I wore red.
Not a soft, flirtatious red. Not a romantic red. Red that screamed danger, the kind that makes you stop breathing for a second. Tonight, it wasn't for me. It was for Dominic Sinclair.
The Sinclair Centennial Gala glittered like a fortress of wealth: crystal chandeliers hanging like frozen stars, velvet carpets soft beneath my heels, gold-embossed champagne flutes trembling in the hands of millionaires. The Sinclair crest glowed on the wall, a silent claim of dominance. Cameras flashed endlessly, their clicks echoing in my chest. Every reporter, every investor, every socialite had come to celebrate the family… and witness their disgrace.
I had an agreement with Dominic. Clear. Precise. A merger designed to benefit both our companies. Respectful. Mutually profitable. And I had kept my word, until I realized he hadn't.
He had lied. Undermined my team in board meetings. Spread whispers to the press, painting me as reckless. The deal was supposed to be a partnership; instead, it had become a cage. And tonight, I was holding the key.
I stepped onto the stage, microphone in hand. Silence swallowed the room. Dominic sat at the head table, impeccable as ever, Armani jacket tailored like armor, eyes calculating. A faint smirk touched his lips – curiosity, amusement, maybe pride.
"Tonight," I began, letting my voice glide over the flashes, "we celebrate a partnership… or at least, that was the plan."
A ripple of gasps. I let it linger. His hand tightened around his glass. His mother's smile faltered. The air thickened with tension.
"But some prefer betrayal," I continued, letting the words land like stones, "to profit, to prestige, to… self-preservation."
I could see the muscles in his jaw flex, the pulse in his temple quicken. Yet he remained seated. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. That control was a lie, I could see it in the slight tremor of his fingers, the flick of his gaze, the storm he was holding behind sapphire-blue eyes.
"I promised cooperation," I said, letting each syllable echo across the marble hall, "but cooperation cannot exist with deception. And if anyone needed proof that power without honor is hollow…"
I let the cameras capture every second. Every investor, every reporter, hung on my words. I leaned slightly toward the edge of the stage, letting my eyes sweep over the room, and finally… I let my gaze land squarely on him.
"…look at this family's heirs."
The pause was deliberate. Brutal. Investors whispered. Flashes ignited around me. The kind of public humiliation that could break empires had begun.
"You build fortunes on the backs of others. You glorify legacy to hide fear. You dress arrogance as tradition. And tonight…" I stepped closer, hearing my heels click like a metronome, "…the world sees the Sinclair dynasty for what it truly is: polished fragility hiding chaos."
His jaw clenched. The veins in his forearm knotted. A flicker of something dark, fury, disbelief, perhaps a personal vendetta — flashed behind his eyes. He was a storm contained in tailored suits, and I had lit the fuse.
Champagne trembled in glasses. Guests shifted uneasily. Paparazzi captured my every movement. And then I walked out. Step by deliberate step, letting my presence burn into memory, letting my act of defiance echo in the halls and hearts of everyone who mattered.
Dominic remained, composed, controlled. But the restraint was palpable. Every line of his body screamed tension, every calculated breath an effort to maintain civility. He would remember. Oh, he would remember.