose struggled to formulate a plan. She had no leverage against Victoria Kane or Camille. She had no hidden information to use as a weapon. Her finances were frozen, her reputation destroyed. All she had left was her burning desire for revenge and the stubborn refusal to accept defeat.
She shut off the water and wrapped herself in a towel, suddenly feeling more energized than she had in months. There was clarity in complete destruction. Freedom in having nothing left to protect.
Rose looked at herself in the mirror, her appearance disheveled but her eyes burning with determination. She splashed cold water on her face again, washing away the last traces of mascara.
“This isn’t finished,” she whispered to her reflection. “Not by a long shot.”
She returned to the living room, stepping through the wreckage of her former life. The broken glass crunched beneath her bare feet, but she barely noticed the pain. Physical discomfort meant nothing compared to the humiliation she had endured.
Rose sank into the one chair that remained upright, staring at the wall. She had no leverage against Victoria Kane, the woman was too powerful, too protected. She had no dirt on Camille that hadn’t already been exposed. She had no money, no allies, no escape plan that would truly work.
But she had her rage. And her determination. And the knowledge that she had rebuilt herself once before, when she had nothing.
“I will find a way,” she said to the empty room. “I don’t know how yet, but I will.”
Rose curled up in the chair as dawn broke over Manhattan, illuminating the destruction around her. She had no plan yet, no clear path forward. But one thing was certain, this wasn’t over. Not while she still drew breath.
She would wait. She would watch. And eventually, she would find Camille’s weakness.
The game had changed, but in Rose’s mind, it wasn’t over.
Not even close.
