But news travels far beyond city borders.
In a villa overlooking the Amalfi Coast, a woman sat on her balcony, a newspaper spread across her lap. The headline read: The Fall of a Heir. The photograph beneath it showed Arga, pale and broken, with his hand outstretched toward a woman walking away in crimson.
Jennifer Swordest frowned.
She hadn't seen her cousin in years — not since childhood holidays when their mothers had briefly tried to keep the families close. But she remembered him vividly: the sharp-eyed boy with too much pride, always strutting through rooms as if the world owed him space. She had disliked him then.
And yet, staring at the photo of the ruined man on the stage, she felt something stir. Pity. Curiosity. A whisper of unfinished family loyalty.
Jennifer folded the paper and stood.
It was time to return home.
***
Arga hadn't left his penthouse in days. Curtains drawn, mirrors draped in cloth, bottles scattered across the floor. The empire outside moved without him, board members clawing at his seat, journalists writing obituaries of his relevance.
And Sharon's name still pulsed through his veins like poison.
So when his doorbell rang that afternoon, he ignored it. When it rang again, harder, he shouted hoarsely, "Go away!"
But the door didn't open to reporters or assistants. It opened to a woman with sharp green eyes and hair the color of polished chestnut.
"Hello, Arga," she said softly.
He blinked, disoriented. "…Jennifer?"
She stepped inside, her heels clicking against marble. "You look like hell."
He laughed bitterly. "You came all the way from Italy to insult me?"
"No," she said simply. "I came because you're family. And because the world is tearing you apart."
***
That night, for the first time in months, Arga spoke without masks. Jennifer poured them wine, settled across from him, and listened as he unraveled the entire story: the childhood cruelty he inflicted on Sharon, her transformation, her rise, their dinners, the gala, her words that still burned.
By the end, Arga's voice cracked. He pressed his fists against his temples.
"I loved her," he whispered. "Or maybe I've always loved her, and only now do I realize it. But she hates me. She's destroying me piece by piece, and I… I can't stop her."
Jennifer leaned back, studying him. Her expression was not pitying, but calculating.
"Then you need someone to fight for you," she said.
Arga lifted his gaze. For the first time in weeks, there was a flicker of hope in his eyes.
***
Jennifer's plan was simple but bold.
"The public only knows one story: Sharon humiliates you, and you crumble. You need to change the narrative. Show them you're not begging anymore — that you've moved on."
Arga frowned. "Moved on?"
"Yes," Jennifer said. "To me. We'll announce our engagement. A powerful family alliance, a symbol of stability. It will silence the gossip and restore your position. Investors love a strong front."
Arga stared at her. "Engagement…?"
Jennifer shrugged. "It's only pretend. We'll play the part until the storm passes. When the world sees you're not destroyed, their whispers will turn elsewhere."
Arga leaned forward, his heartbeat quickening. "And Sharon?"
Jennifer's lips curved. "If she truly hates you, she'll ignore it. But if she feels anything at all—anger, jealousy, regret—this will smoke it out. You'll see her heart, Arga. And you'll finally know where she stands."
The thought ignited something in him. The chance to flip the board. The chance to win.
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, let's do it."
***
That same night, Sharon attended another gala — smaller, more intimate, filled with directors, critics, and admirers. She dazzled in sapphire silk, her laughter drawing eyes, her grace impossible to ignore.
But she noticed something different. For the first time since her public strike, the whispers weren't solely about Arga's humiliation.
They were quieter, uncertain. Something was shifting.
Sharon caught fragments:
"…his cousin, Jennifer Swordest…"
"…returning from Italy…"
"…rumors of an engagement…"
Her glass paused midway to her lips.
Engagement?
The word struck like a dart.
***
Two days later, the news broke. Photographs splashed across tabloids: Arga and Jennifer leaving a jewelry boutique, her hand glittering with a diamond ring.
Arga Bridgman Engaged to Jennifer Swordest.
From Scandal to Stability: The Heir Rises Again.
Countbell Forgotten as Bridgman Announces Family Alliance.
The world erupted. Investors sighed in relief. Society buzzed with curiosity.
And Sharon stared at the photographs, her chest tightening with something sharp and unfamiliar.
Jealousy.
She clenched the paper until it tore.
***
Watching the chaos unfold, Arga felt something he hadn't in months: control.
He and Jennifer posed for cameras, their smiles rehearsed, their fingers entwined for show. And though the engagement was a lie, Arga's heart pounded with the hope that it would achieve more.
That Sharon would look at him again. That she would see him not as a broken man on stage, but as someone she could still want.
And perhaps — just perhaps — she would finally admit what he had begun to believe:
That beneath her vengeance, she still loved him.
***
Epilogue – The False Crown
In a quiet room after another staged dinner, Jennifer slipped the diamond ring off her finger and placed it on the table.
"It's only a game," she reminded him.
Arga stared at the glittering jewel, his reflection fractured in its facets.
But in his mind, he heard Sharon's voice, sharp and cold.
Forgiveness is not a stage play.
And he whispered back to the silence:
"Then I'll turn life itself into one."