LEONA
They say the camera never lies. But tonight, as I watched Cassian Wolfhart flash a disarming smile for the press—suited, stoic, and surrounded by the glittering elite—I knew better.
Every blink of the camera was a lie dressed in velvet.
Behind that half-smirk and the ten-figure empire was the man responsible for destroying my sister.
I sat on the worn edge of my couch, the TV screen casting cold light across my apartment's chipped walls. Outside, the city moaned through traffic and neon. But inside, all I could hear was the echo of Maya's voice the night she tried to take her own life.
"It wasn't just a mistake, Lee… it was planned. They ruined me. And no one cares."
My fingers curled around the chipped mug of cold tea I hadn't touched in hours. On-screen, Cassian's voice cut clean through the glitz:
"Wolfhart Dynamics continues to push for transparency, innovation, and human-first technology. We are building not just a brand, but a legacy."
A legacy.
Funny. Legacies didn't leave girls like Maya broken and suicidal. Legacies didn't scrub their sins clean with good PR and bleeding-edge AI.
I reached for the remote, ready to end the charade—but then he turned. Just a glance toward the camera. Toward me. And my breath caught.
Not because he was beautiful—though God help me, he was all sculpted arrogance and midnight charm—but because I swore he knew. Knew someone, somewhere, was watching not with awe, but with a quiet, burning fury.
I leaned closer, staring into the hollow of the screen.
"I'm coming for you," I whispered.
Not in the way they always did. Not the star-struck socialites or the boardroom enemies.
No, I was coming with the kind of vengeance that came wearing lipstick and lies. The kind that smiled while it pulled the rug out from under you. I was going to ruin him, from the inside out. I'd pull at the threads of his perfect empire until it unraveled in his hands.
For Maya.
For every girl who didn't make it through what my sister did.
My phone buzzed on the arm of the couch. I picked it up—an encrypted message blinking from my contact at the Sentinel Tribune.
: Package delivered. Your identity is live. You've got an invite. Three days. Black tie. Don't miss it.
My heartbeat stuttered. So it had worked. My fabricated persona—Reyna Lancaster, tech heiress and investor—had been accepted by the inner circle. Cassian's next gala. The bait was taken.
I could feel the shift in the air.
Three days.
Three days until I met the wolf in his den.
I rose from the couch and crossed to the mirror that hung like a scar above my dresser. My reflection met me—green eyes sharp, black curls wild, and mouth twisted into something unfamiliar.
Determined. Dangerous.
"You're not just a journalist now," I told myself, barely above a whisper. "You're the lie."
And soon, Cassian Wolfhart would believe every word.
Then I'd bury the truth beneath his empire.