Rain-slick streets glowed with neon as Luke's black Aston Martin slipped into the night. Lora sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded on her lap. Her body was still weak from the accident, but her mind was razor-sharp again, every piece falling into place.
"You're quiet," Luke said, eyes on the road.
"I'm thinking," she replied. "How to kill two people at once without losing what's left of my empire."
He smirked faintly. "Still the same Lora."
Her gaze flicked to him. "You always knew me better than my own people."
"That's because your people worship you," he said flatly. "I study you."
Something about the way he said it made her heart twist. Not affection—something colder. Respect, maybe. Recognition.
Luke's hideout was in a high-rise overlooking the city. When she entered, a dozen men fell silent. Not out of fear—out of shock.
"She's alive?" one whispered.
Luke's glance silenced them. "Get out."
When they were alone, he tossed a dossier onto the table. "Here. Everything you need on Adrian and Mila. Financials, movements, security."
Lora flipped through the pages. The neat handwriting, the clean surveillance photos, the bank statements—Luke had already done half the work for her.
"Why?" she asked. "Why help me?"
He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Because I hate hypocrites. Your fiancé wants to play king while hiding behind your name. Your best friend wants to wear your crown without bleeding for it. I want to watch them burn."
Lora's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "Then let's burn them together."
For the next three weeks, Lora and Luke moved like ghosts through the city. She rebuilt her network quietly, reaching out to loyal lieutenants under new names. Luke's people planted false rumors, luring Adrian and Mila into thinking she was still weak, still broken.
In private, the two of them became an odd rhythm.
Luke taught her new counter-surveillance tricks.
Lora read his coded reports like they were open books.
Sometimes, late at night, they sat on the balcony drinking whiskey, saying nothing at all.
"You're different," Luke said one night, his voice softer than usual. "You used to be all fire and teeth. Now you're… colder."
"Betrayal does that," she murmured.
He looked at her then, not like a rival but like an equal. "Good. Cold means you'll survive."
The trap was set on a rainy Thursday night.
Adrian and Mila were celebrating at a private club—celebrating the final stage of their takeover. They didn't know the documents they'd just signed handed their assets to a shell company owned by Lora herself.
Luke leaned close to Lora as they watched from the mezzanine. "They're yours."
Lora descended the stairs like a queen returned to her throne. The club went silent. Adrian's champagne glass slipped from his hand. Mila went pale.
"You," Adrian stammered. "You're—"
"Alive?" Lora's smile was cold. "You should've made sure."
Security guards—her guards—locked the doors.
Mila tried to speak. "Lora, it's not what you think—"
Lora cut her off with a raised hand. "I remember everything. But even if I didn't, I'd still know a rat when I see one."
Adrian lunged for her, but Luke stepped out of the shadows, gun in hand, his presence a dark halo behind her. "Don't."
The two traitors were dragged away, their empires already crumbling around them. Lora didn't need to kill them herself; she'd taken everything they'd wanted, leaving them powerless, nameless, forgotten.
Outside the club, the rain had stopped. The city smelled of smoke and freedom.
"It's done," Luke said.
"For now," she replied. "But we both know there's always another war."
He tilted his head. "What will you do now?"
"Rebuild. Stronger. Smarter. No more friends who can stab me in the back."
He smirked. "So, no more Luke either?"
She met his eyes. "You're not my friend."
"No," he agreed. "I'm your rival."
And yet, as she watched him walk away into the neon night, she realized she didn't want him gone. Because even when she'd lost everything—even her memory—she had remembered him.
Maybe because she hated him.
Maybe because, deep down, she didn't.