Beverly Hills.
The sprawling estate glittered like a jewel under the night sky, its opulent halls hosting a gala that screamed wealth and power. Outside, a parade of luxury cars—Lambos, Ferraris, Rolls-Royces—lined the driveway, their polished surfaces reflecting the glow of the mansion's lights. Inside, the guest list was a who's-who of LA's elite: politicians, tycoons, military brass, and entertainment moguls, all mingling in a carefully choreographed dance of influence.
The grand hall, designed in lavish European style, was dominated by a massive crystal chandelier that hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm golden glow over the scene. Men in tailored tuxedos and women in dazzling, exorbitantly priced gowns glided across the marble floor, while maids and waiters wove through the crowd, balancing trays of champagne and canapés. As a string quartet struck up a classical melody, couples paired off, their dance moves a blend of fiery elegance and restrained decorum—a perfect snapshot of high society's polished excess.
When the music faded, applause rippled through the hall, a polite chorus of approval.
Christine, clad in a sleek, off-the-shoulder black gown that hugged her curves, stood in a quiet corner, nursing a glass of Scotch. She exuded an untouchable aura, her beauty a magnet for every eye in the room. Men stole glances, their gazes burning with desire, but her reputation for aloofness kept them at bay. Everyone in the industry knew better than to approach Christine Vineyard unless they wanted a verbal lashing—or worse.
A young major in a crisp, newly pressed military uniform broke the unspoken rule, striding toward her with a confident smile. He bowed slightly, extending a hand. "Beautiful lady, may I have the honor of a dance?"
Christine's lips curved into a dazzling smile that could've stopped his heart. For a moment, he was lost in her charm, utterly captivated. Then she shook her head, her voice soft but firm. "I'm so sorry, I'm not feeling well tonight."
The major, ever the gentleman, took the rejection gracefully. Women had their off days, after all. "Then how about a drink instead?" He offered, snagging a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Christine nodded, raising her glass. "Cheers."
Their glasses clinked, the sound crisp and melodic. She tilted her head back, her swan-like neck catching the light as she took a delicate sip of whiskey. That small gesture was enough for the major, who walked away with a satisfied grin, as if he'd won a small victory.
The men watching from the sidelines buzzed with gossip, their voices low but eager. "Christine's pushing thirty, isn't she? Twenty-eight, and still no word of a boyfriend?"
"Rumor has it some guy broke her heart when she was younger," Another chimed in. "Ever since, she's sworn off men. Hates 'em."
"No way. That's true?"
"Sounds plausible to me," A third said, swirling his drink. "I mean, even Tony Stark—fucking Tony Stark—got shot down by her. Whoever that guy was, he must've been something else to get under her skin."
"Honestly, I hope she stays single forever," Another added, half-joking. "If we can't have her, no one should. Makes it easier to sleep at night."
"What about that major? He got her to drink with him. Should I take a shot?"
"Forget it, man. He's young, good-looking—probably why she humored him. You? Your hair's thinning faster than my bank account."
"Screw you! My hair's just… sparse. You're one to talk, waddling around like my neighbor's fat cat."
Their banter was cut short when a gaunt man approached Christine, his face pale as death, his eyes sunken and hollow. "Dear lady," He said, his voice raspy, "May I have the privilege of sharing a drink with you?"
Christine turned, her sharp gaze sizing him up. Thin as a rail, unsteady on his feet, hands like withered claws—he looked like he was one foot in the grave. 'How the hell did this guy get in here?' she thought, her instincts prickling. But she kept her composure, offering a polite smile and raising her glass.
As she tilted her head to drink, a glint of malice flashed in the man's eyes. In one swift motion, he flung the contents of his glass toward her face. Christine's reflexes kicked in, her body bending backward in a near-impossible arc, her upper half parallel to the floor. The liquid—clear but reeking of danger—sailed past her, splashing onto the marble a few feet away and onto the legs of a cluster of nearby socialites.
Screams tore through the hall, shrill and gut-wrenching. The women's skin blackened instantly, the acrid stench of burning flesh filling the air as they clutched their legs, writhing in agony. 'Sulfuric acid,' Christine realized, her blood running cold.
"What the hell?"
"What's going on over there?"
Heads turned, the crowd's chatter replaced by gasps and shouts. Christine straightened, her face a mask of calm, but her pale blue eyes burned with murderous intent as she locked onto the man.
He cursed under his breath, realizing he'd missed. In desperation, he hurled his empty glass at her, but she sidestepped with effortless grace, not even shifting her stance. Undeterred, he yanked a small dagger from his belt buckle, its blade glinting under the chandelier's light.
"Die, you bitch!" He roared, lunging at her.
The room erupted into chaos. Guests screamed, shoving past each other to flee, abandoning their so-called friends without a backward glance. The gala's elegance dissolved into a stampede of panic.
The man was a walking corpse, his strength drained by whatever disease ravaged him. To Christine, his attack was child's play. She sidestepped his clumsy thrust, grabbing his right arm and yanking him forward with a fluid motion. He stumbled, crashing face-first onto the acid-slicked marble.
His hands hit the floor, and he screamed as the acid ate into his skin, leaving blackened, oozing burns. He rolled to the side, clutching his ruined palms, his cries echoing through the now-empty hall.
Christine's eyes flicked to his mouth, catching the subtle twitch of his lips. 'Poison capsule,' She thought, her mind razor-sharp. He was about to bite down and end it, protecting whoever sent him. Not on her watch.
She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her stiletto heel slamming into his jaw with a sickening crunch. Bone shattered, and his eyes rolled back as he crumpled, knocked out cold.
The threat was neutralized. Christine turned, scanning the hall. The remaining guests cowered at a safe distance, including the young major, who stared at her with wide-eyed awe. She snorted, her lip curling in disdain, and strode out of the hall, her heels clicking against the marble like a metronome of defiance.
Outside, her assistant rushed toward her, panic etched on her face. "Christine! Are you okay?"
"Obviously," Christine replied, her voice cool as ice.
The assistant exhaled, relief flooding her. She handed over Christine's purse, which was buzzing incessantly. "Your phone's been going off nonstop. I didn't touch it, just like you said."
"Good girl," Christine said, taking the bag. She slipped into the estate's garden, seeking privacy among the manicured hedges and blooming roses. Pulling out her phone, she saw the same cryptic string of asterisks on the caller ID. Her jaw tightened, and she hit the answer.
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