The mansion burned for seven hours.
Zara Raine stood across the road, face lit by orange flames, smoke curling through her lashes like mascara made of ruin. No tears. No shock. Just silence.
Behind her, a black car idled, engine purring like a patient predator.
"You don't have to see this," the driver said.
"I do," she replied.
The fire devoured what was left of the Raine legacy—portraits, secrets, silk sheets stained by power. It wasn't just a home. It was history. And it was being erased.
Just like her family.
Just like her name.
Three weeks later, the headlines had moved on. The estate was under investigation. Her father, once a lion of industry, was dead. Officially suicide. Unofficially? A slaughter disguised as shame.
The tabloids called it a scandal.
Zara called it murder.
And she knew exactly who had lit the match.
Five Years Later
The city looked the same, but Zara Raine didn't.
Once, she'd strolled these streets as an heiress, her last name echoing in boardrooms like a royal decree. Now, she wore a new identity like armor. Anonymity was her weapon. They thought she'd vanished, but storms never disappear. They wait.
The black town car pulled up in front of ValeCorp Headquarters—a monolith of steel and glass erected over the ashes of her father's empire. Her reflection in the glass facade stared back at her: colder, sharper, unrecognizable.
Five years ago, she left this city stripped of everything—wealth, reputation, love. Her father ruined. Her name disgraced. Her heart shattered.
Today, she came back with a plan stitched into every breath.
Inside the pristine lobby, tailored suits and stilettos moved like sharks. She walked up to the front desk, file folder under her arm.
"Zara Winters. Here for the assistant position."
The receptionist smiled politely. No hint of recognition. Perfect.
Let them think she was nothing. Let them underestimate her again.
Because the only thing more dangerous than a woman with power—was a woman who learned to take it back with her bare hands.