Elara's POV
The drive to the villa took longer than expected—thirty minutes of silence, broken only by the steady hum of the car engine and my racing thoughts. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles pale, heart still beating from the chaos of the gala. The night had started with confidence and ended with chaos.
When my car finally pulled up in front of the private villa Mr. Sullivan had bought for me a week before my arrival in California, I let out a deep, shaky breath. The air around the estate was calm—too calm, as if the world itself had paused to watch me unravel.
I opened the car door, ready to step out, when something small and black slipped to the ground. A card. I frowned, bent down, and picked it up. The name gleamed under the dim porch light—Liam Grant, written in bold golden letters, the kind of luxury design you'd expect from someone who lived to impress.
"What the hell—how did this get here?" I whispered. Then realization struck. He must've slipped it through the window earlier. I could still picture that cocky grin of his, the way he'd insisted on giving me his card even after I told him to go to hell. "How could I have been so clueless," I muttered, sliding the card into my Hermès Birkin bag before stepping out.
Almost immediately, the villa came alive. Eight maids—or more—hurried toward me, dressed immaculately in black uniforms, heels clicking in perfect rhythm on the marble floor. They carried my suitcases and boxes, moving with military precision as I took the lead. My guards opened the glass doors wide, bowing as I walked through the hallway, but I didn't even glance at them. My heels struck the floor sharply—each step echoing like a declaration of control.
Inside, everything smelled faintly of vanilla and new beginnings. The lighting was warm, the marble glowed under the chandelier, but I didn't pause to admire it. I was exhausted—mentally and physically.
When I reached the private elevator, I pressed my finger to the biometric scanner. A soft beep sounded, and the silver doors slid open instantly. I stepped in and rode to the fourth floor, the highest and most secluded level.
The moment I entered my bedroom, I dropped the Birkin bag on the bed and exhaled deeply. Every muscle in my body ached. My legs screamed from the heels I'd worn, and my mind wouldn't stop replaying the evening—the humiliation,the crowd, Camilla's terrified face. I wanted to shut it all off.
I peeled off my gown and stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded over my skin, washing away the sweat, the makeup, and the tension. For the first time that day, I felt human again.
*******
Later, wrapped in a red satin nightgown tied loosely at my waist, I sat before my full - length ornate dressing mirror, applying skincare products slowly, almost absentmindedly. My reflection stared back—poised, controlled, but tired. I glanced at my phone lying on the table and froze. Eleven missed calls.
My heart sank. My babies.
"Oh my God," I whispered, snatching the phone. I'd promised to call them as soon as I arrived, but everything that happened tonight had swallowed me whole. "Elara, you're doomed," I muttered and hit the call button.
The phone barely rang before their voices came rushing through, full of hurt.
"Mommy, you promised to call us when you arrived!" Noah's voice was trembling with disappointment. "You abandoned us, Mommy. Is that how mommies behave now?"
I felt my heart shatter into pieces.
Before I could respond, Emily's voice joined in—sweet, but accusing. "You don't miss us anymore, do you? We miss you, but you don't miss us."
Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them away quickly. "No, no, my darlings, please don't say that," I said softly, walking toward the balcony for air. "Mommy could never abandon you. I was just… caught up with work, something very important. I'm so sorry, my loves. Please forgive Mommy, okay?"
There was a pause. Then Claire's tiny voice came through, delicate and pure. "Mommy, remember you promised us the rules."
Her words caught in my throat. The rules. The very promise I'd made to them before leaving—the golden rules that held us together no matter the distance.
"I do, sweetheart," I said, forcing a smile even though my voice shook. "Mommy hasn't forgotten. I'll always keep my promises to you."
Their giggles melted my heart. "We love you, Mommy!" they said in unison.
For a moment, the world stopped spinning. Their laughter—innocent, real, full of life—was the only thing that could wash away all the bitterness I carried. I could almost see their little faces again, smiling at the camera, waving their small hands. For a brief moment, I wasn't the woman plotting revenge or fighting demons from her past. I was just Mommy.
"I love you too, my babies," I whispered. "Now, be good. Mommy has some important work to finish tonight, but I'll call you again soon, okay?"
They chorused their goodbyes, sending air kisses through the phone. "Mwah! Bye, Mommy! Always remember the love we have for you."
When the line went dead, I sat there in silence for a moment, clutching the phone to my chest. I smiled softly, though tears pricked my eyes. "You're the only reason I'm still standing," I whispered to myself.
Then my phone began buzzing again—this time, not calls, but notifications.
Hundreds of them.
Social media was on fire.
I frowned and opened the app. The screen exploded with headlines, comments, and clips from the gala. Videos of Camilla screaming, the chaos—it was all there. Millions of views already. The internet was dissecting the night, turning it into a battlefield.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," I murmured, scrolling through the comments.
"Oh my God, did Camilla actually do that to the woman in the video?"
"She went too far! Who even is the woman she tried to ruin?"
"Wasn't that Mr. Vance's ex-wife? Did Camilla replace her?"
A faint smirk curved my lips. "Perfect. The world is finally asking the right questions."
I kept scrolling, each comment feeding the fire inside me.
"Camilla could never do such a thing. She's an angel! Iconic!"
"There's no way she'd hurt anyone, not even a fly. You people are making up lies!"
"She's my role model! Stop dragging her name through the mud!"
I scoffed, tossing my hair over my shoulder. "Defend her all you want," I whispered. "You don't know the monster you're worshiping."
I scrolled further. Some comments began to shift.
"No way… Camilla's smile looked fake tonight."
"That woman she argued with didn't seem wrong. Something's off."
"Maybe Camilla isn't who we think she is."
I leaned back on the bed, satisfaction curling through me. "That's right. Doubt her. Question her."
One particular comment caught my eye:
"What if Mr. Vance's ex-wife didn't die? What if she's still alive somewhere?"
A cold smile crossed my face. "You have no idea," I murmured.
The war had only begun, and I was the one holding the pen. The story would unfold exactly how I wanted it to. No one else would write my ending for me—especially not Ian and Camilla. They might've thought they buried me, but all they did was plant a seed. And now, I was blooming into something far more dangerous.
I turned off my phone, the glow fading into darkness. The room felt heavy, but I didn't mind. I pulled the sheets over myself, the red satin gown brushing softly against my skin.
"Checkmate isn't here yet," I whispered into the quiet night, staring at the ceiling. "But when it comes… the world will scream it for me."
Outside, the California night stretched endlessly, the city lights flickering like distant stars. Somewhere out there, Ian and Camilla were probably still basking in their illusion of peace.
Let them rest.
Because soon, the storm they thought they survived would come knocking again—
And this time, it would have my name written all over it.