His Betrayal, Her Unstoppable Rise

I prided myself on being the "Tech Queen," the CEO who built Innovatech from the ground up. My success came at a price: missed dinners, demanding schedules, and less time with my precious daughter, Emily. But I always made sure she had the best, like the custom robot cake and Parisian designer jacket for her recent birthday. Then, a photo on Instagram shattered my perfect world. It was Emily's unique cake, her coveted jacket—but on another boy. When I questioned my husband, Kevin, he casually dismissed it, claiming Emily had a tantrum and ruined her own cake. A lie, I instinctively knew. The unease deepened. Emily, once vibrant, became withdrawn, her laughter replaced by silence. During bath time, I saw them: faint, purplish bruises, tellingly finger-shaped, on her tiny arms. Then she whispered the words that turned my blood to ice: "Maria gives me special sleepy juice at night, Mommy. It makes me sleep very, very deep." Maria, the nanny Kevin insisted was "family." My stomach twisted with a sickening mix of dread and fury. How could I have been so blind? Was my entire life, my family, a lie? That night, with my heart hammering, I accessed the hidden security cameras I'd secretly installed across our house. The "Tech Queen" was about to uncover her darkest secret. And when I did, no one involved would escape her wrath.

After completing a top-secret mission for the government, I received a call from my daughter, Michelle Harper. "Mom! I got the offer from the UN Secretariat Department as an intern! I have worked hard to apply for it for a whole year!" Her voice on the other end was trembling with excitement. She immediately started preparing her visa documents and sent me three voice messages asking what she should prepare. However, a week later, her location watch remained fixed at the third floor of the administration building of their college. I secretly went to her college, only to find her tied up cruelly in the corner. The culprit, Lacey Palmer said with disdain, "How dare you, a nobody, take the position at the UN Secretary Department that my father helped me get? Are you courting death?" Even the advisor chimed in obsequiously, "Lacey's father is the richest man in the country, and her mother is a top expert. That position is meant for Lacey." I was stunned. The position at the UN Secretariat Department? It was the position Michelle worked so hard to win. They clearly talked about me and my husband, who was married into my family, by mentioning the top expert and the richest man. I immediately dialed a familiar number and asked, "I heard you have an illegitimate daughter. Is that true?"

"I need the money, Jaida. My mom's in the hospital." My plea was met with a sneer from my ex-fiancé, Kirk Knapp, who then dropped a thick file on the table, detailing every single dollar he'd spent on me during our relationship. Then it got worse. "One box of tampons, $8.99. One pack of birth control pills, $50. A lace nightgown from Victoria's Secret... $78." He announced I owed him $200,000, which he generously reduced to $150,000 since I was trying to collect a debt from his niece. My humiliation was a spectacle for his wealthy friends, who then suggested I "work it off on my back." Kirk, enjoying my torment, offered an alternative: drink ten bottles of whiskey for the money. I did it, desperate for my mother's surgery. I rushed to the hospital, cash in hand, only to be told by the doctor, "An hour ago, we received a call from Mr. Knapp. He instructed us to halt all life-sustaining treatment for your mother. He said you could no longer afford it." My world shattered. I screamed into the phone at Kirk, "Why would you do that?" His cruel laugh echoed, "Because you dared to bother Jaida. This is your punishment, Holly. Her life is on you." My mother was gone. I didn't understand why he would do something so monstrous. Why would he take away my last hope, my last family, for a petty revenge? With nothing left to lose, I accepted an offer to join a national research project, determined to build a new life, free from his shadow.

Three years ago, I became the lost heiress to the Sterling fortune. David Sterling, the family' s handsome son, saved me from a dark clinic, spending millions on my recovery. We married, had a son, and our life felt perfect. At our son Anna's first birthday party, David pulled a scalpel from his pocket and, in front of all our guests, cut open our baby's chest. He then ripped out Anna's tiny, beating heart to save Sarah Miller' s daughter. He kicked me hard in the stomach, growling about how I had "manipulated his parents" and that my son "blamed me for being wicked." I lay in a pool of my own blood and despair, forced to watch him walk away with my son's heart. My whole life with David had been a cruel, elaborate plan for revenge. Days later, I was confined to a hospital bed in David' s mansion, not for care, but for harvesting my blood for Sarah. I was subjected to constant humiliation, forced to view videos of my son's murder, my C-section wound tearing open from the pain. David and Sarah paraded their love, while I lay in agony, ridiculed for my weakness. My heart was gone, ripped out just like my son's, leaving a hollowness so vast it swallowed me whole. How could the man I loved, the father of my child, commit such an unspeakable act of depravity? Why was I, an innocent victim, suffering this unimaginable torture? In my deepest despair, I remembered the small, hidden button on the bracelet David had given me. A desperate signal shot out into the world, a cry for help. I just had to survive for three more days.

My life was perfect, capped off by being named "Young Architect of the Year." A loving family, a devoted boyfriend, a loyal best friend-I had it all. Then my distant cousin, Ashley, arrived – an orphan in need. Suddenly, my perfect world cracked. On my 25th birthday, the crack shattered into a million pieces. My family, my boyfriend, my best friend-they abandoned me, throwing a surprise party for Ashley instead, while I waited alone. The betrayal cut deep, but it was just the beginning. The scholarship I' d worked for, my reputation, my sense of self-all systematically destroyed by Ashley' s hidden machinations and their inexplicable complicity. Sick and alone, cast out of my home, I stumbled upon a mysterious bookstore. There, I found a leather-bound book titled "The Rise of Ashley Green," revealing I was merely a villain in someone else's story, destined for a tragic end. But I refused to be a pawn in a pre-written tale. If my life was a book, I' d be the author. I chose my own ending, faked my death, and quietly disappeared. Four years later, I returned, a phoenix from the ashes. With a new fiance and unwavering resolve, I walked into the city' s most anticipated gala, ready to reclaim my narrative and expose the truth to the world. The show was just beginning, and this time, I was writing the script.

On the day of my funeral, Chloe was getting married. That' s the simplest way to put it, the starkest truth that defined the end of my story and the beginning of hers. While a handful of people who genuinely loved me gathered under a gray, weeping sky, she was bathed in sunlight and applause, standing under an arch of white roses. But before that quiet end, there was a loud, painful beginning. It started the day Mark Johnson came back, pulling up to our small, rented house in a car that cost more than I made in three years. That night, the air in our little house felt tight, suffocating. Chloe stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, not looking at me, but at a future I clearly wasn't a part of. "We need to talk, Ethan." Her voice stripped of warmth, cool and measured, delivered the blow. "Mark is back. He' s offered me a position at his firm. A real career. A chance to have the life we' ve talked about." The "we" felt like a lie. "I' m saying I can' t do this anymore," she finally met my eyes, her gaze hard. "I can' t keep waiting for you to make it. This game of yours… it' s a hobby, Ethan. It' s not a future. I need security. I need more than what you can give me." Each word landed like a physical blow, a deep ache starting in my chest. What she didn' t know, what I hadn' t told anyone, was why I was always tired, why I was losing weight, why I coughed. A month ago, a doctor used words like "inoperable" and "palliative." I had chosen to finish my game, my legacy, rather than waste away in a hospital. Chloe saw my silence, my gaunt frame, and my tired eyes, and she misinterpreted it all. She saw weakness. "Look at you," she said, her voice laced with new cruelty. "You' re always tired. You' re letting yourself go. Is this what you want? To just waste away in front of this computer screen?" The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. I just turned back to my screen, my fingers finding the keyboard. "Are you even listening to me?" she snapped, frustration boiling over. "This is what you always do! You just retreat into your little fantasy world and ignore reality! I' m talking about our future, and you' re playing with your stupid game!" The pain in my chest turned sharp, a real physical thing. "I' m sorry, Chloe. I' m sorry I couldn' t be what you needed." I considered telling her, a desperate plea, but imagined the pity, her ambition chained to a dying man. I loved her too much to burden her. She took my apology as failure. "It' s too late for sorry, Ethan." She walked out, the front door closing with a soft, final click. The sound echoed in the sudden, crushing silence. I was alone. The pain in my chest exploded. My breath caught. I slid from my chair, hitting the floor with a dull thud. The last thing I saw was my glowing monitor, a testament to a love she had just thrown away. I woke up in a new kind of silence, hovering weightless, looking down at my own still body. I was dead. The silence was broken by Sarah, my best friend, slumped in the hospital chair, shaking with silent sobs. Her grief was immense, a storm. In the days that followed, I watched her, heartbroken, as she handled my final affairs. She grew thinner, hollow-eyed, fueled by pure will. She found my favorite hoodie, inhaling its scent. "What do I do, Ethan?" she whispered to the empty room. "I don' t know how to finish it without you." Then, her phone rang. Chloe. Sarah' s thumb hovered. "Hello?" Her voice was flat. Chloe' s voice was unnaturally cheerful. "Sarah! Hi! I know things were… tense… the other day, but I wanted to put that behind us. Mark and I are getting married!" Sarah' s muscles tightened. "We' re having the ceremony this Saturday. It' s at the Botanical Gardens. It would mean a lot to me if you came. As a sort of… peace offering." Saturday. This Saturday. Sarah' s eyes darted to the calendar. Next to it, one word: Funeral. The phone slipped from her hand. Chloe' s voice tinny from the floor, "Sarah? Are you there?" Sarah stared into space, a horrifying mask of disbelief and dawning rage. My funeral and Chloe' s wedding. The same day. She picked up the phone, ended the call. She looked at my game icon, then at the hoodie. "Oh, Ethan," she whispered, a sound half-sob, half-laugh. "She' s getting married. On the day we bury you, she' s getting married." I floated there, helpless. The tragedy was written. On Saturday, Sarah stood in front of her mirror, not in simple black, but in a stark, severe goth dress. She looked like an avenging angel of grief. She was going to the wedding first. No, Sarah, don' t. My silent scream from my ethereal prison. Just let it go. Let me go. But she couldn' t hear me. The Botanical Gardens buzzed with happy chatter. When Sarah walked in, a hush fell. People stared. Chloe saw her, annoyance clouding her bridal radiance. "Sarah, what in the world are you wearing? Is this some kind of sick joke? You look like you' re going to a funeral." Sarah' s voice was unnervingly calm. "That' s because I am." Chloe stared, uncomprehending. "After this, I' m going to a funeral. It' s at two o' clock. It' s for Ethan." Chloe' s face went slack with shock, then hardened with disbelief and anger. "That is not funny, Sarah. That is the most twisted, horrible thing you could possibly say. You' re trying to ruin my wedding day. Did he put you up to this? Is this his pathetic attempt at revenge?" Mark strode over. "Is everything alright, darling?" He sneered at Sarah' s dress. "What is this? Some kind of performance art?" "She' s trying to ruin our day," Chloe said, trembling. "She' s saying… she' s saying Ethan is dead." Mark laughed, a dismissive, ugly sound. "Don' t be ridiculous, Chloe. It' s a pathetic cry for attention. He' s probably hiding in the bushes somewhere, hoping you' ll come running." Chloe looked back at Sarah, her certainty reinforced by Mark. "You need to leave. Now. I' m sorry I ever invited you. I should have known you' d try to pull something like this." She turned to Mark. "I' m sorry, honey. I' ll have security escort her out." Sarah didn' t move, a small, bitter smile touching her lips. The wedding planner called Chloe' s name. It was time. Chloe gave Sarah one last, withering glare, then stopped. A flicker of doubt, of pure, cold fear, crossed her face. But the music was starting. Her future awaited. Chloe turned her back on Sarah, on the truth, and walked away to become Mrs. Mark Johnson. As Chloe walked down the aisle, a wave of memory hit me. Our cheap wine, designing her wedding dress on a napkin. Her laughter filling our small apartment. Now, she was a stranger in a dress I didn' t recognize, walking toward a man I despised. Sarah stood alone, a solitary figure of grief. "I' m the one who introduced them, you know," she murmured. "I' m so sorry, Ethan." The ceremony reached its peak. "Do you, Chloe Davis, take Mark Johnson…" Sarah turned to leave. "Wait." Chloe' s voice, quiet but clear. The officiant paused. Mark turned, confused. Guests murmured. Chloe wasn' t looking at Mark. She was looking at Sarah' s retreating figure. "Sarah, wait," she called again, voice stronger. Sarah stopped. Chloe took a shaky breath. She turned to Mark, pale. "Mark, I… I' m sorry. I have to… there' s something I have to do. I have to know." "Chloe, what are you talking about?" Mark hissed, grabbing her arm. "The whole world is watching." She pulled her arm away powerfully. "I don' t care. I have to know if she' s telling the truth." She lifted her gown and started running down the aisle, away from the altar, away from Mark. She was leaving her own wedding. She was going to my funeral. I watched her go, a storm of confusion. Mark' s face was a thundercloud of fury. The perfect day shattered. The cemetery was quiet, a stark contrast. A small group around freshly turned earth. My parents, a few friends, cousins. Then, a second figure appeared. A woman in a brilliant white wedding dress, now stained. Chloe. Her arrival sent a shockwave. My father' s sadness hardened. "What is she doing here?" he growled. My cousin, David, took a step. "You have no right to be here! Get out!" Chloe didn' t seem to hear them. Her eyes were fixed on the simple, polished granite headstone. Ethan Miller. Beloved Son and Friend. 1995 - 2023. When she read the words, a dry, choked gasp escaped her. She reached out a trembling hand, tracing my name. The cold, hard reality finally broke through her denial. She fell to her knees, a raw, animalistic cry escaping her throat. It was the sound of a world breaking apart. I watched, stunned. This was not the reaction of a woman who never truly loved me. My mother shrieked, pointing. "You! This is your fault! You did this to him! You broke his heart and you killed him!" "Helen, stop," my father said, but his eyes burned cold. "Leave. If you' re just here to make a scene, to show off your wedding dress at my son' s grave, then you can leave." Chloe didn' t respond. She was on her hands and knees, clawing at the dirt, trying to dig me up. "No," she sobbed. "No, it' s not real. Ethan! It' s not real!" Sarah rushed forward, grabbing Chloe' s arms. "Chloe, stop it! Stop! You' re making it worse!" "Let go of me!" Chloe screamed. "He can' t be gone! He can' t!" Another car screeched to a halt. Mark Johnson stormed up the hill, face purple with rage. "Chloe! What the hell are you doing?" he yelled, shoving Sarah. "Get your hands off my fiancée!" He tried to pull Chloe up, but she fought him off. "He' s gone, Mark!" she wailed. "Ethan' s gone!" Mark looked from her hysterical face to my grave, then to my angry family. "This is insane," he spat, pointing at Sarah. "This is your fault! You filled her head with this nonsense and dragged her here!" David stepped up to Mark, fists clenched. "She came on her own. And you need to back off. You' re not welcome here." "I' ll go where my fiancée goes," Mark sneered. My father, a man I' d never seen lose his temper, walked up to Mark. "She is not your fiancée here. Here, she is the woman who destroyed my son. Now get off this sacred ground before I have you removed." The air was thick with hate. My quiet funeral had become a battlefield. Chloe stood amidst the shouting, pale and streaked with tears and dirt, clutching a piece of her wedding dress. Mark tried to pull her away. "Chloe, let' s go. We can fix this. We' ll go on our honeymoon, forget any of this ever happened." She shook her head, pulling her arm from his grasp. "No," she whispered, a new, terrible finality in the small word. Sarah stepped between them, deeply exhausted. "You should go, Chloe. He wouldn' t have wanted this. He wouldn' t have wanted to see you like this." The words finally reached Chloe. She looked at my grave one last time, body shaking with a suppressed sob. Without another word, she turned and walked away, a ghost in a ruined wedding dress. As I watched her disappear, a sense of peace settled over me. It was over. The storm had passed. The truth, in its brutal way, was out. I felt the ties that bound me to her, to the pain and the love, finally loosen. I was free. In the weeks that followed, life, for the living, began to move on. My parents, heartbroken but practical, offered my game studio to Sarah. "We want you to have it, Sarah," my father said, voice thick with emotion. "It was Ethan' s dream. You were a part of that dream. We want you to carry it on." Sarah initially refused. "I can' t. It wouldn' t be right." "He would have wanted you to have it," my mother insisted. "Please." Sarah looked around the studio, at the concept art, my empty chair. She finally nodded, tears filling her eyes. "Okay. For Ethan. I' ll do it." A new fire lit in her. She threw herself into the work, determined to make my last game, "Chloe' s Star," a success. One night, looking for a file, she found a 'Personal' folder. Videos. Candid clips I' d taken. Me and her, years ago, laughing at an arcade. Us pulling an all-nighter in college, arguing playfully. Dozens of them. A hidden library of our friendship. "You saved all these?" she whispered to the empty room, a sad smile. "You nerd." Her phone rang, jarring her. The cemetery caretaker. "Ms. Clark? I' m sorry to bother you so late. But you need to come down. There' s been a problem at Mr. Miller' s grave. It looks like someone tried to… dig it up." Sarah' s car tore through the night, headlights cutting through darkness. Her knuckles white, face a mask of cold fury. At the cemetery, under harsh security lights, the scene was worse than imagined. My grave was torn up. A shovel discarded. And standing there, in the middle of the mess, were two figures: Chloe and Mark. Chloe looked lost, eyes vacant, clothes disheveled. Mark held a second, smaller shovel, his suit rumpled. "What in God' s name do you think you' re doing?" Sarah' s voice was a low growl. Mark had the audacity to look indignant. "We' re paying our respects! Chloe wanted his ashes. We were going to move them to a proper family mausoleum. A place of honor." "A place of honor?" Sarah laughed, harsh and bitter. "You mean a place where you could control his last remains? You think there' s some inheritance, don' t you? You think this struggling game developer was secretly a millionaire, and you want to get your hands on it." Her furious gaze turned to Chloe. "And you. I almost felt sorry for you. I almost thought you understood. But this? To do this with him? How could you?" Chloe shook her head, muttering, "I had to… I had to have him near me." That was the last straw for Sarah' s promise. "You want to know about honor, Chloe?" Sarah' s voice trembled with rage. "You want to know about the man you threw away? Let me tell you about him." She stepped closer. "Two years ago, your father' s company was about to collapse. A mysterious benefactor paid off all his debts. Anonymously. Do you know who that was, Chloe?" Chloe just stared, confused. "It was Ethan," Sarah said, words landing like hammer blows. "He sold everything his grandparents left him. Every last cent. That was the 'failed investment' he told you about. He chose to look like a failure in your eyes rather than let you see your family' s shame. That' s the money you accused him of wasting. That' s the man you said was holding you back." Color drained from Chloe' s face. Vacant eyes replaced by dawning, soul-crushing horror. "No," she whispered. "No, that' s not true." "It is true," Sarah said, relentless. "And you want to know about the man you chose instead?" She pulled out her phone. "I did some digging after the funeral, Mark. You' re not as careful as you think you are." She turned the screen to Chloe. Photos. Mark, kissing another woman. Screenshots of damning texts from before the wedding. Chloe looked from the phone to Mark. The final piece of her shattered world crumbled. "You…" she whispered, a strangled gasp. She launched herself at him, grief and rage finding a target. She beat at his chest, screaming. Mark, shocked, shoved her hard. "Get off me, you crazy bitch!" Chloe stumbled backward, her heel catching on the disturbed earth around my grave. She fell, her head hitting the corner of my granite headstone with a sickening, final crack. She lay still. A dark pool spread from her head. Mark stared, panicked. Sarah screamed. In the ensuing chaos of sirens and flashing lights, I felt my purpose fade. The truth was out. My legacy safe with Sarah. My name cleared. As they covered Chloe' s body, just as they had covered mine, I felt a lightness. The pain, love, betrayal-all dissolved into the cool night air. My game, "Chloe' s Star," released by Sarah, became a global sensation. My name, a symbol of a legacy that triumphed in death. And me? I was finally at peace. I turned from the living, from the wreckage, and faded into the quiet, starlit darkness.

Camille Lewis was the forgotten daughter, the unloved wife, the woman discarded like yesterday's news. Betrayed by her husband, cast aside by her own family, and left for dead by the sister who stole everything, she vanished without a trace. But the weak, naive Camille died the night her car was forced off that bridge. A year later, she returns as Camille Kane, richer, colder, and more powerful than anyone could have imagined. Armed with wealth, intelligence, and a hunger for vengeance, she is no longer the woman they once trampled on. She is the storm that will tear their world apart. Her ex-husband begs for forgiveness. Her sister's perfect life crumbles. Her parents regret the daughter they cast aside. But Camille didn't come back for apologies, she came back to watch them burn. But as her enemies fall at her feet, one question remains: when the revenge is over, what's left? A mysterious trillionaire Alexander Pierce steps into her path, offering something she thought she lost forever, a future. But can a woman built on ashes learn to love again? She rose from the fire to destroy those who betrayed her. Now, she must decide if she'll rule alone... or let someone melt the ice in her heart.

For three quiet, patient years, Christina kept house, only to be coldly discarded by the man she once trusted. Instead, he paraded a new lover, making her the punchline of every town joke. Liberated, she honed her long-ignored gifts, astonishing the town with triumph after gleaming triumph. Upon discovering she'd been a treasure all along, her ex-husband's regret drove him to pursue her. "Honey, let's get back together!" With a cold smirk, Christina spat, "Fuck off." A silken-suited mogul slipped an arm around her waist. "She's married to me now. Guards, get him the hell out of here!"

For three years, Cathryn and her husband Liam lived in a sexless marriage. She believed Liam buried himself in work for their future. But on the day her mother died, she learned the truth: he had been cheating with her stepsister since their wedding night. She dropped every hope and filed for divorce. Sneers followed-she'd crawl back, they said. Instead, they saw Liam on his knees in the rain. When a reporter asked about a reunion, she shrugged. "He has no self-respect, just clings to people who don't love him." A powerful tycoon wrapped an arm around her. "Anyone coveting my wife answers to me."

For eight years, Cecilia Moore was the perfect Luna, loyal, and unmarked. Until the day she found her Alpha mate with a younger, purebred she-wolf in his bed. In a world ruled by bloodlines and mating bonds, Cecilia was always the outsider. But now, she's done playing by wolf rules. She smiles as she hands Xavier the quarterly financials-divorce papers clipped neatly beneath the final page. "You're angry?" he growls. "Angry enough to commit murder," she replies, voice cold as frost. A silent war brews under the roof they once called home. Xavier thinks he still holds the power-but Cecilia has already begun her quiet rebellion. With every cold glance and calculated step, she's preparing to disappear from his world-as the mate he never deserved. And when he finally understands the strength of the heart he broke... It may be far too late to win it back.

Sunlit hours found their affection glimmering, while moonlit nights ignited reckless desire. But when Brandon learned his beloved might last only half a year, he coolly handed Millie divorce papers, murmuring, "This is all for appearances; we'll get married again once she's calmed down." Millie, spine straight and cheeks dry, felt her pulse go hollow. The sham split grew permanent; she quietly ended their unborn child and stepped into a new beginning. Brandon unraveled, his car tearing down the street, unwilling to let go of the woman he'd discarded, pleading for her to look back just once.

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him-my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit-watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London-an exile disguised as a severance package-I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.