The jet landed quietly under the cover of night, its sleek silhouette nearly invisible on the private airstrip. No reporters. No fanfare. Just the cold wind howling through the trees—welcoming her home like an old, bitter friend.
Five years ago, she'd left this city in a fireball that was meant to be her grave.
Now she returned—stronger, smarter, and with five tiny shadows trailing behind her.
She didn't need headlines.
She needed silence.
Silence made room for revenge.
"Are we in the city, Mama?" one of the children asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.
"Yes," she whispered, brushing a curl from his forehead. "But no one can know we're here. Not yet."
The children nodded, used to the secrecy. They had been raised in quiet places, hidden homes, and with stories crafted carefully to protect them. Her little soldiers—innocent, but born into a war they didn't yet understand.
Outside the jet, a woman in a dark trench coat waited near a black SUV. Her name was Mara, loyal and dangerous. Her fixer. Her shield.
"You're sure everything's ready?" she asked as she stepped onto the tarmac.
Mara nodded. "The safehouse is fully secured. Staff are cleared. No ties to your past. You'll be living under the identity we created—Elara Vale, single mother, international investor, recently moved from Europe."
"Perfect."
"And Adrian?" Mara asked carefully. "He still believes you're dead. No attempts to find the children. But… he never remarried."
A cold smile curved her lips. "Good. Let him mourn a little longer."
The explosion that was meant to kill her had been staged perfectly by Seraphina, Adrian's beloved childhood friend. A jealous witch with too much access—and no conscience.
It should have killed her.
But fate gave her a second chance.
And now, Seraphina would pay.
So would her father. Her stepmother. Her stepsister. And eventually… Adrian.
She didn't know yet whether he was guilty of betrayal or just blinded by those around him—but she wouldn't approach him until she was sure. Trust was a luxury she had buried long ago.
---
The safehouse was nothing like the cold palace she once called home. It was warm. Earthy. Tucked deep in the outskirts of the city, protected by high walls and electronic surveillance that reported only to her.
She stood in the window long after the children had gone to bed, her fingers tracing the faint scar on her collarbone. The same scar she saw every morning—a reminder that love, family, and trust were all illusions.
But vengeance?
Vengeance was real.
And it was almost ripe.
Mara returned from a call. "We've tracked your stepmother. She attends a private gala tomorrow. Your father will be there, too."
Of course he would. Pretending the perfect businessman, while the blood of her mother still clung to his hands. Her mother's death had never been ruled a murder—but she knew the truth. She had seen enough in the shadows of that house to piece it together. She'd just been too young. Too scared.
Not anymore.
"I want eyes inside that gala. Every angle covered. Every word recorded."
"And Adrian?" Mara asked.
She hesitated.
"Nothing. Not yet."
She walked over to a locked drawer and pulled out an envelope—one of many. Inside: photos, documents, passwords. Blackmail material. Evidence. Slowly, methodically, she'd collected the tools for their downfall.
Mara glanced at the photo in her hand. A younger Adrian, smiling at Seraphina, arm casually thrown over her shoulder. He looked… happy.
"He loved you once, didn't he?" Mara asked quietly.
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
---
The next morning, she dressed in soft pastels and dark sunglasses, blending into the city like a ghost. No one would recognize her. Her name was gone. Her face had changed. And the woman she used to be? Buried with the wreckage of that fiery crash.
At the private elite academy, she registered the quintuplets under her new identity. No one would suspect they were his. She'd made sure of that. Different last names. A custom-crafted backstory. And no photos from their birth.
She watched them through the glass as they joined the other children. For a moment, her chest ached with pride—and fear. If anyone found out who they were, everything would fall apart.
But for now… they were safe.
And that was enough.
---
That night, she returned to her office—a converted floor of the safehouse, walls covered in maps, strings, digital boards, and names. At the center of it all: a list titled "The Ones Who Owe Me Blood."
1. Seraphina LaRue
2. Marcus Devereaux (Father)
3. Clarisse Devereaux (Stepmother)
4. Elise Devereaux (Stepsister)
5. Unknown (The Driver Who Caused the Explosion)
And below it, in a separate column:
Adrian Blackwood — Pending Judgment
Her hand hovered over his name.
She wasn't ready to decide yet. Love was a wound she thought had healed—but scars had a way of breaking open when you least expected it.
"I'm coming for all of you," she whispered to the empty room. "One by one."