Present Day – Rain Mansion Gala
"Blood of my blood"—that's what it says on the family crest. What a cosmic joke. That's like saying "Hitler was misunderstood." Sure, Grandpa. Sure.
(Inner monologue)
Of course, one of these glitter-wrapped jackasses tried to off me. Bullet straight to the chest. Ruined a perfectly tailored suit. No one's leaving this room until I know who had the balls—and the budget—to try and kill me.
I wasn't kidding. I scanned the room like a bloodhound in Prada—measuring every reaction, every twitch, every gulp of overpriced champagne. The silence was thick. The air reeked of guilt—or maybe just too much Versace cologne.
Then Michael laughed. Loud. Obnoxiously loud.
"Come on, people! Where's your sense of humor? It's a party, not a funeral. Yet." He winked. Bastard.
Classic Michael. He grabbed some elegant model-looking woman—legs for days, boobs like bean bag chairs, soft and almost too comfortable. Redhead. Of course. Ginger women always have that witchy power vibe. He dipped her like he was starring in a musical, barked at the hired jazz band to play, and just like that—boom—ambiance rebooted. Music up. Suspicion down.
Everyone swarmed him like moths to a sociopath. Press wanted exclusives. Ladies wanted
selfies. Men wanted to be him. His family? They stood in the corner looking like constipated cats in tuxedos. Every Rain sibling pissed off and faking smiles.
Michael just stood there in the middle, raising his glass to no one and everyone, that shark smile wide—like a predator in a room full of prey who just realized the tank was shrinking.
People went back to mingling and pretending they liked each other. The elite were here— mayor, senator, police chief, and some guy who owns half the oil in Gaborone. Basically, a mafia meeting disguised as a gala. These weren't just guests. They were regulars. I've seen them walk in and out of our home since I was thirteen. My father made sure influence was his real inheritance.
I had DUIs that vanished like ghosts. Cracked a guy's skull at the club once for trying to kick me out. Charges? What charges? Daddy paid for everything—judges, cops, even the guy's medical bill and a bonus for silence. Was I spoiled?
Yeah.
Do I care?
Nope.
Was I dead?
Technically not. But according to a few insurance companies, I should be.
Anyway, Augustine Rain, my beloved father, wasn't busy weeping for his possibly-deadson. Oh no. That man only cries when the stock market dips. Without his image, he's just another power-hungry prick with a god complex and a fear of aging.
So I danced. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Like a disco ball possessed by cocaine and trauma. People watched. Some even clapped. But then—a brush. Someone slid past me, close, like an accident that wanted to happen.
White suit. All five fingers bedazzled in rings. Hair slicked back like a mafia shampoo commercial. Built like a fallen Greek god with the arrogance of a Wall Street cokehead. His shoes? Designer. His watch? Probably more than my liver's worth. You know that "I have f**k you money" look? He invented it.
But what really caught my eye? His entourage.
First: The Blonde—petite, lethal, leather jacket over a black crop top and short red skirt that screamed "I could kill you and still get free drinks." Jada Pinkett wishes she had this Matrix energy.
Second: The Tank—brown-haired, square-jawed muscle mountain with a face straight out of a Calvin Klein ad and fists like anvils. He bumped into me on purpose.
"Get the f**k outta the way," he growled.
Naturally, I smiled.
"Watch it, G.I. Ken Doll. Wouldn't want to ruin that jawline with my fist." He turned, fists clenching.
Then she spoke.
"Yuri, stop. Behave."
I raised an eyebrow. "Listen to your girlfriend, handsome. I'd hate to rearrange your face. Might make you hotter though."
She smirked. "He's not my boyfriend."
"Well then," I purred, "I'm suddenly much more interested in buying you a drink."
She didn't answer. Just gave me a smile that felt like both a warning and a promise.
Meanwhile, Mr. Billionaire Mob Boss tilted his head slightly—like a lion acknowledging the flies around his kill. Everyone froze. Just his movement silenced the room. That's power. Not the kind you buy, but the kind you wear like skin.
He walked straight toward my father, who was chatting with the senator and the mayor.
And Augustine—cold, calculating Augustine—shook his hand like he was greeting royalty.
Then they vanished into the study.
And just like that, I knew…
This party wasn't about me.
It wasn't about family.
It was a stage.
And tonight, someone was pulling strings.
The Rain family was never a family.
It was a nest of vipers, all hissing in silk and pearls.
They stood apart from the crowd, each playing their part. Smiling just wide enough to avoid suspicion. Laughing just loud enough to drown out the hate. But the tension between them was thick—like gravy with too much flour and not enough love.
I watched from the dance floor, still half-spinning to whatever jazz tune the band was slaughtering. Champagne fizzed in one hand. My other was loosely around the waist of some politician's wife, who was definitely too interested in my jawline to care about her marriage vows.
My eyes, though?
Locked on the gathering of pure-blooded dysfunction standing by the centerpiece ice sculpture.
The Rain Gala glimmered under chandeliers that probably cost more than most people's homes. But the real show wasn't the music, the alcohol, or the imported ice sculptures—it was the family.
The Rain family.
And right now, the eye of the storm was forming around the cocktail table near the velvet curtain—where Uncle Victor, his ever-opinionated wife Marabel (my delightful stepmother), my sharp-tongued sister Sasha Rain, and our lovely gossip-monger Aunt Lorna were engaged in what looked like polite conversation.
But don't let the smiles fool you. These people were armed to the teeth—with words sharp enough to carve reputations like turkeys.
Uncle Victor Rain
Always in a tailored brown suit, still trying to resurrect the days when he mattered in business. "I still say this party's a waste of time," he muttered, swirling his whiskey like he was auditioning for a funeral. "We should be investigating, not celebrating."
Marabel Rain (my stepmother)
A woman whose Botox had a higher IQ than most board members. She adjusted her pearl earrings and sipped champagne. "Darling, no one investigates in this family. We sweep. We cover. We... rebrand. It's practically our motto."
Sasha Rain, my younger sister and forever the firecracker, rolled her eyes and leaned in with a smirk. "Unless the investigation leads to inheritance. Then suddenly everyone's Sherlock Holmes."
Marabel smiled at Sasha like a snake sizing up a rival predator.
"Funny, coming from the girl whose college tuition was covered by Daddy's silence and guilt."
Sasha raised her glass. "Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Marabel. But then again, neither does being a second wife."
Aunt Lorna, nursing her third glass of wine, cut in with her usual flair for chaos. "Please, girls, this is a gala—not an episode of Who Wants to Stab a Relative. At least wait until dessert before the claws come out."
Victor grunted. "We should be focusing on the bigger issue—someone tried to kill Michael. In this house. One of us."
"Allegedly," Marabel replied, without blinking. "He's always been dramatic. Maybe it was performance art."
Sasha let out a dry laugh. "Sure. Because nothing says 'art' like bleeding out in the hallway."
At that very moment, the atmosphere shifted.
Zaira Noir—in a slinky midnight-black dress, her hair perfectly curled, eyes unreadable— stepped toward the group. She moved like a question mark. The kind of woman who made silence louder.
The room felt it.
Sasha stiffened. Marabel's jaw tensed. Aunt Lorna stopped sipping her wine.
Zaira said smoothly, "Evening. Lovely seeing all of you again." No one responded for a heartbeat too long.
Then Aunt Lorna forced a brittle smile. "Zaira. You look... well."
Zaira smiled. "I always do."
Marabel narrowed her eyes. "Interesting you decided to show up. After everything."
Sasha stepped forward slightly. "You must have some nerve. You two broke up, what— seven months ago? Or was it right after that mysterious break-in at Michael's apartment?"
Zaira's smile thinned. "Coincidence is not the same as causality."
"Sure," Sasha said. "But it's funny how you left town, went quiet, then reappeared the moment someone took a shot at him."
Marabel chimed in coldly. "Almost like you were waiting for the right moment to make your entrance... or your exit."
Zaira looked at each of them slowly. "I came to pay my respects. But clearly, some things never change."
And with that, she turned and walked toward the terrace, leaving the group simmering.
Aunt Lorna exhaled. "That woman is poison in perfume."
Victor scowled. "She was always too clever. Too curious. And now, with Michael vulnerable... she could play the grieving ex and walk right back into his will."
Sasha muttered, "If she's not the one who wanted him dead, she sure as hell knows who did."
At that moment, the chandelier lights flickered once, dramatically, like the universe was eavesdropping. The string quartet hit a sour note. The mood shifted just enough for me— still dancing nearby—to notice the sudden cold draft of suspicion curling through the air.
Every line, every comment, every passive-aggressive jab was a clue. Someone in this room tried to kill me.
Hell, maybe more than one of them. They were just pissed I survived.
I spun, dipped the politician's wife, and caught my reflection in the ballroom mirror.
I grinned.
If this was going to be my murder mystery, I might as well enjoy the hors d'oeuvres. Then—
Cut. The. Music.
My eyes shot up to the second floor.
Two shadows at the top of the marble staircase.
Augustine Rain and Mr. White-Suit-Moneybags.
They stood face to face, locked in a silent battle of rich, dangerous energy.
Their mouths moved fast—clearly arguing—but from this distance, I couldn't hear a thing.
No one could. The band kept playing. The crowd kept buzzing. But time slowed in my mind.
Augustine's face was a thunderstorm. His jaw clenched, one finger stabbing toward the man's chest.
The man in the white suit? Calm as ever. Head slightly tilted. Smirking. That kind of smirk that says, "You can't touch me, and we both know it."
Augustine raised his hand. Not to hit—but in frustration.
White Suit raised an eyebrow, then turned and started down the stairs.
My father hesitated. Then followed.
They descended together, masks reattached. Augustine's face was blank now, a marble sculpture of cold dignity. But his eyes? His eyes were volcanic.
I was still dancing, still twirling, still pretending. But my soul was frozen.
What the hell was that? Who the hell was that?
As they reached the floor, people parted like scripture. The crowd instinctively made way.
Even Michael's dance partner stopped mid-giggle.
White Suit nodded to me briefly. That kind of nod that says, "You're not ready for this game, kid."
I raised my glass to him. My smile said, "Try me."
The party carried on.
But something had shifted.
The Rain family was falling apart—smiling, dressed to kill, and probably actually trying to kill me.
And whatever happened in that study…
Was only the beginning.