Tan Foundation’s annual charity night wasn’t just an event—it was a statement. Silk gowns. Champagne flutes. A gala vision in gold.
And tonight, I came dressed to be seen.
The moment I stepped into the ballroom, a few heads turned. Not because they recognized me—most never even knew the CEO’s “assistant” had a name. Just another shadow trailing behind Dominic Sullivan.
Until now.
“Ms. Rinelli?” A hostess blinked, surprised. “I… didn’t see your name on the guest list.”
I smiled. “Someone made sure I’d get in anyway.”
Because someone wanted this confrontation.
And I already knew who—Isabelle Tan.
Gold-plated, sharp-tongued, born from old money and newer scandals. Near the center of the room, framed by soft lights and social climbers, she’s a scene-stealer in her champagne silk, red lips. Eyes like a blade you wouldn’t see coming until it was already under your ribs.
She spotted me across the ballroom, and for a second, I saw it—the flicker of annoyance. Then she smiled. And motioned me over like I was a lost girl she’d already decided to pity.
“Therese,” she said sweetly, eyes cold. “What a surprise. Back from the dead?”
I didn’t answer her bait. The first time I knew their filthy affair was over a phone call. Late. I brought him coffee. He didn’t hear me outside the door.
“She suspects nothing,” Dominic said.
Then her laugh—low, slow, poisonous.
“Let her wear the ring,” Isabelle purred. “I’ll wear you.”
I left the tray on the floor.
They were careful—at first.
Then careless.
Then bold.
After that, I watched everything with fresh eyes.
How her hand lingered on his arm at board meetings. How she called me “sweet” like I was a dumb puppy.
And then Maldives. A photo. No caption.
Just Isabelle almost naked in the poolside, golden skin, holding his tumbler—my gift to him on our second anniversary. He told me he was in Morocco for a business forum, but his reflection was in her sunnies.
That’s when I stopped crying.
And started recording.
“I thought you might want to speak in private,” I said after a while.
She chuckled, sipping her drink. “Why? We’ve already shared so much, right? But, yeah, let's hear your thing.”
She led the way into a quiet side hallway, the velvet curtains muffling the sound of wealth behind us.
“I assume Dominic knows you’re here?” Isabelle folded her arms over her supersized chest and went on, “Or is this another secret you’re keeping from your husband?”
“You already knew, didn’t you?” I asked softly.
She tilted her head. “Of course. I’ve known for a while.”
“Then why continue the engagement?”
She stepped closer. “Because I don’t care that he married you. You were a rug he loved to step on. A body he used to get through the silence. You're good as dead, Therese.”
I stiffened. But she wasn’t done.
“Would you like to know what we did the night your car flipped and burned?”
I stayed still.
She leaned in, her voice a silk blade. “We were in his penthouse. My lipstick was still on his collar when they called to tell him you were ‘missing.’ He didn’t even pause. Just poured me another drink and said, ‘It’s handled.’”
Heat surged under my skin, but I didn’t move.
“You think showing up here makes you strong?” She sneered. “It makes you pathetic. Everyone knows Dominic plays dirty. But you? You thought he’d love you for being loyal.”
I met her eyes. “And you think he’ll love you for being cruel? You don’t scare me, Isabelle. You never did.”
Her smile faltered—just enough for me to see the crack. I stepped past her; she followed.
“And where exactly are you going?” she called behind me.
I didn’t turn around as I answered, “To make sure your fairytale ends before the wedding does.”
She laughed. But behind the sound, I heard what she didn’t want me to notice—fear in shrilling bold letters. I slipped away from the crowd, because I had one last stop to make.
__
INSIDE THE PROJECTOR ROOM
The tech team was gone, busy helping with soundcheck. I reached into my clutch and pulled out a slim USB. Labeled only with a single word—DEATH.
I slotted it into the control board. The video was short. Forty-three seconds. Just long enough. Dominic’s voice. Isabelle’s laughter. A cold conversation recorded months ago—one neither of them knew I had.
I hit upload.
The timer was set. The video would play at the end of the presentation, right when the camera panned to the future Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. Dominic built an empire on image.
Now he’d watch it crumble in front of every lens. And when that video plays, Isabelle won’t just lose her crown—she’ll choke on it!
