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Disclaimer:

The characters and events in this story are fictional. Some places, locations, and landmarks may be based on real-world settings, but they are used in a fictional context. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Copyright Notice:

This work is protected by copyright law. Reproduction, distribution, modification, or creation of derivative works from this story is prohibited without explicit permission from the author.(me)

Content Warning:

This story contains explicit and sensitive content, including mature themes, graphic violence, abuse, exploitation, strong language, and other potentially triggering or distressing elements such as self-harm, and manipulation. It is intended for mature audiences and may be unsettling or offensive to some readers. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Disclaimer: French lines in this story were translated with an app. If you’re fluent and spot any errors, feel free to comment—merci!

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The night was calm in the middle of the sea, where the ship danced with the gentle waves. Inside the vessel, everyone was lively and cheerful as the grand celebration of the 21st birthday of Paradise University’s one and only Queen Bee—Ace Esteban—was in full swing.

And who wouldn’t be thrilled when it was the queen herself who sent the invitation?

Ace couldn’t help but smile while talking to her guests—even if she didn’t know most of them. She was the star of the night. This was everything she ever wanted—attention. She felt like the queen of her own kingdom, where she made the rules and fulfilled every desire.

She stood high and mighty, as people always pleased and adored her. That gave her energy. That fed her confidence. To Ace, everyone around her was just a pawn in her chess game—and she was the lead.

As the party on the private yacht neared its end, the host suddenly spoke with excitement. “Everyone,” he said, pausing as the crowd turned their attention. “Please gather in the center and let’s watch a special video presentation for Ms. Ace Esteban,” he continued with a wide grin.

Ace furrowed her brows, confused. This wasn’t part of her plan. But in the end, she just shrugged. Maybe her friends had planned a last-minute surprise. After all, she loved surprises.

Or so she thought.

Click.

The lights dimmed. The screen lit up. A soft hum of anticipation filled the air.

Click-click. Static.

Only a few seconds into the video, the entire room suddenly fell silent. The laughter died. The clinking of wine glasses stopped mid-air.

A gunshot echoed from the speakers.

The room froze.

THUD.

A lifeless body—Wayne Williams—collapsed on the screen. And standing above him, calm and steady... was Ace.

Gasps.

Mouths covered. Eyes widened. Some guests stepped back in shock. Others instinctively reached for their phones—recording. Posting. Livestreaming.

Ace didn’t flinch. She didn’t react the way people expected. In her mind:

'I will never show you what you want.'

She wanted to laugh. The wind changed so fast—moments ago they praised her, now they judged her. But she wasn’t surprised. She was used to this. The media always twisted the truth. There’s a saying: “What you see is what you believe.” Hypocrites.

Despite all the judging eyes, Ace stood firm. Her spine straight, eyes unbothered, lips nearly forming a smile.

Murmurs. Whispers.

“Is that real?”

“Oh my God—was that Wayne?”

“Did she actually—?”

The volume of the chatter grew louder by the second.

Then—click-clack.

Rapid, heavy steps in heels. Approaching.

SLAP!

A loud slap landed on Ace’s cheek. The room went dead silent. The sound echoed like a thunderclap.

“You murderer!” screamed Emma, furious, her eyes blazing.

Everyone gasped louder this time. Phones up. Flash. Flash. Record.

#AceEsteban #AceScandal #Murderer

It was a scandal. A massive one—especially if it involved the one and only Ace Esteban.

Ace looked at Emma, a smirk playing on her lips. She almost laughed—because if she didn’t, she might shatter.

Her most carefully guarded secret... now out in the open. On her birthday.

The video showed her shooting Wayne Williams—Emma’s brother.

“Happy birthday to me,” she thought, as the kingdom she built began to burn.

The world saw her crumble. She let them watch. Because to win this game, she had to lose first.

And just like that… the past didn’t knock—it barged in, dragging her back to the moment it all began...

Flash. Pose. Smirk. Repeat.

Cameras flashed from all sides as Ace stood like a queen in her own fashion kingdom. Every flick of her hair, every raise of her chin—iconic. All eyes on her, as it should be.

“You’re perfect,” gushed Uno, her loyal (and loud) photographer, admiring every shot like a magazine cover.

“Obviously,” she winked, tossing a flirty smile like confetti.

Compliments? She bathed in them daily. 'Thanks, Mom and Dad, for the god-tier genes.'

Her Spanish features stood out despite being half-Asian—curly long blonde hair, rounded brown eyes, thin lips, thick eyebrows, and long lashes.

“This is your last schedule in France after the interview. Later, you’ll fly back to the Philippines,” said her assistant, clearly exhausted from chasing Ace’s fashion calendar.

Ace barely nodded, too tired to care, scrolling through her school reports due when she returned. School? Ugh. A necessary evil. She’d been busy all month—photoshoots, interviews, runways, and, oh yes, meetings for her empire. Because modeling wasn’t enough—she wanted everything.

She glanced at the floor-to-ceiling glass wall and—of course—there she was. On a massive billboard. Looking divine. The light of the beautiful night.

After the photoshoot, she attended the day’s final interview.

Cameras flashed as Ace Esteban ascended the marble stage. The spotlight hit her, and every camera click felt like applause for a queen who belonged on the throne.

She paused center stage, gaze steady, unshaken. The scripted game was about to begin.

Intervieweur: Mademoiselle Esteban, qu’est-ce que ça fait d’être élue Modèle de l’Année, Femme d’Affaires de l’Année et Philanthrope de l’Année, tout en même temps ?(Miss Esteban, how does it feel to be named Model of the Year, Businesswoman of the Year, and Philanthropist of the Year all in one go?)

Ace smiled politely. She was used to flattery—it was part of the job.

Ace:Fatigant.(Exhausting.)

Shrug a little

“Mais on s’y habitue, quand on n’a jamais été faite pour la médiocrité.”(But you get used to it, when you were never made for mediocrity.)

The crowd laughed awkwardly, unsure whether to chuckle or nod. But the cameras clicked again—like they had just found a new angle they were desperate to capture.

Intervieweur:Vous avez défilé sur plus de trente podiums en Europe, vous avez votre propre marque de soins, et vous avez donné des millions— (You’ve walked over thirty runways across Europe, have your own skincare brand, and have donated millions—)

Ace: Attendez.(Wait.)

She raised a finger—not yelling, but just enough to silence everyone. She raised a finger—not yelling, but just enough to silence everyone.

" Vous parlez comme si j’étais une sainte. Je ne le suis pas. ”(You talk like I’m a saint. I’m not.)

“Je n’aime juste pas perdre.”(I just don’t like losing.)

The crowd laughed again—a little awkwardly. But the camera shutters only clicked faster. Ace slightly turned to the side, a move that seemed calculated, just for the press.

No guilt. No exhaustion. She had nothing to prove.

In this world, power is perfection. And Ace Esteban—she is the standard.

At age 10, she broke into the industry like a storm—no one saw her coming. At 15, she was the highest-paid model on the planet. At 16, she was Forbes’ youngest serious entrepreneur—and her enemies’ worst nightmare.

She is unstoppable.

Among the Esteban cousins, she was the first one to catch their grandfather’s eye. And why not? She had the looks, the confidence, the brains, the achievements, and the killer instinct for media. She didn’t just survive scandals—she made them trends. Rebellious? Definitely. But unlike the rest, she knew how to twist every headline to work in her favor.

She didn’t just play the game. She rewrote the rules—and burned the manual.

Phones raised. Camera flashes. Reporters everywhere.

“Is it true you’re dating a French model?”

“Were you really the mistress of that corrupt politician?”

“Are you opening another business soon?”

Questions flew at her like bullets—but Ace didn’t flinch.

She stepped out of the terminal like it was a runway: fitted red sleeveless dress hugging every curve, a high slit teasing the thighs, killer heels clicking against the marble floor.

Sunglasses on. Black pouch in hand. Full glam.

Untouchable.

Ace came to a halt as a few aggressive reporters cornered her. The guards couldn’t hold back the flood of questions and cameras anymore.

She touched her sunglasses, pulled them down slightly, and looked at the reporter like they were a wet kitten. She raised a brow.

“Check Mr. Google,” she muttered, eyes sharp and unbothered. “I don’t do reruns.”

Her eyes shifted to the black limousine that just pulled up. Perfect timing. She turned on her heels, sashaying toward it.

But just as she opened the door, a phone screen flashed in her face.

ACE ESTEBAN REAL ATTITUDE

1m tweets. 500k likes. 3m reposts

#acescandal #aceattitude

In the blurry video, the scene became clearer—it was her, slapping a model in front of a crowd. No shame, no fear.

“Care to explain this?” said her manager Diego, holding the phone, clearly stressed.

Ace was only seventeen, but she was already a walking PR disaster.

She rolled her eyes and slid into the car like it was her throne. She was used to this. Immune, even.

“He’s ugly and it annoyed me,” she replied, with flair, crossing her legs elegantly. “Just say my hand slipped. They’re just being dramatic.”

It’s been months since Ace came back to her home country. And honestly, she couldn’t wait to graduate 12th grade and finally move to the city for college. Province life bored her to death—especially after experiencing the thrill of city life during her modeling gigs. The city gave her energy, and more importantly—it fed her ego. Her parents promised it to her.

She wore a gold sleeveless gown that hugged her curves perfectly, paired with a full glam look that made her presence feel fearless and untouchable.

She quietly sipped her wine as her eyes roamed around the round table covered in red cloth—where she sat alone. Observing the people around her in the wide garden of her grandfather’s estate, she was clearly looking for something—or someone—to keep her entertained.

“Eyeing someone to play with?” her cousin Pierre teased as he took the seat beside her.

Everyone else was busy enjoying the grand party thrown for their grandfather’s 70th birthday. Their grandfather, Miguel Esteban, was busy mingling with fellow businessmen.

Ace smirked, set her glass down (not that it was obvious it contained wine), and turned to Pierre as he approached her table. She’d only had a few glasses, but to her, it might as well have been water—her alcohol tolerance was impressively high.

“It’s boring. If it weren’t for Lolo’s birthday, I wouldn’t even be here.”

Pierre chuckled. “You do know Lolo’s making an important announcement tonight, right?”

When Ace didn’t respond, Pierre added, “You’re trending again,” he said with a grin, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Nothing new,” Ace replied with a sly smile—the kind that said she knew she was controversial, and she didn’t care one bit.

“Someone’s going to start barking again,” Pierre murmured just loud enough for Ace to hear.

They both laughed, eyes meeting knowingly. They already knew who it was—Camilla, Siete’s mom. Her aunt. The one who loathed her most.

“I’m not interested in family drama,” Ace said coolly, swirling the red wine in her glass. “I’m here for business.”

“Business?” Pierre raised a brow. “You mean your new investment?”

Ace nodded. Calm, firm. “It’s profitable. Discreet. And necessary.”

Pierre smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What kind of investment needs to be that discreet?”

Ace leaned in, voice soft but deliberate. “The kind that no one asks questions about. The kind that protects itself.”

There was a brief silence. Pierre looked away, like he remembered something he wasn’t supposed to mention. He wasn’t even surprised at how Ace was so mature for her age—though it wasn’t always obvious because of her playful media persona. But she knew things. Deep things. And no doubt, all of their cousins were behind her. Their grandfather adored her.

“So that’s why you’re back,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Ace didn’t respond. She simply watched the people passing their table, her fingers tightening around the glass.

Because this wasn’t just about money.

It was about power. Silence. And covering something up—something she’d invested in long before anyone else noticed. An investment in something that didn’t just grow—it manipulated, controlled, and if you weren’t careful, it would destroy you.

After some small talk, Ace excused herself and went inside the mansion.

In the hallway near the living room, she ran straight into her aunt—who visibly frowned the moment she saw her. Her favorite aunt.

Ace gave her a teasing smile from across the room.

“You’re disgusting,” her aunt snapped, cold and laced with disgust.

Ace pretended to be surprised—mocking hurt. She knew exactly what her aunt was referring to—most likely the latest scandal online. But she wasn’t bothered. She was used to it. Used to this woman’s contempt. Since childhood, she never understood why this woman seemed to hate her with such intensity—as if it were personal.

Instead of reacting, Ace walked past her. Not worth the energy.

But her aunt grabbed her harshly by the arm—clearly losing patience.

“What is it about you? Why does the world always seem to bend in your favor?” she hissed.

Ace raised a brow, losing patience herself. “So?” she replied, with a mocking lift of her eyebrow. She had a vague idea of her aunt’s resentment, but she wasn’t entirely sure—yet. Not until she confirmed it for herself.

“Ace,” Pierre called out, having just arrived. He froze when he felt the tension between his cousin and aunt.

“Lolo’s about to make the announcement,” he added awkwardly.

Their aunt immediately let go of Ace and walked off like nothing happened.

Back at the table, Siete asked, “Are you okay?”

“Your mom,” Ace replied simply. But it was enough for Siete to understand.

The party fell silent as Miguel Esteban stepped onto the stage, wine glass in hand, beaming.

“And I know some of you have been anticipating this,” he began cheerfully.

He went on to tell stories about how he built his empire from a young age, and how his business grew. Everyone listened intently.

“Now,” he continued, “for the announcement some of you have been waiting for…” Everyone clapped. He scanned the crowd, then said: “I will pass on my legacy… and she deserves all of it.”

Silence.

Ace wasn’t paying much attention—still bothered by her aunt’s words.

…until she couldn’t take it anymore and stood up to walk away, when—

“I’m passing it to my granddaughter—Ace Esteban.”

Ace froze. A smile formed. Not of surprise—but of victory.

The crowd erupted in applause. Reactions were mixed—some joyful, some hesitant. But what Ace felt? Pure happiness. And above all—vindication.

She stood tall, turned to face everyone, and smiled. The heir. The rightful one. The only one who deserved it.

She looked at her grandfather. He gave her a confirming nod. Ace nodded back, as if saying, “You made the right choice.”

But Camilla?

She couldn’t believe it. Her forced smile was barely holding together. She didn’t clap. She stared at Ace like she wanted to tear her apart.

Camilla stood, stormed toward Don Miguel, and whispered furiously, “Are you out of your mind? She’s just a child.”

“She’s exactly like me,” Don Miguel said calmly. “That’s why she’ll survive.”

Camilla’s eyes darted back to Ace, who was already walking up the stage like she owned it. That walk—confident, smooth, deadly. Like no one else in the room mattered.

And with every step Ace took, she knew she was stepping into exactly what she was born for—Power.