Ashton's Betrayal, Her Unyielding Vengeance
I spent a decade as Ashton Maxwell' s shadow, building his empire and warming his bed, only for him to announce his engagement to a senator's daughter right in front of me.
When assassins struck that night, he didn't just choose her; he used my body as a human shield against a grenade and then shot me himself to prove his loyalty to her family.
I survived, reinvented myself as Grecia Munoz, and returned to burn his world to the ground, eventually forcing him to hand over his entire empire in a desperate plea for forgiveness.
He promised to disappear so I could find peace with a kind doctor named Garrick.
But Ashton' s definition of love was a sickness.
To "protect" me from what he called a weakness, he secretly destroyed Garrick' s career and reputation, driving the only innocent man I ever loved to jump off a bridge.
He thought this would drive me back into his arms, into the safety of the monster he created.
Instead, I drove to the Hamptons, to the pristine dream home he had built for our future.
He knelt before me, begging for understanding, claiming he did it all for us.
I didn't offer forgiveness.
I raised the pistol he had once given me, aimed at the heart I had already broken, and ended the nightmare once and for all.
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Chapter 4
Iris POV
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of recovery and silent simmering rage. The wound on my arm healed, a jagged scar mirroring the one carved into my heart. I was confined to the safe house, a prisoner of my own shattered loyalty.
Then, they came. Ashton and Elodie.
Colonel Hall ushered them in, his expression unreadable. Elodie, draped in a luxurious fur coat, practically radiated smug satisfaction. On her left hand, the engagement ring glittered under the dim lights of the safe house. A constant, blinding reminder of my replacement.
Ashton looked at me, his eyes devoid of any emotion I could decipher. He didn' t ask about my arm. Didn't ask if I was okay. His gaze skimmed over me, assessing, calculating.
"Iris," he said, his voice curt. "How are you recovering?" It was a formality, a question asked out of obligation, not concern.
"Perfectly," I replied, my voice as cold and flat as his. "Bullet wounds heal. Broken trust... that's another matter."
Elodie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, a practiced gesture of shock. "Oh, Iris, darling, don't be so dramatic! Ashton was just trying to protect me. You understand, don't you? A woman in my position..." She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air. A woman in my position is more valuable than you.
I forced a smile. "Of course, Elodie. Some of us are simply more... expendable." The words were laced with venom, but her saccharine smile remained. She loved it.
Then, her eyes landed on a faint, intricate tattoo on my inner wrist. It was a small, delicate design – a stylized phoenix, rising from ashes. Ashton had given it to me, years ago. A symbol of resilience, he' d called it. A symbol of us.
"Oh," Elodie said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "What's that dreadful little thing?" She leaned closer, her nose wrinkling in distaste. "It looks so... common. And a bit childish, don't you think, Ashton?"
Ashton looked at the tattoo, his expression unreadable. A flicker of something, a ghost of memory, crossed his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished.
"It's a mark of allegiance," I stated, my voice sharp. "A symbol of the Maxwell family."
Elodie scoffed. "Well, it's quite outdated, isn't it? Ashton," she turned to him, her voice a soft, manipulative purr, "you have such excellent taste. We should really get rid of that, darling. It clashes with my aesthetic."
Ashton remained silent for a long moment, his gaze shifting between Elodie and my wrist. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension. I saw the calculation in his eyes. Her demands. His priorities.
Then, he nodded. A slow, deliberate movement that felt like a death sentence.
"Colonel Hall," Ashton commanded, his voice devoid of emotion. "Send for the tattoo artist. I want this removed. Immediately."
My blood ran cold. "Ashton, you can't!" I protested, a primal scream trapped in my throat. This wasn't just ink. It was a part of my history with him. A piece of my identity.
Ashton's eyes, usually so unyielding, softened for a mere fraction of a second when they met mine. It was a fleeting, almost imperceptible shift, but it was there. A ghost of regret, perhaps. Or maybe just the ghost of a memory of a time when this tattoo meant something to him.
But then, as if a switch had been flipped, his expression hardened again, colder than before. "It's a relic of the past, Iris," he said, his voice flat. "Elodie is my future. You understand that, don't you?"
A cruel smile played on his lips. "It's for the best. A clean slate for everyone."
Colonel Hall, his face a mask of grim resignation, made the call. Within minutes, a lean, artistic-looking man with a tattoo gun case arrived. He looked confused, glancing between the pristine Elodie and my bandaged arm.
"Mr. Maxwell," the artist stammered, his eyes wide. "Are you sure? This design... it's quite unique. And the skin here is already..." He gestured to my still-healing bullet wound.
"I am sure," Ashton interrupted, his voice like ice. "Just cover it. With something... neutral. Something that doesn't draw attention."
My eyes connected with Ashton's, pleading, desperate. "Ashton, please. This was ours."
He didn't flinch. His gaze was cold, unfeeling. "There is no 'ours', Iris. Not anymore." He turned to the artist. "Do it."
The buzzing of the tattoo gun filled the room, a torturous symphony. Each needle stroke felt like a physical assault, tearing away pieces of my soul. I watched in the mirror as the delicate phoenix, the symbol of my resilience, of our shared past, was slowly obliterated. A black, amorphous blob spread across my skin, erasing what once was. It was agonizing. Not just the physical pain, but the profound sense of loss.
Ashton stood by Elodie, his arm around her, whispering reassurances. She smiled up at him, her face full of adoration. He didn't look at me once during the entire process.
The artist finally finished, wiping away the excess ink. The phoenix was gone, replaced by a dark, ugly blotch. A scar on a scar. A reminder of what I had been, and what I was no longer.
"There," Elodie said, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Much better. Now it's just... nothing. Exactly as it should be." She turned to Ashton, a possessive gleam in her eyes. "Now, darling, no one will ever mistake her for anything important."
Ashton nodded, his gaze distant. "Indeed, Elodie. No one will."
His words, delivered with such casual cruelty, were the final nail in the coffin of my illusion. He had systematically dismantled every piece of my life, every shred of my identity, and every last flicker of hope I had foolishly clung to. The betrayal was complete.