Scarlet Reign©

Aanika's POV

Five minutes. That’s how long I’ve been pacing inside this bathroom, like a caged animal ready to claw its way through steel. My legs move restlessly, uncontrollably, as if they’re trying to outrun the storm ripping through my chest. My palms press against my face, smearing away the cold sweat that keeps breaking out across my skin.

Fear, real fear, the kind that burns its way into your veins like poison, has never belonged to me. The woman who raised me made sure of that. She raised me to be unbreakable and untouchable. But tonight… tonight that fear coils in the pit of my gut like a serpent tightening its hold, suffocating me with every breath, every glance at the three sticks lying in wait on the counter.

Those tests. They will either damn me or save me, and there is no middle ground.

Motherhood has always been a shadow at the edge of my path, a possibility I have danced around several times, but never let it consume me. People love to spit the same words in my face, telling me I’m a cold, heartless, stone-hearted bitch. But they’re wrong.

If I ever had a child, a small helpless soul to claim as mine, I would carve out the world for them. I would slaughter and rebuild until their life was perfect. Maybe it’s because I never had that myself. My parents died before I even got to know the colour of their eyes or hear their voices. They were gone when I was just a month old.

My mother's best friend, my aunt, picked up the pieces. She became my mother and father, my shield and my compass. She raised me with every drop of strength she had, and I’ll never stop being grateful. But gratitude doesn’t erase the hollow ache of watching everyone else cling to their parents while I stood alone. My aunt told me my parents were good people, told me they loved me fiercely, but how can you mourn ghosts you never got to touch? That hole never really closes.

I force myself to breathe and step toward the sink to splash ice-cold water across my face. My reflection in the mirror stares back at me, hollow eyes, clenched jaw, the fire simmering under my skin begging to be unleashed.

“Come on, A. Get it the fuck together,” I whisper, nodding once to the woman staring back. My hand shakes as I finally reach for the first test. I turn it over.

Negative.

Relief floods me so violently I nearly collapse against the counter. My lungs drag in air like I’ve been drowning. My fingers grip the edge of the sink before I move again, picking up the second. Negative.

My lips part, a strangled sound of gratitude breaking free. Yes. Yes, this is good. This is safe. My hand trembles when I reach for the third, the one that feels like the executioner’s blade. I flip it over.

Negative.

“Fuck!” The word tears out of me like a prayer. My knees nearly buckle, and I press all three against my chest like they’re holy relics, clutching them to my heart.

One day… one day, when the world isn’t dripping with rot and betrayal, when I’m not shackled to a cheating bastard, I will want those results to scream positive. I’ll crave it. I’ll bleed for it. But tonight, right now, I am grateful down to my bones that they are not.

My fire reignites, darker this time, sharper, twisting into rage. I fling the sticks into the trash with a violent snap of my wrist and march into the bedroom.

My blood is roaring in my ears, my hands trembling as I drag out a black dress and yank it over my body, my movements frantic.

Two years. Two whole fucking years I’ve stood by him, defended him, shared my life with him. And he had the gall, the sheer audacity, to crawl between the sheets of someone else. Not just anyone, my colleague. A woman who dared to breathe the same air as me while secretly spreading her legs for him.

“That fucking bastard,” I hiss, venom dripping from every word, spitting them like bullets into the empty room as I slam the closet door shut. My body moves on instinct, dressing, strapping on heels, snatching my phone and car keys off the table like I’m gearing up for war. The apartment door slams behind me. Every second that ticks by only feeds the inferno inside me, an inferno that has one name, one face.

The night in London is too bright, too alive for the darkness spreading through me. Neon lights blur as my car weaves recklessly through the streets. My grip on the steering wheel is iron, my knuckles ghost-white, fury pulsing through me in time with my heartbeat.

He thought I wouldn’t notice. He thought I’d be blind, deaf, and dumb to the perfume, the late nights, the lies dripping from his tongue like acid. If I hadn’t been smarter, if I hadn’t planted that tracker, synced his messages, he would still be laughing at me behind my back, thinking I was his fool.

My foot slams down harder on the accelerator, the car snarling forward like it’s feeding off my rage. The city rushes by in streaks of light, every mile carrying me closer to the place where his betrayal festers. I slam the brakes outside the strip club, the tires screaming against the pavement as my car jerks to a stop. The tracker led me to this filthy den where he thinks he can hide.

“Filthy. Fucking. Fucker.” The words drip from my lips like poison as I shove the car door shut so hard it rattles in its frame. My pulse hammers violently against my ribs, a war drum beating inside me as I stalk toward the club’s entrance. Every step is fuelled by the fury boiling in my veins. The night air does nothing to cool me.

The moment I cross the threshold, the air inside claws at my senses. It reeks of sweat, cheap perfume, alcohol, and that unmistakable musk of sex. My eyes sweep across the writhing bodies, half-naked women draped across men like vultures over carrion, and then, there he is.

Brandon.

My blood turns molten at the sight. He’s shirtless, sprawled across a velvet couch like a king of filth, his skin glistening under the strobe lights.

Sophie, that smug whore, is glued to his side, her hand trailing across his chest with deliberate ownership, her smile a dagger meant for me.

And as if the sight wasn’t already enough to shred me apart, some bleach-blonde slut is pressed against him, her mouth locked to his like she’s devouring every ounce of his soul.

The ground trembles beneath my steps as I march toward them, rage searing hotter with every breath. My vision narrows. My hands curl into fists so tight my nails bite into my skin. When his gaze finally collides with mine, panic floods his face. His eyes go wide, his lips part, and for the first time in two years, I see fear in him, real, desperate fear. He shoves the blonde off like she’s trash, scrambling to sit upright, his face draining of colour.

Sophie doesn’t flinch. No, she leans back into the couch, her fingers dragging slowly across her painted lips, savouring the moment. Her smirk is a razor slicing across my last thread of control.

“What the fuck, dude!” the blonde shrieks, staggering back from the couch, her voice high and grating.

“A—A—Aanika, I—uh—I can—” Brandon stammers, his words choking on panic.

“Shut it, Brandon!” My voice cuts through the music like a blade.

The blonde tosses her hair, scoffing, and struts away with a careless sway of her hips. Brandon fumbles for his shirt, dragging it back over his shoulders with shaking hands, while Sophie remains seated, calm, arrogant, and infuriatingly smug. My entire body trembles with the urge to lunge at her, to shred that fucking smirk clean off her face with my nails.

“I can explain!” Brandon blurts out, desperation strangling his words.

“Explain what?” My scream rips out of me, venomous and raw.

“Explain why you’re here, with this disease-carrying bitch, on our fucking anniversary?” My words drip with hate, spit like bullets into the space between us.

“Watch your damn mouth, Aanika!” Sophie sneers, finally sitting upright, her eyes flashing with faux authority.

“And you better watch that overused, disease-ridden pussy before you rot from the inside out and die screaming from whatever fucking infection is festering in it,” I snarl, taking one step toward her.

“How fucking dare you!” She explodes from the couch like a rabid dog, her hand flying up, claws bared, aiming to slap me across the face.

But she is too slow.

My hand shoots up, lightning-fast, catching her wrist mid-air. The sharp crack of bone and muscle echoes as I twist it behind her back without mercy. The scream that tears from her throat is music to my ears, piercing, desperate, and agonised. She writhes like a cornered rat in my grip, her arrogance evaporating into sheer terror.

“Let me go!” she screeches.

Instead, I wrench her arm tighter, forcing another raw, guttural scream to split through the music and chatter. It’s so sharp, so violent, that the entire room halts. The DJ’s hand slams down on the mixer, the bass cutting out abruptly, and silence engulfs the club. All eyes are on us now.

I lean in, pressing my lips to her ear, my voice dropping into a lethal whisper.

“Raise your voice at me again, Sophie, and your fucking tongue will be next. I’ll cut it out myself and feed it to you.”

Her body trembles against mine, the fight draining out of her, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.

“Nod if you understand.”

She nods, frantic, desperate for release. But mercy is not mine to give tonight.

With a swift, brutal kick to the back of her knees, I drive her down. Her legs buckle, and she crashes forward, her body slamming to the floor. The thud echoes across the silent room as her face smashes against the sticky tiles, a strangled gasp clawing from her throat. The entire club, men, women, whores, liars stare in horror, their eyes wide, their mouths open, frozen in stunned silence.

And I stand over her, my chest rising and falling with the force of my rage, the entire room witnessing exactly what happens when someone dares to spit on my name.

“And you.”

My gaze drags to Brandon like the barrel of a loaded gun, and for the first time in two years, he isn’t just angry. No, tonight, humiliation eats at him, stripping him raw in front of every pair of eyes in this filthy club.

His jaw locks, his fists ball tight at his sides, the veins in his neck pulsing with restrained rage, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t dare. He knows better than to test me in this state.

“You,” I hiss, every syllable venomous, “are a pathetic fucking excuse for a man. For a human. For anything worth breathing.” The disgust dripping from my voice is a blade, slicing into his pride, and I watch the shame flicker across his face, swallowing him whole.

“That’s enough, Aanika! I’ve had enough!” he snaps suddenly, the weak snarl of a cornered dog trying to reclaim ground it already lost.

He lunges forward, his hand clamping down around my left arm. His fingers dig into my skin, brutal and possessive, and I know the bruise will bloom purple and ugly by morning. He yanks me closer, the reek of alcohol and Sophie’s cheap, whorish perfume clinging to him like rot. It floods my nostrils, burns its way into my lungs, and makes bile rise in my throat.

“Let’s go home and talk,” he growls, as if he has the right, as if, after all this, he still thinks he holds any power over me.

A laugh rips out of me. The audacity. The sheer fucking audacity.

My right fist flies before the thought even finishes forming in my head. My knuckles connect with his nose in a single, perfect blow, and the sound that follows is pure satisfaction: a sickening crack splitting the silence like thunder. His head snaps back, his grip on me gone instantly as he stumbles, clutching his face—blood gushes, dark and wet, dripping over his lips, staining his skin.

For the first time tonight, his eyes don’t hold arrogance. They hold shock...even fear—recognition of something in me he’s never seen before. In two years, I’ve never let him glimpse my rage. I’ve kept it locked behind walls of steel, always in control, always untouchable.

But tonight those walls crumble, and what’s left is a fire that is unforgiving, unrelenting and all-consuming. This betrayal ripped me wide open, and the woman standing before him now is not the one he thought he owned. He doesn’t recognise me. And maybe that terrifies him most of all.

My hand goes to the ring on my finger, that cursed circle of metal he slid on me like a shackle. I twist it off, feeling the weight of its lies, the hollow promises it carries. For a heartbeat, I let it sit in my palm, cold against my skin, before my grip tightens and I hurl it at him with every ounce of fury roaring through my veins. The ring slices through the air, missing his eye by barely an inch, before clattering to the filthy floor at his feet.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he barks, blood dripping down his chin, but his voice shakes.

“Ending this fucking farce,” I snarl. “This sham of an engagement. Go fuck yourself, Brandon. Or better yet—fuck her.” My eyes slash toward Sophie.

She’s sprawled on the floor like the worthless trash she is, her arm clutched against her chest, tears streaking her face. That smug, taunting smirk she wore earlier is gone, replaced by something far more delicious: fear. The taste of it lingers in the air, sharp and intoxicating.

I curl my lip in disgust and spit on the sticky floor, the sound echoing in the silence like a death sentence. Then, without another word, without a single backwards glance at either of them, I turn on my heel. My strides are long and quick, fueled by the raw fire tearing through me.

I leave them behind, Brandon bleeding, Sophie sobbing, both of them rotting in the wreckage of what they destroyed. My so-called relationship, my so-called fiancé, nothing but ash now.

And as I push through the doors of the strip club into the night, I carry with me not heartbreak, not weakness, but a hunger. A promise. They thought they shattered me tonight, but all they’ve done is awaken something far darker, far more dangerous.

My fingers clamp around the steering wheel so tightly the leather groans in protest beneath my grip. The car tears down the road, engine roaring like a beast, and still it doesn’t match the chaos tearing through my chest.

My lungs heave, each breath a jagged edge that cuts me open from the inside. Hot tears spill down my cheeks, traitorous, blurring my vision until the streetlights bleed into smeared halos of white and gold. But I don’t stop. I won’t stop. Not for this. Not for him. Even through the pain, one thing is clear. This is the last time I’ll ever shed a tear over that lying bastard.

“Fucking asshole!” I snarl into the darkness, my voice cracking against the silence of the car.

The words taste of blood and fire, burning my throat on the way out. I drag the back of my hand across my cheeks, wiping away the wetness, erasing any proof of weakness before it has the chance to rot into me. My breaths come rough, violent, but I force them into order—deep, steady inhales until the trembling slows. I will not break. Not for him. Not for betrayal. Not for this mockery of love he tried to chain me with.

Did I love him? Yes. Against my better judgment, against every instinct sharpened in me, I let myself love him.

Did I bury my dreams for him, tucking them away like corpses in shallow graves so I could mould myself into the perfect fiancée? Yes.

Did I bend myself into shapes that were never mine, all for him? Yes.

But will I let him strip me down until there’s nothing left? Will I let that bastard brand me as unworthy, undeserving, disposable? Fuck no.

I’ve always clung to one truth: no matter how the world burns, it burns to clear the path. Even in the ugliest moments, life has its way of setting the board right, of tearing you down only to build you into something sharper, harder, untouchable. Every time I’ve stumbled, every time I’ve bled, every time life’s knife carved into me, it made me stronger. And this? This betrayal, this heart-shattering rage? It's just another chapter ending, making way for something greater.

I suck in a long breath through clenched teeth, my chest rising high as I wrestle the storm inside me. My hands twist the wheel, turning the car in the direction of Brandon’s apartment. I refuse to leave a single trace of myself in that space. He will not keep even the ghost of me. Tonight, I will strip that place bare and walk away.

The apartment looms in front of me, once warm, once welcoming—now nothing but a carcass of what used to be. Walls that once cradled me now mock me with silence.

The moment I step inside, the weight of it all crashes over me like a collapsing roof. My knees buckle, the strength in my legs gone, and I fall to the floor in the centre of the room. The emptiness echoes around me, louder than any scream. My hands fly to my face, pressing hard, as if I can squeeze out the ache clawing inside my chest.

“Come on, Aanika,” I whisper, my voice breaking, but I force the words out like commands to a soldier.

“You cannot let that fucker get to you.” The room spins with the scent of him, the memory of him, but I drag in deep breaths until my pulse slows and resolve replaces the pain.

I push myself to my feet and stalk toward the bedroom. My hands yank open the wardrobe, the wooden doors slamming against the wall. My fingers move with fury, pulling clothes from their hangers one by one, tossing them down with no hesitation, no second thought. There is no room for attachment, not anymore. The only thing I crave is erasure.

My eyes catch the edge of my suitcase, tucked away in the corner like it’s been waiting for this night. I drag it out, unzip it, and begin throwing clothes inside with fast, brutal precision. Then I freeze.

The dress clinging to me is his gift. A memory of him stitched into every thread. A reminder of his lies wrapped around my skin like a fucking shroud. Revulsion coils in my stomach.

With a snarl, I strip it off in one violent motion, yanking the fabric away as if it were poisoned, as if it were burning me alive. I fling it aside, watching it crumple in a heap like it belongs in the trash, where he does. My chest rises, falls, rises again, until finally I feel lighter.

I dig through the suitcase until my fingers graze fabric that belongs to me. Clothes not tied to him, not dripping with false promises. I slip them on, piece by piece, and with each button, each sleeve, I reclaim myself. I feel it in my bones, the return of my own skin, my own fire, my own name.

The suitcase fills, heavy now, but it feels like freedom. I zip it closed with a sharp tug, grab the apartment keys from the table, and toss them onto the bed with a finality that echoes louder than any goodbye.

I take one last look around the room. Once, it held laughter. Once, it held love. Once, it held moments that felt like they could save me. Now? Now it’s a graveyard, and every corner is tainted with betrayal, and every memory is poisoned.

I turn on my heel, suitcase in hand, and walk out. The door clicks shut behind me, and with it, I bury the last remnants of us.

I place my suitcase in the trunk, shutting it with a finality that feels almost symbolic.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I wrap both hands around the steering wheel, the leather biting into my palms. My chest rises and falls with jagged breaths as I force myself to exhale slowly, steadying the chaos clawing inside me.

The engine growls to life beneath my fingertips, but I don’t feel its vibration. I’m too consumed by the fire tearing through me. There’s only one place left for me to go, one place that has always meant safety, the only sanctuary I’ve ever known: Aunt Tamara’s house.

The closest thing I have to home.

With that thought anchoring me, I slam the car into gear and pull onto the road, letting the night swallow me whole as the city blurs past. My body aches, exhaustion carving itself into my bones, but I don’t stop.

When I finally pull up outside Aunt Tamara’s house, a strange wave of relief sweeps over me, unexpected and almost foreign after the wreckage of the night. The familiar sight of her home presses something inside me that I didn’t know was splintering. For just a moment, I let myself breathe.

I kill the engine and climb out, dragging my suitcase from the trunk, its wheels thudding against the pavement as I pull it behind me. Every step feels heavier than the last, as though the ground itself is trying to drag me down. By the time I reach the porch, my body feels like stone.

I lift my hand to knock, but stop. My stomach twists violently. The door is open. Just slightly ajar.

My pulse spikes, pounding in my throat. A creeping unease coils in my chest like barbed wire. Aunt Tamara never leaves her door open. Not at this hour. The air thickens around me, suffocating, as I push the door gently with the tips of my fingers, the hinges groaning softly in protest.

I step inside, cautious and silent, the handle of my suitcase slick with sweat under my tightening grip. The hallway is dim, shadows stretching across the walls. A chill slithers down my spine, and every instinct inside me screams danger.

The house is eerily quiet, except for one thing: the sound of ragged, uneven breathing coming from the living room.

The sound makes my blood freeze in my veins. My heart slams against my ribs, each beat deafening, until I can’t stand still another second. The suitcase slips from my hand, crashing against the floor. My legs carry me forward, my feet pounding against the wood as I sprint toward the sound.

The sight stops me cold.

“Aunt Tamara!”

Her body lies crumpled by the fireplace, her frame small and fragile in the dim light. She’s curled on her side, chest rising and falling in shallow, broken gasps. For a split second, my mind refuses to process it, refuses to believe it. And then the truth slams into me like a blade to the chest.

I fall to my knees beside her, my hands trembling violently as I reach for her shoulder. Gently, carefully, I roll her onto her back. And then I see the knife.

It’s buried deep in her stomach, steel glistening under the faint glow, her clothes soaked through with crimson. Blood pools beneath her, spreading like a black hole, swallowing everything. My stomach plummets, and my throat closes.

Her eyes find mine. Wide, glassy, filled not just with pain but something worse, pure, raw fear. Tears slip from the corners of her eyes, carving fragile lines down her pale skin. Her lips part, a weak, broken breath escaping, rattling against the silence.

“No… no, no, no…” My voice cracks, barely a whisper as my hands hover helplessly over the wound, not knowing whether to press down, whether to pull away, whether anything I do could matter. My entire body trembles uncontrollably, shaking with terror I’ve never known.

“Stay with me!” I choke out, panic surging through me like fire. “I’ll call for help—”

But before I can move, her hand shoots out. Bloodied fingers clamp around my wrist with a desperate strength that should be impossible in her state. My breath falters as I freeze. Her grip trembles, but it holds me in place like iron shackles.

“No, kroshka (little one)…” Her voice is shredded, broken by pain, the Russian endearment splintering something deep inside me.

“What? What are you—”

Her head lolls, her lips trembling as she forces the words out.

“No. Li… listen to me. I haven’t… haven’t got much time.” Each gasp rips through her chest, blood staining her teeth as she speaks.

My heart stutters, a drumbeat of terror. “No..no, please...”

“You need to run.” Her eyes burn with urgency, wild despite the weakness in her body.

“Before they find you.”

A chill colder than death coils through me. My entire body goes rigid.

“Who? Who the fuck did this to you?” I demand, my voice cracking and frantic. None of it makes sense. Who would do this to her?

“They… they are after you,” she gasps, each word dragged out of her like it’s killing her to speak. “You need to leave. Leave London. Go to Italy, kroshka (little one)… before they get to you.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” My voice breaks, half-scream, half-plea. I can’t comprehend or process anything she is saying.

Her breath rattles, shallow, every word costing her. “Your passport… flight tickets… in the safe upstairs. Ta-take them. And go.”

“I can’t leave you like this—I won’t!” My voice shatters against the walls.

Her grip tightens suddenly, shocking in its force, pain cutting into my wrist. Her body trembles, but her voice sharpens, brutal in its desperation.

“You have to!”

Her head lifts slightly with a monumental effort, her face inches from mine now, her shallow breaths warm against my skin. I can see the agony in her eyes, but beneath it there’s something even more haunting—desperation. Urgency. A silent command that makes my blood turn to ice.

Her bloodied grip tightens around my wrist, trembling yet unrelenting, her voice scraping through clenched teeth and agony.

“You need to leave! Do you hear me? I have protected you since the day you were born, and I will not—cannot—let it all go to waste. Go to Italy. Yegor will find you. He will explain everything.”

My head snaps violently, shaking in protest, my vision blurring with fresh tears as I search frantically for my phone to call for help.

“I can’t just fucking leave you here to die! I won’t—”

Her voice cuts me like a knife, sharp despite the pain searing through her body.

“You have to!” she hisses, every word breaking on the edge of a gasp. “You will!”

I freeze, stunned, as her next words slam into me with the force of a freight train, each syllable shredding through my chest.

“I did not steal you twenty-four years ago only to see you fall into the clutches of those Bratva bastards!”

The world around me fractures. I stare at her in shock, my breath strangled in my throat. Steal me? Twenty-four years ago? My knees weaken beneath me, as though the floor itself has given way.

“What… what the fuck are you talking about?” My voice comes out splintered.

Her grip tightens, iron wrapped in trembling flesh, her blood slick against my skin. She drags in another ragged breath, eyes locking onto mine with a ferocity that chills me to the bone.

“You’re not… who you think you are,” she whispers, every word a dagger.

The room tilts, spinning violently. My chest constricts as error and confusion coil together inside me until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“They will come for you now,” she rasps, her eyes burning even as her body withers. “The Bratva… they never forget.”

Her words echo in my skull, a death knell ringing. My head shakes frantically, denial spilling from me like venom.

“No, no, no, that can’t be—”

A violent cough racks her body, blood bubbling on her lips, the sound so grotesque it makes my stomach churn and bile burn the back of my throat.

“Run,” she seethes, her voice a rasp of fury and desperation. “Hide. Never reveal your Russian blood.”

My chest caves in on itself, crushing me. “Aunt—”

“Promise me!” she snarls, her eyes wild, feverish with urgency.

“Prom… promi—promise me you will… n-n-never let my secret out! Never let them find you!” Her voice cracks, dissolving into trembling gasps.

“I promise,” I choke, nodding furiously even as my mind spins into madness, even as the weight of her words crushes me to the floor. I promise, though I don’t understand, and nothing makes sense.

Her lips curve faintly, weakly, into something that resembles a smile, a fragile, knowing smile lined with sorrow, with guilt, with love twisted into tragedy. But it vanishes as quickly as it came. Her head falls back, her eyes dim, and her hand slips from mine.

“No, no, no, no, no!” The scream rips from my throat, savage and broken, as I shake her limp body, as though I can will her back into existence.

“Stay with me! Please, don’t leave me like this!”

But she is gone.

A sound escapes me, raw and animalistic, a strangled sob dragged from the deepest pit of my soul. I collapse over her, clutching her lifeless form as hot tears streak down my face. The warmth of her blood coats my hands, sticky, suffocating, undeniable proof that this nightmare is real.

She’s gone.

And all I have left are her final words, words that have obliterated everything I thought I knew about myself.

She took me.

She always told me my parents had died when I was just a month old. That I was an orphan she took in, raised, and loved. But that was a lie. She didn’t rescue me. She stole me. And now, she’s bled out on the floor, murdered because of a truth she’d buried for decades.

A violent shiver racks me as my mind claws through the chaos. Someone is hunting me. Someone powerful enough to kill her.

The Bratva. The Russian Mafia. And they will not stop until they find me.

But why? Why the fuck am I their target? What is it about me, my blood, my name, my existence that makes me worth killing for?

My entire body shakes violently as another wave of betrayal surges through me, so gut-wrenching it knocks the air from my lungs. In the span of a single day, I have been gutted twice over. Brandon, the man I gave up everything for, shattered me with betrayal. And now Aunt Tamara, the only family I ever thought I had, has torn the rest of my world apart with her final confession.

The foundations of my existence crumble beneath me, leaving me drowning in a storm of grief, rage, and disbelief. Love, loyalty, trust—those words are meaningless now, hollow shells of lies. Their deceptions cut deeper than any blade, leaving wounds that will never close.

And in the silence of that blood-soaked room, one truth coils around me like a noose.

Everything I thought I knew about myself was a lie. And now the Bratva is coming for me.

“You’re not… who you think you are.”

Her last words detonate inside me like a bomb, tearing through every vein, ripping apart everything I ever thought I knew. They echo, venomous, ricocheting inside my skull until I can’t breathe. Everything, my past, my lineage, my very identity, was nothing but a stage play. A carefully constructed illusion. A fucking lie.

I am a stranger to myself. A ghost wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.

The truth looms above me like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating, a malignant shadow whispering that I was never who I thought I was. That everything I’ve built, every memory, every shred of belonging, was a façade. But if I am not Aanika, the girl raised on love laced with lies, then who the fuck am I?

The question is a blade carving into me, jagged and merciless, splitting open the deepest parts of my soul. The agony tears through me raw and unrelenting until I can’t contain it anymore. My mouth opens, and what erupts from me is not a cry but a scream so animalistic, so fractured and harrowing, that it startles even me. The sound rips at the walls, vibrating through my bones. My chest heaves violently, my throat burns, my whole body convulses under the weight of a grief so monstrous it could devour me whole.

My gaze falls once more upon Aunt Tamara’s lifeless body sprawled across the floor, her blood seeping into the cracks, staining the air with its copper tang. Only this time, the grief that had been suffocating me shifts, mutates and hardens. It doesn’t consume me anymore. It transforms.

Grief dies, and in its place, rage is born.

It surges through me like wildfire, eating through my veins, scorching everything soft and vulnerable. My sorrow is nothing now but ashes beneath the fury. Because in the end, she was no different from Brandon.

Another liar who cloaked herself in affection while feeding me deception. She toyed with my trust, dangled love like a prize, only to crush me with truths that should never have been hers to decide.

My hands curl into fists so tight my nails pierce skin, drawing crescent moons of blood. My jaw aches from the force of my teeth grinding together. The bitterness festers in my chest until it calcifies into something cold and ruthless.

No more tears. I wipe them away with the back of my hand, smearing blood across my skin. I rise slowly from the floor, every movement deliberate, the way a blade is sharpened before it cuts.

Tamara may have taken her secrets to the grave, but I refuse to let them rot in the dirt with her. I will unearth every piece, no matter how deeply it is buried. I will peel back the layers of every lie, tear apart every illusion, and carve the truth out with my bare fucking hands if I have to.

If the Bratva are after me, then I will face them. But not blindly. Not as prey. I will know why. I will know what it is about me that makes them hunt. And when I find out, I will use it.

I will go to Italy. I will find this Yegor guy, whoever the fuck he is, and he will give me the answers I have been denied.

As for my Russian blood, the now cursed part of me concealed under years of lies and betrayal, I will protect that secret with the same fierceness as I would my own life.

And when the truth finally reveals itself, when I finally understand what I am, who I amI won’t just accept it. No. I will sharpen it and mould it into the sharpest fucking weapon the world has ever seen.

And when the time comes, I will wield it without hesitation, without remorse, without mercy, because this is what they've raised now. And I am not fucking backing down.