The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

Cleo Carrington used to be Northvale's brightest spark—wild, fearless, impossible to pin down.

And then she married Damian Joubert.

The most controlled, rigid heir in their world.

Damian ran like a machine. Perfect standards. Zero slack. And he expected the same from his wife.

Cleo loved noise—clubs, music, bodies moving. He had every venue in the city blacklist her.

She loved freedom—the blazing Afriyan sun, the northern lights in Icelorn. She raced cars. She jumped out of planes.

He took her passport. Shut it all down.

She loved photography. Painting.

He called it all pointless. Locked her camera and brushes away like they meant nothing.

She was losing it. Still, she forced herself to learn his rules—trained herself into the perfect Mrs. Joubert.

Even after she dulled her claws, someone took a shot at her at a banquet.

She snapped. Lunged. Ended up fighting a whole group of women.

Damian walked in to whispers and hungry stares.

He didn't back her up. Not even close. He turned to the woman who started it, calm as ever.

"Sorry. I failed to discipline her. She... doesn't understand propriety."

It hit like a truck. Ice flooded her veins.

She'd spent almost her whole life proving one thing—Damian didn't love her.

Later, a car crash ended her short, suffocating life.

Then she opened her eyes.

Back to before her wedding to Damian.

***

Northvale, Arlencia.

Cleo stared at her reflection—still bright, still alive. Her heart pounded, hungry for freedom again. She took a slow breath.

This time, she didn't want Damian. Didn't want his suffocating version of love.

She just wanted herself back—wild, blazing, reckless.

She bolted downstairs and found her father, Harold Carrington, at breakfast.

"I'm calling off my engagement to Damian."

Harold froze, spoon midair. He looked up, eyes sharp with anger.

"What kind of nonsense is that? I've put up with your attitude before, but this alliance with the Jouberts? People would kill for it. Do you even know how exceptional Damian is? His family, his connections, his ability, his character—he's one in a million."

Cleo met his gaze, saw it clear—he'd box her up and ship her off if it meant sealing the deal. She let out a cold laugh.

"If he's so amazing, let your precious illegitimate daughter have him. I'll hand her the damn engagement myself."

Harold went rigid, then his anger flipped—straight into shock, then something close to excitement.

"Wh-What did you say? You're really willing to give it to your sister?"

"Yeah. You've always favored that homewrecker and her kid. Nora's sweet, obedient. You dumped a fortune into turning her into the perfect socialite. She's exactly what a family like the Jouberts wants."

Harold's face darkened. "Watch your mouth. That's your sister. This marriage was set years ago—it's not something you just change. But if you're so set on giving it up... fine. I'll talk to the Jouberts about switching the bride."

He shot to his feet, grabbed his coat, and rushed out—didn't even finish breakfast.

Cleo watched him go—acting reluctant, but barely hiding how thrilled he was. It was almost funny.

She didn't say another word. Just went upstairs, grabbed her ID and bag, and walked out.

First stop—an expedited visa out of Arlencia.

Then she called her best friend, Stella, and headed straight for the hottest club in downtown Northvale.

Bass thumping. Lights hazy. Bodies packed tight on the dance floor.

Cleo felt it hit—freedom, raw and electric.

She dragged Stella into the crowd. Dancing. Drinking. No brakes.

Then she went further—called in a few ridiculously hot club guys.

Stella just stared. Cleo looked like she'd snapped every leash—glowing, reckless, alive.

"Cleo, aren't you about to marry into the Jouberts? Damian's strict as hell. Old-school. Their house rules are insane. If he finds out you're here—and you called in these hot guys—we're dead. Seriously, if you wanna ruin your life, don't drag me with you."

Cleo tipped her head back and took a long drink. The burn slid down, sharp and clean.

She smiled, slow and lazy. "Relax. I already handed the engagement to Nora."

"You what?!" Stella's eyes went wide. "Weren't you obsessed with Damian? Every rich guy was chasing you, and you blew them all off. Then one gala—you see him, boom, love at first sight. You literally said only a guy like him was good enough for you."

Cleo's lips curved, but her eyes stayed cool. Distant.

"Liking someone and being right for them? Not the same. We don't fit. And I'm done liking him. Love's great, sure—but freedom's better. I've got looks, I've got money. I'm not settling. I'll find someone who actually matches me. Like..."

Her gaze slid to the shy hunk beside her. She reached up, hooked a finger under his chin, tilting it playfully.

"These pretty boys? Not bad at all."

A cold voice cut in from behind her—low, sharp, completely out of place.

"Who are you calling not bad?"