Rosella sat behind glass walls, watching the Manhattan skyline bleed into dusk. Her blouse clung to her breasts, her legs crossed, her red heels sharp as her mouth.
The headline glowed from her tablet.
> "Julian Roth Steps Down Amid Bankruptcy and Scandal"
She smiled.
Pity was for the weak. She had no taste for pity.
But ruin?
Oh, ruin was delicious.
She sipped from her glass, wine as dark as the smear of her lipstick.
Julian had once called her "his muse."
She'd let him cum in her mouth after every pitch. She whispered strategy into his ear while riding him on conference tables.
She built him from a tech startup prince into a king.
And then she took his crown.
---
Flashback – One Month Ago
He was crying.
> "Rosella, please—don't do this. The board… they're voting me out."
She straddled him in his corner office, dragging her nails down his bare chest.
> "Poor Julian," she whispered, licking the tear from his cheek.
"Did you think you were irreplaceable?"
> "You said you loved me."
> "I lied."
---
Julian's Pov
The room smelled of sex, perfume, and secrets.
Dim light poured in from the city outside, casting shadows across the penthouse walls. He sat on the edge of the bed, still catching his breath, sweat drying on his skin. The sheets were a tangle of heat and memory. His eyes searched her face, still flushed and wild from what just happened, hoping to find something—warmth, tenderness, anything.
But all he saw was a satisfied predator.
She stood at the window, her back to him, slipping into a sleek black dress with practiced ease. Every move was precise, like someone who had done this a hundred times before—and maybe she had. He saw it now: the absence of affection, the calculated curve of her lips, the way she'd looked at him like a conquest, not a connection.
"So that's it?" he asked, voice raw.
She turned slowly, fastening an earring. Her eyes were cool, unbothered. "What did you expect? A love story?"
"You told me you needed me."
She laughed—soft and dangerous. "I needed you for the night, baby. You were cute, eager… easy."
He felt the sting, but she walked toward him like a queen surveying her prize. She placed a finger under his chin, lifting his gaze to hers.
"I don't do guilt," she whispered. "Men like you fall in love with the illusion. And I've made a career out of illusions."
"You used me."
"No," she said, her smile razor-sharp. "You offered yourself. I just knew how to unwrap the gift."
She kissed his cheek—mocking, meaningless—and turned to leave. Her heels clicked on the floor like a final countdown.
At the door, she looked back over her shoulder. "You're not the first. You won't be the last. Try not to fall so easily next time."
Then she was gone.
And all he had left was the echo of her voice… and the hollow space she left behind.
All he had left were her haunting last words as "she slid her hand between his thighs, squeezing him cruelly as she leaned into his ear."
> "But I did love watching you fall."
The next day;
The Manhattan skyline wept gold into glass as the sun bled its last breath over the city.
Rosella Virelli leaned back in her steel-and-leather chair, legs crossed, wine glass twirling between sharp red nails. She didn't blink as the headline lit up her tablet screen:
> "Julian Roth Resigns Amid Bankruptcy and Sexual Scandal."
Her lips curled. Not in joy. Not in pity. In satisfaction.
Pity was for saints. Rosella preferred ruin.
She slid her tongue slowly across her upper lip, savoring the taste of the red she wore.
The same color Julian loved smudged on his cock after every boardroom victory.
Muse.
That's what he called her.
He thought he was the artist. The genius.
She let him believe it.
She rode him until he saw galaxies. Whispered business moves into his ears while gripping his hair. Helped him scale from tech geek to CEO.
And just when he built his kingdom—
She took his crown.
Shoved it down his throat.
And fucked him with the ruin of it.
---
Flashback – 10 Years Ago
Age 17.
"Fat girls shouldn't wear that."
The voice sliced through the high school locker room, and the air stung with deodorant, sweat, and cruelty.
Rosella blinked back the shame. She'd worn the tight black top because it made her feel sexy. Grown. Powerful.
But now the girls were laughing. Alexis Monroe was the ringleader—gymnast body, ice-blonde hair, the kind of girl teachers favored and boys jerked off to in the bathroom.
"She looks like a sausage stuffed in velvet," someone snickered.
Rosella didn't reply. She just buttoned her shirt and left.
---
On the city bus that night, an older man sat beside her.
Too close. His thigh brushed hers.
She shifted, but he didn't.
His hand crept beneath her school skirt.
She couldn't scream.
She couldn't move.
She just froze.
When she got home, she threw up in the bathroom.
Her mother was passed out on the floor with a rosary between her fingers—pills scattered across the tiles.
Rosella stepped over her like she was furniture.
---
The next morning, she skipped school.
Instead, she stared at her reflection in a cracked mirror.
Then she picked up her mother's shaving razor.
She made the first cut on her hip—neat, shallow, controlled.
The pain didn't make her cry.
It made her feel real.
Like she was reclaiming her body. Her voice. Her rage.
Over time, the scars stacked like tally marks.
Her body became a battlefield—and she was the only survivor.
Years later, she paid a discreet Brazilian surgeon to erase them.
Lasered her skin smooth. Sculpted her face. Lifted her breasts.
Perfection became armor.
No one could touch her again.
Unless she allowed it.
---
Present Day – Back in Manhattan
Julian was ruined.
But he wasn't the first.
Rosella tapped into her private folder.
Under her bed, she kept files like perfume bottles—each one sweetened by scandal and decay.
Senators. CEOs. Lawyers. Trainers. Men who underestimated her.
But not just men.
Women too.
---
Flashback – Age 19
Alexis Monroe.
The bitch who mocked her in high school now worked as a bridal stylist.
Engaged to a senator's son.
Rosella made an appointment under a fake name.
She walked in draped in silk, flaunting a diamond ring, and asked Alexis to zip her dress.
When Alexis bent behind her, Rosella twisted and whispered:
> "Still think I look like a sausage?"
The girl blinked.
Recognition hit like a bullet.
> "R-Rosella?"
Rosella smirked.
> "Oh, don't worry, baby. I sent the video of you snorting coke at that college frat party to your fiancé already. You're welcome."
---
Later that year, Alexis's engagement was called off.
She was fired.
Her mugshot ended up on gossip blogs.
Rosella sent flowers to her apartment.
With a note:
> "Still think you won?"
---
Another Flashback – Age 21
Professor Dean Levan.
He used to fail her essays no matter how much work she put in.
She'd caught him jerking off in his office once while grading.
She came back wearing a sheer blouse with no bra, asked him for a recommendation letter—
then recorded the whole thing.
He lost tenure.
His wife filed for divorce.
His daughter stopped speaking to him.
Rosella came while reading his resignation email.
---
Back to Present
Now, Rosella sat naked in front of her full-length mirror.
Wine. Silk robe.
The soft hum of music in the background,while she admired life to a dark context..