Alessandra POV:
The bass thudded through the street, vibrating the windows of the armored car. We were still a block away from Hector' s penthouse, but the party was already announcing itself. Loud, obnoxious music. Shouts and laughter. A familiar wave of cynical resignation washed over me. He was celebrating. While I was bleeding.
Beth, sitting beside me, tightened her grip on my hand. Her eyes, usually so composed, held a spark of fury. "Partying?" she murmured, her voice tight. "After everything?"
I just nodded, my jaw clenched. This explained why he hadn't answered my calls earlier. Not that he would have cared, even if he had picked up. My mind, still swimming from the concussion, felt strangely clear. The years of enabling, the quiet sacrifices, the constant financial propping up of his extravagant lifestyle – it all coalesced into a single, undeniable truth. It had been a mistake.
The car pulled up to the curb. The heavy, ornate doors of the penthouse building, usually manned by a diligent doorman, were ajar. Careless. Just like Hector. I paused, a strange hesitancy washing over me. Part of me, the old Alessandra, wanted to retreat, to avoid another public spectacle. But the bruised and battered Alessandra, the one who had just faced a beating in her own hotel cellar, refused.
As I stepped out, leaning slightly on Beth, a high-pitched wail cut through the pulsating music. It was a woman' s cry, raw and distraught. My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. Chris Finley.
My guards, two silent giants, moved to open the main door. I held up a hand, stopping them. I needed to hear this. Needed to know the depths of their deception.
Chris' s voice, now clearer, carried through the open door, thick with dramatic sobs. "...and she just fired me! For no reason! She' s always been so jealous of our love, Hector! She hates seeing you happy!"
A collective murmur of sympathy rose from the partygoers. Chris was playing the victim, and playing it well.
"She called me arrogant! She said I was trying to steal her family' s legacy!" Chris wailed, her voice escalating. "She said I was a gold digger, trying to manipulate you!"
My eyes narrowed. The audacity. She was twisting the narrative, portraying me as the aggressor, the jealous, spiteful woman. She was accusing me of the very things she was doing.
"She' s just… she' s just so cruel, Hector," Chris continued, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, designed to pull at heartstrings. "She can' t stand to see me succeed, can' t stand to see us together. She thinks she owns you, owns everything!"
Then came Hector' s voice, smooth and reassuring, laced with a tenderness he had never once shown me. "There, there, my darling Chris. Don' t cry. She' s just a bitter, lonely woman. Always has been. She' s probably just mad I chose you over her."
A collective chorus of "Awws" and "Poor Chris" filled the air. My hands balled into fists, my knuckles white. He was not only condoning her lies, he was reinforcing them. He was painting me as the jealous villain.
"She thinks she can fire you?" Hector scoffed, his voice hardening, aimed at the unseen crowd. "Please. She has no power. She' s just my step-sister. I' ll make sure she regrets this. I' ll find her, I' ll drag her here, and she' ll get down on her knees and apologize to you, Chris. To us. For embarrassing us. For daring to touch what' s mine."
A wave of boos and cheers erupted from the party. His friends, these superficial sycophants, were hyping him up, validating his delusion.
"Yeah, Hector! Show her who' s boss!" someone yelled.
"No one messes with Chris!" another shouted.
My body trembled, not from pain anymore, but from a cold, righteous fury. The last thread of my patience, of my misguided familial obligation, snapped. He was not just ungrateful. He was a monster. And he had just threatened to make me kneel. To apologize. To him. And to her.
"Enough," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but laced with a lethal intent that Beth instantly recognized.
I nodded to my lead bodyguard. His eyes, usually impassive, now held a glint of something akin to controlled savagery. He took a single step forward, then swung his foot.
CRASH!
The ornate double doors splintered inward, torn from their hinges with a deafening roar that swallowed the music whole. The penthouse went silent. The bass died, the laughter choked. Every single head in that opulent living room snapped towards the gaping doorway.
I stood there, framed by the shattered wood, my bruised face set in a mask of ice. My eyes, still slightly swollen, swept over the stunned faces, stopping finally on Hector, who sat on a plush sofa, Chris still clinging to him. His mouth was open, mid-sentence, his face a picture of utter shock.
The silence was a thick, oppressive blanket. My voice, when it came, was low, steady, and cut through the stillness like a razor.
"You want me to kneel?" I asked, my gaze fixed on Hector. "Here I am."
