The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

With that, she turned and went upstairs.

At dawn, her phone lit up.

The visa she'd been waiting on was finally approved.

She grabbed the suitcase she'd packed days ago and headed for the door—no hesitation.

The second she hit the bottom of the stairs, she saw Damian walking in with his groomsmen, there to pick up the bride.

At Nora's request, the ceremony leaned old-school.

The bride stood in a layered white gown, face hidden under a long veil, one arm held by a bridesmaid.

Damian couldn't see her clearly. Of course he thought it was Cleo.

He stepped up and took her hand. Maybe it was the wedding, but his voice softened.

"Hey. Don't be nervous. I've got you."

Cleo stood in the shadow of the stairs, silent. 'Damian, a guy like you—obsessed with rules—deserves a bride who's 'soft', 'proper', 'perfectly polished'. When you lift that veil and realize they swapped the bride, you're gonna love it. My wedding gift. No need to thank me.'

After he took the bride and left—and Harold and Rosalind followed, all smiles—the house went quiet.

Cleo grabbed her suitcase and walked out.

She waved down a cab and slid in.

"Miss, where to?" the driver asked, easygoing.

She didn't answer.

She pulled a small remote from her pocket and stared out at the mansion, glowing in the morning light.

It used to be her mom's place.

Her mom built it. Then she died. And her dad filled it with his side piece and her kid—turned it into something that made Cleo sick.

Her eyes went cold.

She hit the red button.

Boom!

The blast ripped through the air. Charges went off all at once. A fireball shot up, smoke swallowing the mansion—every bad memory with it. The shockwave shook the cab.

The driver almost lost the wheel, face going pale. "M-Miss... that's your house, right? Y-You just blew it up?!"

Cleo looked away, calm, clicking her seatbelt. "Yeah. I did. My mom built that place, and my dad turned it into a house for his side chick and her kid. I was over it."

She glanced at him. "Airport."

He glanced at her in the rearview—too calm for someone who just did that—then back at the fire in the distance. He swallowed, shock mixing with a flicker of respect.

"Uh—yeah, got it!"

He tightened his grip, hit the gas, and sped toward the airport.

Outside, the city blurred by. Behind them, the fire faded, painting half the sky red.