The flashbulbs were the first thing to hit her—strobe lights that felt like shards of glass against the morning air.
Kyria Castle stepped out of her black Mercedes with the kind of grace money couldn't buy and fear couldn't touch.
Her presence instantly silencing the chatter before the chaos erupted.
She wore an expensive masterpiece of a black tailored short suit dress, sculpted perfectly to her body, unapologetically showcasing her cleavage.
Her feet were encased in black serpentine Rivienne heels, the signature of her own brand, clicking against the pavement with the precision of a ticking time bomb.
"Kyria! Over here!"
"Miss Castle, is it true about the affair?"
"Did Estelle really sleep with your fiancé? Was she staying in your penthouse the whole time?"
The questions were like gnats. Kyria didn't even tilt her head. She maintained a perfect catwalk stride, her face a mask of cold, beautiful indifference. Behind her, a wall of security guards in black suits struggled to hold back the swarming paparazzi.
"Kyria, give us a statement! The world wants to know how the youngest self-made billionaire handles betrayal!"
She didn't give them a glance. She didn't give them a word. To Kyria, they weren't people; they were noise. And the Ice Queen didn't negotiate with noise.
She swept through the massive glass revolving doors of Rivienne Castle HQ.
The moment the doors sealed behind her, the roar of the street was replaced by the expensive, climate-controlled silence of her kingdom.
The lobby was a cathedral of marble and glass. As she crossed the floor, the air seemed to drop ten degrees. Rows of employees instantly stopped what they were doing, bowing their heads in a synchronized wave of respect—and fear.
Nobody dared to make eye contact. At twenty-four, Kyria was the most powerful woman in the industry, and her reputation for firing people before her first espresso was legendary.
Her new assistant, Marcus, scurried toward her, bowing low as he expertly took her designer bag from her hand. "Good morning, Miss Castle. You look... radiant, despite the headlines."
"Skip the pleasantries, Marcus," Kyria snapped. "I want the legal team in the boardroom in ten minutes. We're beginning the damage control protocol. I want every tabloid that ran those photos of Estelle sued into the stone age. If I see my ex-fiancé's name next to mine in tomorrow's paper, someone is losing their job."
"O-of course, Miss Castle. Right away."
"And Marcus?" She paused at the executive elevator, "Clear my schedule. I'm not in the mood for 'collaboration' today."
The elevator hummed as it ascended to the penthouse office. Every worker she passed in the hallway pressed themselves against the walls, holding their breath. They knew. The Ice Queen was on the warpath. She had been publicly betrayed, and today, someone was going to pay for it.
Kyria pushed open the heavy double doors to her private suite, ready to bury herself in spreadsheets and rage.
But she stopped dead.
The smell hit her first—On her obsidian desk sat a massive, three-tier birthday cake, alongside a bouquet of red roses.
The silence in the room shattered.
"What the hell is this?!" Kyria's scream echoed through the entire executive floor.
She hated this day. She hated the memories of the cold church, the upside-down cross, and the blood.
To the world, today was the birth of a billionaire.
To her, it was the anniversary of a nightmare she couldn't quite remember, but could never forget.
....
Night had already settled over the rural outskirts of the city.
Miles away from the skyscrapers, a silver sedan cut through the darkness of a narrow forest road.
A young girl sat in the back, her face pressed against the glass, watching the moon play hide-and-seek through the branches.
Suddenly, the tires shrieked.
The car jolted to a violent halt, throwing everyone forward against their seatbelts.
"God! Is everyone okay?" the father gasped, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
"Honey, look," the mother whispered, her voice trembling. In the middle of the road, illuminated by the harsh glare of the high beams, lay a pale silhouette. It looked like a body, unmoving and discarded.
The man swallowed hard.
"Stay in the car. Lock the doors."
He stepped out into the biting night air.
The woods felt unnaturally still—no crickets, no wind, just the ticking of the cooling engine. He approached the figure cautiously.
It was a man, completely naked, lying face down.
"Sir? Can you hear me?"
The father blinked, and in that split second, the road was empty.
The body was gone.
A cold sweat broke out across his neck.
Before he could even process the impossibility of it, a wet, heavy thud echoed from the car behind him.
Then, his daughter's scream—a sound of pure, unadulterated terror—ripped through the night.
"No!" he roared, sprinting back.
He reached the driver's side and froze.
A thick, dark liquid was beginning to smear across the windshield, dripping down the glass in sluggish, rhythmic pulses.
It was blood.
He looked up.
His wife's body was draped over a low-hanging branch directly above the car. Her eyes were wide, fixed in a permanent stare of shock, her life extinguished in the seconds it had taken him to walk ten feet.
The man's heart shattered, but the sound of the car door creaking open snapped him back.
His daughter was stepping out, her tiny hand pointing shakily behind him, her face drained of all color.
He spun around.
He was standing chest-to-chest with the stranger.
The man was no longer lying on the ground; he was standing tall, his skin unnaturally pale and cold.
His eyes weren't human—they were glowing embers of hungry red, and as he curled his lip, his elongated canines caught the light of the moon.
"You owe me," the stranger rasped, the voice sounding like a thousand whispering souls.
"I came to take what is mine."
The father's scream shattered the night.
And the daughter… she stood frozen, eyes wide, lips trembling, unable to comprehend what she had just witnessed.