Chapter 273
The luxury tent glowed like a guilty secret—lamplight softened by silk walls, the air heavy with orchids and bad intentions. The flower scented diffuser was too fragrant, almost smug about it, as if it knew exactly why they’d been invited.
Mirabel Vexley lounged in a velvet armchair, queenly and unbothered, her fingers lazily circling the rim of her wineglass. She looked bored. That alone should’ve terrified them.
On the polished table lay the contract.
One sheet of paper. Handwritten by Bianca minutes ago. Still warm with ink.
A murder, dressed in business casual.
Bianca Monroe nudged the pen across the table with a slow, deliberate push, smiling the way women do when they think they’re being clever. “Trust,” she said softly, “is fragile p>
Mirabel raised an eyebrow. So are necks, she thought.
“But this?” Bianca tapped the paper. “This makes things… binding. If anyone suddenly grows a conscience p>
Sarai, draped dramatically against the king-sized bed, snorted. Her glossy black hair shimmered in the lamplight, her arms folded tight like she was holding herself together through sheer spite. “As if any of us still have one,” she said. “Eliana certainly doesn’t deserve mercy p>
Mirabel reached for the pen.
It felt heavier than it should’ve. Symbolic. Almost theatrical. She wondered—briefly—how many empires had fallen over less paper and worse handwriting.
She sighed, long and exaggerated, as though she were being asked to sign a dinner receipt instead of a death warrant. Inside her, adrenaline buzzed pleasantly. Doubt tried to surface. Mirabel crushed it without ceremony.
With an elegant flourish, she signed.
The ink bled into the paper like a bruise spreading beneath skin.
“There,” Mirabel said, sliding the contract back. “I’ve officially ruined my reputation for brunch conversations p>
Bianca practically purred as she took the pen, signing with crisp, delicate strokes. “This is justice,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Poetic, really p>
“Yes,” Mirabel thought. A poem written in blood and stupidity.
Sarai stepped forward next. Her hand didn’t tremble. Her smile did not soften. She stabbed the dot of her i like she was aiming for Eliana’s pulse.
“Done,” she murmured. “God, that felt good p>
Bianca reached beneath the table and produced a small photocopying machine—because of course she had one. The machine hummed obediently, spitting out copies like it didn’t realize it was aiding a felony. The soft rustle of paper sounded disturbingly final.
She handed each woman a copy. “Insurance,” Bianca said sweetly. “In case anyone gets… forgetful p>
Mirabel folded hers with surgical precision and tucked it into her purse.
Internally, she laughed so hard she nearly choked.
Insurance? Please. This isn’t leverage—it’s evidence. These women thought they were predators. They had no idea they were bleeding already.
Bianca leaned forward, folding her hands as if they were discussing a hostile takeover. “I’ll handle Eliana. Quietly. Accidents. Poisons. Tragic missteps.” She smiled thinly. “Yes, she’s pregnant, but sentimentality is such a flimsy shield p>
Mirabel took a slow sip of wine, unimpressed.
“In return,” Bianca continued, “you’ll help me get close to Rafael. However you have to. Once she’s gone, he’ll need comfort. Someone who understands him. That’s where I want to be p>
Mirabel nearly laughed aloud.
’They think I’ll deliver Bianca to Rafael’s side like a gift-wrapped prize. As if I have any pull with him now. And besides… I want him dead too. The empire falls to me then, untainted by his meddling p>
She said nothing. Let them squirm. Silence was far more insulting.
Sarai nodded eagerly, venom dripping from every word. “I’ll help Bianca however she needs. And I’ll deal with Jason. He still worships Eliana like a saint.” She scoffed. “Once she’s dead, he’ll remember who actually wants him p>
Mirabel tilted her head, feigning consideration. “Agreed,” she said coolly, raising her glass in a mock toast. “To alliances… and their rewards.” She sipped her wine, the crisp chill masking the warmth of her secret amusement. ’Let them dream,’ she mused. ’Pawns always do p>
The women exchanged glances, a fragile web of trust spun from shared malice. As Mirabel rose to leave, the tent flap unzipping with a sharp hiss, she felt a twisted sense of empowerment. The night air greeted her like an old friend—cool, unforgiving, full of possibilities. But deep down, she knew this pact was a double-edged sword, one that could just as easily slice her own throat.
Miles away, in the absurdly opulent sprawl of Rafael and Eliana’s tent—a palace pretending to be temporary—sleep refused to come.
Silk drapes spilled from the ceiling like waterfalls, catching the moonlight, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the space, buried beneath an unreasonable number of feather pillows. It was all too much. Too grand. Too quiet.
Eliana Bennett Vexley lay awake beneath the luxurious sheets, curled slightly on her side. Beside her, Rafael slept, his breathing slow and steady, the kind of rhythm that should have been comforting. Tonight, it only made her feel more alone.
Moonlight filtered through the mesh windows, brushing her warm brown skin with a pale glow. Her honey-brown eyes stared into the darkness, wide and restless. Long curls spilled across the pillow like a dark tide, and one hand rested instinctively on the gentle swell of her belly. Their child. The one thing that felt unquestionably real in a world that suddenly seemed built on smoke and mirrors.
Her phone lay on the bedside table.
Silent.
But it might as well have been screaming.
The anonymous text replayed in her mind like a curse she couldn’t shake. No name. No number. Just a handful of grainy photographs attached—cruel, blurry, and devastatingly clear all at once.
Rafael. In bed. With Sarai.
Another image. Different sheets. Different angle.
Bianca.
Her stomach twisted.
Was it real? Or was it a lie carefully stitched together to look convincing?
She wanted—desperately—to believe it was fake. Rafael was her husband. The man with steel-grey eyes and an unshakable presence. The man who, over the past few weeks, had been bending himself in knots trying to earn back her trust. The man who faked his disabilities to unmask his family’s greed, only to let her in on the secret. But doubt gnawed at her, relentless as a shadow.
That man wouldn’t do this.
Would he?
Doubt crept in anyway, quiet and merciless.
Who sent it? Eliana wondered, shifting restlessly. Sarai? Bianca? Or someone else entirely, sitting back and enjoying the chaos like it was theater?
The images resurfaced without permission—Rafael’s dark, wavy hair tousled, his athletic frame unmistakable even through the blur. Familiar details twisted into something ugly. Something that made her chest ache.
To be continued p>