Samantha’s POV
I pushed the door open and froze, staring at him in shock. My chest tightened, pulse hammering like a drum, as I took in the scene. He held a photograph of Bella in one hand, as if it were a priceless artifact. His other hand… my stomach turned.
Gods.
There was no attempt to hide himself. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. His movements were smooth, controlled, as though what he was doing required no shame, no secrecy. He slipped the photo behind his back, straightened, and turned to me with that same unreadable, professional expression he always wore.
As if I hadn’t just caught him lost in fantasies of her.
My first instinct was fury, the kind that would make me tear him apart where he stood. But I didn’t. I smiled instead—sharp, icy, and venom-laced.
“Do you want some help with that?” I asked sweetly, my voice a poisoned melody.
His eyes didn’t waver. No guilt. No fear. Nothing. “No, thank you, Miss Montclair. This is… personal.”
Of course. Personal.
He still called me “Miss Montclair,” as if we hadn’t shared a home, as if I hadn’t trusted him with everything—my heart, my secrets, my ambitions. And yet, the moment Bella appeared, with her perfume of sugar and charm, he had forgotten all of it.
I turned sharply and walked away, every step radiating the anger I’d bottled for years. I had grown tired of seeking approval. Tired of waiting to be chosen.
Let Bella play the innocent ingénue. I would be the storm beneath the calm.
---
The next evening, I saw him waiting at the bottom of the grand staircase. Black tailored suit, silver cufflinks catching the light, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
For the first time in years, I walked past him without a word. He betrayed a twitch of surprise—but I noticed. I always notice.
The car ride was suffocatingly silent. The city lights streaked past, but all I could feel was the fury coiling inside me. I remained statuesque, perfectly composed, outwardly unshaken.
Tonight, I wasn’t just Samantha Montclair, heiress to the Montclair fortune—I was the future Mrs. Nathaniel Sterling. Even if he remained in that coma, I would carry myself like his equal, like the woman who would command his name in society.
The Limited Edition Fashion Gala awaited, and I arrived with purpose. Eyes turned the moment I entered the room, whispers chasing me as if I were a storm passing through their delicate world. And then, of course… she arrived.
Bella. Draped in a gown that made the moon jealous, crimson lips curved in a perfect, poisonous smile. Her eyes glimmered with that practiced sweetness, lashes fluttering, voice sugar-coated. “Sister,” she purred.
I let a frigid smile cut through the air. “Don’t.”
Ashford, just behind me, stiffened. The corner of his mouth twitched when she caught his gaze. Always her. Always.
And then I noticed the gown. Midnight blue fading into silver at the hem like liquid starlight, bodice encrusted with tiny crystals, neckline delicate but daring. Every seam whispered perfection.
I had come here to find the dress that would mark my entrance into the Sterling world, to announce myself as his future partner. Every detail mattered. The Sterling family might be centuries-old, their traditions rigid, but I would walk into their halls as their equal.
And I found it.
“I’ll take it,” I told the designer firmly.
Her smile was indulgent. “It’s a one-of-a-kind piece. Many have tried—gold, diamonds, even blood-oaths offered.”
“I’ll pay double,” I said, unflinching.
Then came Bella’s voice. Sweet, mocking, deliberate. “Oh, I like this one too,” she said, brushing a sleeve with perfect grace.
I squared my shoulders. “I already claimed it.”
Her smile didn’t falter, but her eyes sharpened. “I’m sure a designer like this wouldn’t mind a little competition.”
Before I could respond, a tall man stepped forward—charcoal suit, commanding aura, every inch the type of power that required no announcement. He glanced at Ashford briefly before speaking.
“I’ll take the dress,” he said. “Name your price.”
The designer blinked. “And you are…?”
“Julian,” he said smoothly. “Representing the Silvana Corporation. Our principal has instructed that anything Miss Bella Montclair desires tonight shall be hers, at any cost.”
Gasps ran through the room.
“The Silvana Corporation?”
“Why her?”
“Wait… their CEO is taking a personal interest in Bella Montclair?”
Bella blinked, feigning innocence. “I’ve never met him,” she said sweetly.
Her voice dripped with mockery as she looked at me. “Still want to fight for this, sister? Wouldn’t want you to bankrupt yourself.”
My fists clenched.
Ashford didn’t look at me once. His gaze was glued to her, unwavering, devoted.
The evening continued as a parade of excess. Dresses, jewelry, sparkling rings that could rival the stars. Each time, Julian was there, ready to buy it all for her.
Finally, I confronted him. “Does your boss plan to leave anything for the rest of us?”
He shot Ashford a quick look. “The principal only cares that Miss Bella is satisfied. The rest… inconsequential.”
It was a wound that burned deeper than it should.
Ashford smiled at her, eyes soft, reverent, worshipful. And I reminded myself not to break, not to show what this betrayal did to me.
By the night’s end, Bella was surrounded by stylists, elite socialites, and flashing cameras. And me? I slipped out unnoticed, vanishing into the quiet anonymity of the city.
I slid into the car. “Bloodmoon Club. Now.” I needed heat, noise, anything to make me feel alive again.
Before we moved, Bella flung open the passenger door and jumped in beside me. “Sister, come on! Let’s go together!”
I clenched my teeth, ready to shove her out. Ashford’s hand stayed me.
“Drive,” he ordered, calm as ever.
Bella babbled the whole way. “Isn’t it crazy? The Silvana CEO is so generous to me! They say he’s the most handsome man in the city!”
Ashford chuckled. “Because he likes you,” he admitted. “You’re… special.”
Then she asked the question that made my blood boil.
“Do you like me too, Ashford?”
I didn’t let him answer. “If you two want to flirt, leave. This is my car.”
Bella pouted, soft and false. “Sorry…”
I stared out the window. In the reflection, I saw him. Warmth for her. Cold, disdainful emptiness for me.
And I realized, bitterly: this is what men love—sweet smiles, soft voices, practiced fragility.
Not someone like me.
