Four years.
Four years had passed since Alicia Costa ceased to exist. In those years, I had become Francheska Falcon. I had learned everything about her, even with the smallest details, like how she walked, how she spoke, how she carried herself. I had buried Alicia so deep within me that even I sometimes forgot who I truly was.
Hera had been my guide, my anchor. As Francheska’s best friend, she had taught me everything I needed to know, ensuring that every detail was perfected. And Hector—he had shaped me into his wife’s shadow, his silent weapon of revenge. It wasn’t easy, but I adapted, molded myself into the role that fate had thrust upon me.
For those four years, we remained hidden in Bay City, planning every move, every strike. Hector would visit, bringing updates on the De Santis and Russos, feeding my thirst for vengeance. And during those years, I painted.
I poured my rage, my grief, my hatred onto the canvas. Each stroke told a story—of pain, betrayal, and suffering. Of what they did to me. What they did to Francheska. Each painting was a reflection of the darkness that the De Santis had sown into our lives.
And now, it was time.
A week ago, Hera and I returned to Atlas City—the city where my enemies thrived. The city where my retribution would begin.
Tonight was the first strike.
The grand exhibit was set in motion, a carefully orchestrated event that would introduce my work to the world under the name Vidora Ashe. No one knew who was behind the alias, not yet. But they would.
This exhibit wasn’t just about art—it was a weapon, a message. A mirror to their sins.
As I stood before the vanity, preparing myself for the night, Hector entered the room. He was dressed in a sleek black suit, his presence commanding as always. His gaze met mine in the reflection, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features.
“Are you ready?” he asked, his deep voice steady but laced with tension.
I turned to him, nodding. “I am.”
For a moment, he remained silent, his sharp eyes scanning my face as if searching for any hesitation. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a velvet box. When he opened it, a diamond ring gleamed inside.
“You need to wear this,” he said, his voice firm. “To the world, you are Francheska Falcon, my wife. This will make it believable.”
I hesitated only for a second before taking the ring. It was heavier than I expected. Slipping it onto my finger felt both foreign and natural, as if sealing a pact with the devil himself.
Hector’s jaw tightened slightly as he watched me. “Stay close to me tonight. If anything feels off, if you sense anything wrong, look for me.”
“I will.”
His eyes darkened. “We can’t afford mistakes, Alicia.”
I flinched at the name. It had been so long since I heard it that it almost sounded foreign. But I steeled myself, meeting his gaze.
“I won’t fail. And, please, practice calling me Frankie or Cheska now.”
Satisfied, he extended his arm. “Alright, I will. Let’s go.”
Tonight’s exhibit had a masquerade theme. It was the perfect way to shield my identity for just a little longer. My face was hidden beneath a delicate mask, my gown flowing elegantly as we arrived at the venue. The gallery was filled with the city’s elite, including the very people who had stolen everything from me.
The Russos. The De Santis.
Hector and I walked through the crowd, his presence exuding quiet dominance. He held my hand lightly, an act of possession and protection all at once. I felt the weight of their stares, whispers echoing around us as speculation grew.
Hera appeared at my side, her mask concealing her expression, but her eyes met mine with reassurance. “It’s almost time,” she murmured.
I exhaled slowly. This was it.
The host of the event stepped forward, microphone in hand. The gallery fell silent.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight we are honored to introduce you to the genius behind these breathtaking works of art. The woman behind the name Vidora Ashe… Francheska Falcon!”
Hector’s hand tightened around mine as we stepped forward. My heart pounded violently in my chest, but I kept my expression calm.
As I stepped onto the stage, my eyes scanned the crowd.
And then—I saw them.
Antonio. Serena. Sergio.
The very people who had destroyed Alicia Costa. The ones who had killed her without ever spilling a drop of her blood.
Serena’s eyes widened, her lips parting slightly in surprise, as if trying to place a familiar presence in an unfamiliar setting. Antonio, stiff and unreadable, gripped his wine glass tighter. And Sergio De Santis… his expression remained composed, but I saw it—the slight twitch of his jaw, the narrowing of his gaze.
Recognition. Unease.
A slow, calculated smile curled my lips.
Let the game begin.
