World A
Olivia screamed, "What?!" and sprang out of bed like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum.
Her milky, straight shoulders rose as she crossed her arms and pouted at the two people standing beside her bed. President Smith — a man in his late fifties with dark brown hair and jet-black eyes that usually looked sharp and intimidating when he ran his corporation — wore a pitiful look now as he watched his daughter.
"Baby, please. I bought you the car you asked for. Why are you suddenly going back on your promise when you know how important this event is?" he asked, lifting his hands and placing them on Olivia's shoulders, searching her face.
"My beautiful baby, please consider us. You can ask for anything after the event. Daddy and I will do it," Laura added.
Laura was in her early fifties, with short black hair that barely brushed her shoulders and light brown eyes. She looked younger than her age and bore a faint resemblance to Olivia.
Olivia raised an eyebrow and relaxed her pout. "Anything?" she asked. Both her parents nodded.
"Your limousine, Daddy?" she pressed. They didn't hesitate to nod again.
They all knew that if Olivia decided to stay in her room, no one could talk her out of it.
"All right. I'll be down in an hour," Olivia said.
"Baby, no! We only have an hour before the event starts. We've been begging you to get up for over thirty minutes." Her mother sounded exasperated.
"Are you complaining, Mommy?" Olivia shot back with a threatening look that said there was still time for her to change her mind.
"Of course not. Take your time, dear," her father said. Then they left the room.
The moment the door clicked shut, Olivia's eyes lit up and her full lips curved into a delighted grin. "Limousine, baby!" she squealed and grabbed her phone.
She opened Instagram and uploaded a photo of the car with the caption: Olivia's new baby from Daddy. Comments flooded in as if everyone had been waiting.
She spent the next thirty minutes liking and replying to comments at her leisure before beginning to get ready.
…
The banquet hall glittered with chandeliers and murmurs as big names from the business world gathered for the charity ball. Some attended only because they had to; others came to network, to trade influence and favors.
The Smiths were among those who had come to mingle.
Olivia sat with her usual arrogant aura intact. She wore a smoky-red strapless gown that hugged her tall, slender figure. A thigh-high slit traced the curve of her leg down to the hem, and she crossed her legs in a way that showcased the skin beneath. Her hair fell in bouncing curls over her bare shoulders, and a multi-layered Swarovski choker gleamed against her collarbone, drawing the eye to the slight reveal of her cleavage.
Her lipstick was a bold, glossy red; her lashes fluttered like butterfly wings. She loved the attention and made no effort to hide it — yet she had rules. People could look, but they must never presume to touch.
The young CEOs in the room — the usual playboys — watched her with obvious interest. Even older men stole glances, careful not to be caught by their wives. Olivia noticed nothing. She merely enjoyed being the center of attention.
…
Meanwhile, in a luxurious mansion across town, Harry Smith sat in his sprawling living room. His light-green eyes were cold; his black hair slicked back. He listened to the report from the men he'd sent to the charity.
A young woman about Olivia's age massaged his shoulders, matching the malicious light in his eyes. She was Alicia, Harry's daughter: long blonde hair, a mature face that carried an edge Olivia didn't have.
"Everything's set, sir," the voice on the other end said.
"Don't make a mistake. Kill her," Harry growled.