Chapter 3
For three days, I was a ghost.
Roman's people erased every trace of my hospital escape. Security footage—deleted. Morgue attendant—relocated with a fat severance check. Missing body report—buried under bureaucratic red tape.
Meanwhile, I watched.
From Roman's penthouse, I monitored my own funeral arrangements through hacked security feeds.
Dominic wore a black Armani suit. He dabbed his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief—$200 silk, custom from Milan.
Camille stood beside him, belly barely showing beneath her designer dress.
She clutched his arm and sobbed on cue.
The mourners gathered: Dominic's business partners, our mutual friends, my father—
My father.
Henry Ashford. Sin score: **74**.
He'd known. About the trust, about Dominic's intentions—he'd known everything.
And he'd sold me anyway. Handed me to Dominic like a dowry, collected his cut, and never looked back.
I'd spent twenty-six years calling that man "Dad."
Watching him shake Dominic's hand at my funeral—
I felt nothing.
No grief. No betrayal.
Just ice-cold clarity.
"Ready?" Roman appeared behind me, reflected in the floor-to-ceiling window.
I turned. He was dressed for war—charcoal three-piece, titanium watch, eyes sharp as surgical blades.
"Phase one," I said. "Camille first."
He inclined his head. "Ladies' choice."
That afternoon, I made my first move.
Camille had always been vain. She documented everything—brunches, shopping sprees, spa days—all across social media.
What she didn't know: I could now see sins.
Not just numbers. When I focused—truly concentrated—I could see flashes. Fragments of their worst moments playing behind my eyes like corrupted film.
I'd tested it on Roman's security team over the past three days.
The guard with a score of 14? He'd embezzled from a previous employer. Petty theft. Nothing violent.
The one at 18? Bar fight six years ago. Broken bottle. He still had nightmares about it.
But Camille?
I needed to be in the same room.
Roman arranged it beautifully.
He booked the VIP floor at Elysium—the most exclusive members' club in the city. Then had his people leak a "tip" to Camille's favorite gossip blogger: "Mysterious billionaire hosting private art auction. Ultra-elite guest list."
Camille couldn't resist.
She showed up at 8 PM sharp, dripping in jewelry that used to be mine.
I watched from the security room as she strutted past the velvet ropes—chin high, smile razor-sharp.
Her number blazed: **67**.
I focused.
The flash hit me like a truck.
—Camille, seventeen, switching my mother's medication labels.
—Camille, twenty, forging my signature on financial documents.
—Camille, twenty-four, in bed with Dominic—laughing about "the idiot who doesn't even know she's rich."
—Camille, three weeks ago, grinding pills into powder. Handing the vial to Dominic. "Make sure she drinks all of it."
I opened my eyes. My nails had cut crescents into my palms.
"Got what you need?" Roman's voice came through my earpiece.
"Everything," I whispered.
"Good. Because she's about to have the worst night of her life."
On the monitor, Camille settled into the auction room—accepting champagne, scanning the crowd for eligible men.
She didn't notice the screens.
Not until they flickered on.
And there she was—projected twenty feet tall on every wall.
A compilation. Every forged document. Every incriminating text. Every photo of her with Dominic, timestamped months before my death.
The room fell silent.
Camille's glass shattered on the marble floor.
She looked up at her own face—smiling, scheming, murderous—
And screamed.
---
Roman's people erased every trace of my hospital escape. Security footage—deleted. Morgue attendant—relocated with a fat severance check. Missing body report—buried under bureaucratic red tape.
Meanwhile, I watched.
From Roman's penthouse, I monitored my own funeral arrangements through hacked security feeds.
Dominic wore a black Armani suit. He dabbed his eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief—$200 silk, custom from Milan.
Camille stood beside him, belly barely showing beneath her designer dress.
She clutched his arm and sobbed on cue.
The mourners gathered: Dominic's business partners, our mutual friends, my father—
My father.
Henry Ashford. Sin score: **74**.
He'd known. About the trust, about Dominic's intentions—he'd known everything.
And he'd sold me anyway. Handed me to Dominic like a dowry, collected his cut, and never looked back.
I'd spent twenty-six years calling that man "Dad."
Watching him shake Dominic's hand at my funeral—
I felt nothing.
No grief. No betrayal.
Just ice-cold clarity.
"Ready?" Roman appeared behind me, reflected in the floor-to-ceiling window.
I turned. He was dressed for war—charcoal three-piece, titanium watch, eyes sharp as surgical blades.
"Phase one," I said. "Camille first."
He inclined his head. "Ladies' choice."
That afternoon, I made my first move.
Camille had always been vain. She documented everything—brunches, shopping sprees, spa days—all across social media.
What she didn't know: I could now see sins.
Not just numbers. When I focused—truly concentrated—I could see flashes. Fragments of their worst moments playing behind my eyes like corrupted film.
I'd tested it on Roman's security team over the past three days.
The guard with a score of 14? He'd embezzled from a previous employer. Petty theft. Nothing violent.
The one at 18? Bar fight six years ago. Broken bottle. He still had nightmares about it.
But Camille?
I needed to be in the same room.
Roman arranged it beautifully.
He booked the VIP floor at Elysium—the most exclusive members' club in the city. Then had his people leak a "tip" to Camille's favorite gossip blogger: "Mysterious billionaire hosting private art auction. Ultra-elite guest list."
Camille couldn't resist.
She showed up at 8 PM sharp, dripping in jewelry that used to be mine.
I watched from the security room as she strutted past the velvet ropes—chin high, smile razor-sharp.
Her number blazed: **67**.
I focused.
The flash hit me like a truck.
—Camille, seventeen, switching my mother's medication labels.
—Camille, twenty, forging my signature on financial documents.
—Camille, twenty-four, in bed with Dominic—laughing about "the idiot who doesn't even know she's rich."
—Camille, three weeks ago, grinding pills into powder. Handing the vial to Dominic. "Make sure she drinks all of it."
I opened my eyes. My nails had cut crescents into my palms.
"Got what you need?" Roman's voice came through my earpiece.
"Everything," I whispered.
"Good. Because she's about to have the worst night of her life."
On the monitor, Camille settled into the auction room—accepting champagne, scanning the crowd for eligible men.
She didn't notice the screens.
Not until they flickered on.
And there she was—projected twenty feet tall on every wall.
A compilation. Every forged document. Every incriminating text. Every photo of her with Dominic, timestamped months before my death.
The room fell silent.
Camille's glass shattered on the marble floor.
She looked up at her own face—smiling, scheming, murderous—
And screamed.
---