Chapter 3

The final bell cut through the arena—three sharp, merciless clangs.

Bianca staggered to her feet, gasping, and planted her boot on my cheek. She raised both arms high, ready to bask in her victory.

The arena fell silent. Only a handful of paid shills bothered to clap.

Dorian straightened his suit and pushed through the cage door. He didn't spare me a glance as I lay bleeding on the canvas.

Instead, he walked straight to Bianca, pulling out a handkerchief to gently dab the blood from her face.

Then he took the championship belt—my belt—from a staff member and fastened it around Bianca's waist himself.

"Ladies and gentlemen! A new era begins!" Dorian's voice filled the arena, low and commanding. "Let's hear it for the new queen of Iron Throne—Bianca Devereux!"

Camera flashes erupted in a blinding wall of light.

I lay on the cold canvas, feeling my life draining away with every pulse of blood beneath me.

Watching that figure bathed in spotlight, too absorbed in glory to even glance back, I felt no heartbreak. Just nausea—for the pathetic fool I'd been these three years, fighting for him.

I clenched my jaw and forced my swollen fingers to work, yanking the ring off my left hand. The cheap band that had cut so deep into my flesh it had practically fused with bone.

The rough metal tore skin as it came free. The pain brought clarity.

This worthless piece of silver I'd bought from a street vendor three years ago when we couldn't afford dinner. This marriage no one could know about. The whole thing had been a joke from the start.

My hand closed around the ring. I summoned what strength I had left and tossed it weakly at his back.

Clink.

The ring struck Dorian's polished shoe, bounced once, and rolled into the blood pooling at the ring's edge.

Dorian stopped. He looked down at the ring in the crimson puddle.

For half a second, something flickered across his face—not pity, but revulsion. That tarnished band reminded him of everything he'd spent years trying to bury. But the crack in his mask sealed itself instantly, replaced by cold indifference.

"Get her to the basement." His voice was flat. "And clean the ring."

I closed my eyes as two security guards dragged me through the rusted door.

The crowd's noise faded as the elevator descended. Blood loss pulled me toward darkness.

CRASH!

My body slammed onto a rusted gurney. Shattered bone hitting metal yanked me back to consciousness.

The basement clinic was a tomb. A dying emergency light flickered green in the corner. The air reeked of mold and old disinfectant.

I tried to breathe. Broken ribs stabbed into my lung. I swallowed the breath back down, tasting copper.

Right kneecap shattered. Left tibia fractured. Three broken ribs. Cracked left arm.

For a fighter, this meant one thing: I was done.

But there was no doctor. No painkillers. Not even gauze.

Every medical professional had been pulled upstairs to fuss over Bianca's scraped nose.

Creak—

The metal door opened.

Not a doctor. Leo. Dorian's assistant.

He stood in his pressed suit, handkerchief over his nose like I was something contagious.

"Mrs. Sterling." Leo's voice dripped contempt. "Jesus. You look like shit."

I said nothing. Just stared.

My silence made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and pulled documents from his briefcase, tossing them onto my chest.

"Mr. Sterling wanted me to deliver these. Divorce papers and an NDA." Leo looked down at me with undisguised disgust. "Sign both. Keep your mouth shut about tonight—you know what I'm talking about. Do that, and he'll give you five hundred thousand. As for your stake in Iron Throne? You get nothing."

I stared at the papers.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

I'd built him an empire worth hundreds of millions. And he was buying my silence and my destroyed legs for pocket change.

"What if I don't sign?" My voice came out like gravel.

Leo laughed—sharp and ugly. "Are you serious? Look at yourself. You can barely move. You're finished. And if you don't sign, the boss already has people ready to collect on the Harlow Orphanage loan. You really want those kids on the street?"

The orphanage. Always the orphanage.

His only card, and he knew I couldn't call the bluff.

"Pen."

Leo blinked, surprised I'd folded so fast. He smirked and pulled a Montblanc from his jacket, dropping it carelessly on the gurney.

Metal struck metal. Clink.

"Sign."

I stared at that pen.

A year ago, when he'd started as an assistant, Leo couldn't make eye contact with anyone. I'd bought him that pen as a welcome gift. Dorian tried to fire him three times. I'd saved his job every time.

And now this creature I'd protected was delivering my execution orders with the gift I'd given him.

I didn't touch it.

Instead, I raised my good hand and bit down hard on my thumb.

Blood flooded my mouth—metallic, thick.

Leo stumbled back, eyes wide.

I pressed my bleeding thumb onto the signature lines. First the divorce papers. Then the NDA. Clear, deliberate prints.

"Take them. Get out."

Leo swallowed, snatched up the papers, and bolted from the room.

The door slammed shut behind him.

I lay there staring at water stains on the ceiling. Pain crashed through me in waves, but I bit my lip until it bled too.

Through the thick metal door, I heard Leo's footsteps stop.

A brief exchange—voices too muffled to make out words, but the tone was wrong. Urgent. Furtive.

Then came a sound that didn't belong: liquid sloshing, splashing across concrete. The chemical smell of it seeped under the door almost immediately.

More footsteps. Moving away fast.

The lock engaged with a heavy thunk—not the automatic mechanism, but the manual deadbolt. Someone had locked it from outside.

Silence pressed in.

Tears? I had none left. I'd cried them all out seven years ago in a gutter during a storm.

I wasn't dying here.

I grabbed the gurney's edge with my good hand and forced my body to roll.

THUD!

Hitting concrete sent agony screaming through every nerve. But I didn't scream. Using my right arm and whatever I could brace with my feet, I dragged myself backward.

Finally I reached the wall and propped my broken body against the damp concrete.

I could handle losing everything. What I couldn't handle was dying in this basement like garbage.

Dorian. Bianca. If I survive this, you're both dead.

Then I smelled it.

Something sharp and chemical cutting through the mold—like lighter fluid.

I looked up. Black smoke poured under the door. In the hallway beyond, an eerie orange glow flickered and spread.

Fire.