Steve's arrest for the molestation of women sent shockwaves through the community. His imprisonment became the scandal on everyone's lips. Though many felt a grim satisfaction at his incarceration, a lingering disbelief remained how could a trusted teacher have done such things?.
On the other side of town, the CEO Mawat, owner of a vast corporate empire, hurled his glass against the wall upon hearing the news. The sound of shattering crystal was drowned out by the chaos outside, where a throng of reporters swarmed his estate's gates, shouting for a statement while his security team fought desperately to hold them back.
Meanwhile, in a quiet corner of an upstairs room, his eldest daughter, Fena, sat in perfect stillness, sipping her drink. A profound silence enveloped her, a stark contrast to the turmoil below. A slow, deep satisfaction warmed her from within. She was savoring a monumental victory. Finally, after all this time, justice was coming for Steve and the women he had abused.
From the adjoining room, the raw, jagged sound of Fena's mother screaming tore through the walls. It was the sound of a long-suppressed madness finally breaking its chains a madness Mawat, Fena's father, had kept locked away in this gilded house for years, buried out of shame.
Fena moved toward the sound, a cold knot of resentment tightening in her chest. Each step was fueled by years of silent anger at the woman whose weakness had been hidden like a stain. But as she pushed the door open and saw the shattered figure within, a different, older emotion rose to drown the fury: a weary, inescapable tide of pity.
Seizing the chaos at the gates and the guards' distraction with the clamoring media, Fena saw her moment. In the disarray, she orchestrated her mother's escape.
When Mawat discovered the empty room, his rage was volcanic. He found Fena standing calmly in the hallway. Without a word, he lashed out with the whip he always kept nearby. The blow caught her across the temple, splitting the skin. Blood welled instantly, a warm, slick trail tracing her cheekbone.
Fena did not flinch. She did not cry out. Instead, a laugh spilled from her lips low, triumphant, and utterly devoid of fear. For as her mother stumbled through the front gates, the waiting press corps erupted in a frenzy of recognition. The face they had long forgotten, the actress the world believed had vanished abroad, was now, irrevocably, their breaking news.
Within days, Mawat, Fena's father, was formally charged with spousal abuse and the molestation of several women. The scandal metastasized with such speed and ferocity that his allies had no choice but to cut him loose. Political associates, terrified of being tarnished on the eve of an election, performed a frantic, public exodus, scrambling to put distance between themselves and the ruin of his name.
Every damning headline, every severed alliance, was part of Fena's grand design. She had orchestrated it all.
Unable to bear the absolute humiliation, stripped of every shred of power and respect, Mawat hanged himself.
When word reached Steve in his cell, his fury was a physical force. He erupted, a caged animal smashing against the unyielding walls of his confinement. Through gritted teeth, he carved a vow into the silence: upon the hour of his release, his retribution would be absolute. It would not fall upon the state or the courts. It would fall upon the architect of his downfall his own sister, Fena.
To Fena, the unraveling of her family was a symphony, and each note was a step toward her long-awaited freedom. The public disgrace of her father, the frantic scattering of his allies, even his final, desperate act they were not tragedies, but movements in a beautiful, liberating composition.
As she sat alone, glass in hand, her mind replayed the events with serene satisfaction. Her father's downfall, her brother's impotent rage from behind bars each piece had fallen precisely into place, a perfect design of her own making. A slow, deep smile touched her lips. She took a deliberate sip, savoring the taste of victory as much as the drink. For the first time in her life, the future was not a cage, but a horizon she owned entirely.
---2 years past --
Wedding
In the glittering ballroom, high society converged to toast the newly married couple. Glasses chimed, laughter flowed as freely as champagne, and elegant words hung in the air like expensive perfume.
Fena sat apart, a silent island in a sea of celebration, her chair tucked into a shadowed corner of a long banquet table. She swirled the dark wine in her glass, her expression one of profound, palpable boredom. To her, the entire spectacle was a monumental waste of an evening a garish parade of empty sentiment. Marriage, in her eyes, was a farce, a contemptible and pointless transaction, and watching it be celebrated felt like an affront to reason itself.
Just as Fena raised her glass for another disinterested sip, a desperate woman driven by the superstitious frenzy to catch the bridal bouquet stumbled backward and collapsed onto her lap. The tradition held that whoever caught the tossed flowers would be the next to marry, and a frenzied cluster of unmarried guests swarmed the space near Fena's table, grasping at air.
In the chaotic scramble, the bouquet didn't soar into hopeful hands it was knocked sideways. By sheer, unfortunate accident, it tumbled from the edge of the table and landed squarely in Fena's grip as she tried to push the woman off of her.
For a moment, there was a stunned silence around her table, broken only by the distant cheers of those who assumed the catch had been intentional.
The moment the onlookers saw the bouquet secured in Fena's unyielding grip, their desperate clamor died. The prize, however accidentally claimed, was now indisputably taken.
Fena herself was oblivious. Her entire focus was laser-locked on the woman still sprawled across her lap, whose gown of delicate silk was now hopelessly wrinkled. A deep frown etched itself on Fena's brow as, with a look of pure disdain, she shoved the woman unceremoniously aside.
From the center of the room, the bride and groom old family friends watched the scene unfold. Their initial surprise melted into radiant, hopeful smiles. They clasped each other's hands, sharing a silent, earnest prayer that perhaps this unexpected twist was a sign. Perhaps Fena, who seemed so adrift from such sentiments, would be the next to find her way to the altar.
Fena's face settled back into its usual mask of detached indifference. Without a glance at the flowers, she placed the bouquet on the table as if disposing of a piece of litter. She merely lifted her glass in a perfunctory gesture, joining the collective toast with a hollow mimicry of participation.
As the guests drank, her attention drifted downward. The woman who had fallen on her still hadn't risen from the floor. Fena's gaze, initially one of mild annoyance, sharpened. It was then she saw it: the woman's hand, pressed against the polished wood, was streaked with a fresh, glistening cut from a shard of broken glass.
A flicker of irritation crossed Fena's mind—Does no one here possess basic competence?—but it was overridden by a deeper, almost instinctual reflex. Without a word, she hooked a firm arm under the woman's elbow and guided her away from the staring crowd, steering them toward the relative privacy of a powder room.
It was a habit born of a lifetime managing her family's hidden wounds: Fena always carried a small, discreet first aid kit. "Let me see it," she said, her voice flat but not unkind as she gestured for the woman's injured hand.
She expected wincing, perhaps a soft thank you. What she did not expect was for the woman to dissolve into sudden, shuddering sobs the moment the antiseptic touched her skin. Fena stilled, her clinical focus broken by the sheer, disproportionate force of the grief now filling the small, tiled room.
The woman cried and cried, her sobs a disorienting static in Fena's orderly mind. It's just a scratch, Fena thought, her irritation mounting. This level of dramatics is absurd.
What she didn't know was that the desperation wasn't for the cut, but for the symbol. This woman had lunged for the bouquet with a frantic, final hope a superstitious belief that catching it would force her reluctant partner's hand, that it would be the guarantee she needed to finally walk down the aisle. The flowers landing in Fena's disinterested grasp hadn't just been a missed catch; they felt like the collapse of a future she was desperately clinging to.
Irritation had sharpened into a desire to simply walk away when, abruptly, the lights in the powder room died. In the sudden, total darkness, the sobbing woman's hand shot out, gripping Fena's shoulder like a lifeline.
From beyond the door, the muffled sounds of celebration twisted into chaos—shouts, the clatter of overturned glass, running footsteps. Fena, however, did not panic. With a calm that felt ingrained, she pried the woman's hand from her shoulder only to grasp it firmly in her own. "This way," she said, her voice a low anchor in the dark.
She led them out into the pandemonium of the main hall. The air was now thick with smoke and a single, panicked chorus: "Fire! There's a fire!"
Ignoring the frantic tide of the crowd, Fena moved with decisive purpose, pulling the stunned woman along a memorized path through the choking haze and out into the cold, chaotic night.
As Fena emerged from the building, pulling the woman behind her, the shriek of the fire alarm was already being overpowered by the hiss of automated sprinklers. A curtain of water rained down in the grand foyer, swiftly dousing the fledgling flames before they could claim the old structure.
In the chaotic, water-streaked light of emergency lamps, Fena finally glanced back at the woman whose hand she still held. The woman's delicate gown, now soaked completely, clung to her frame, rendering the fabric almost transparent. The water etched every curve and contour of her body in stark, unavoidable relief against the shimmering silk.
Just as the woman's knees buckled, her consciousness slipping away, Fena's reflexes took over. She caught the collapsing figure against her, water from the soaked gown immediately bleeding into her own clothes.
Standing in the chaotic aftermath with an unconscious stranger in her arms, Fena realized she had no idea who this woman was. With a frustrated sigh, she had little choice. Half-carrying, half-dragging the dead weight, she maneuvered the woman into the passenger seat of her car.
The drive home was tense. Fena's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her brow furrowed in a deep scowl. The night's absurdities replayed in her mind the forced toast, the cursed bouquet, the fire, and now this. A silent mantra of irritation played on a loop in her head: I never should have come to this wedding.