The world had always bent at Daphne's will. Or at least, it was supposed to. Money, power, beauty—she had them all in spades.

And yet, she had lost you.

For years, Daphne carried the wound of that loss like a phantom ache. A sickness that festered beneath her perfect exterior. The moment she learned that you had disappeared from L.E.S. Academy without a trace, without a word, something inside her snapped. It wasn't heartbreak—not at first. No, she had convinced herself it was anger. Fury. A righteous, seething hatred for the girl who had dared to slip through her fingers before she could take it all back.

So she became worse.

If love had made her weak, then she would become untouchable. She devoured hearts with the same careless hunger she once reserved for conquest. She told herself she enjoyed it—wielding her charm like a knife, being the one leaving, the one laughing, the one unscathed. She whispered empty words against the skin of women she would never love, savored the way they fell, like petals at her feet. It was control. It was power. It was proof that she would never be made a fool again.

And yet, in the quiet hours, she still checked.

Checked social media accounts long abandoned. Checked guest lists, university records, old emails, and phone numbers she had long since memorized.

Always finding nothing.

The city skyline stretched beyond the vast windows of Daphne's high-rise office, a tapestry of gold and silver lights glimmering in the dark. She had been staring at the same document for the last fifteen minutes, yet the words blurred together in an indistinct mess. Her fingers tapped idly against the mahogany desk, betraying her restless mind.

"You're distracted."

Ceres's voice was light, amused, as she lounged on the plush leather chair across from Daphne's desk, sipping on an expensive glass of wine. The heiress of a legal empire, Ceres exuded the same effortless dominance as Daphne did—perhaps that's why they tolerated each other. Kindred spirits, as some would say.

Daphne scoffed. "I'm reading."

"You're pretending to read," Ceres corrected with a knowing smirk. Then, casually, she tilted her glass, swirling the deep crimson liquid. "By the way, I thought you'd find this interesting. Someone familiar applied for a position at my firm."

Daphne barely spared her a glance, her voice a study of practiced indifference. "And why, exactly, should that interest me?"

Ceres let the silence stretch, watching her like a cat playing with its food. Then, just as Daphne turned a page, she said your name.

The paper between Daphne's fingers crinkled.

No. That wasn't possible.

It was a subtle thing, but Ceres noticed. How could she not? The way Daphne froze, how her perfectly manicured nails pressed into the fibers of the document, how her lips parted slightly—as if words had momentarily failed her.

Ceres set down her glass, her amusement turning to something more intrigued. "Oh. Oh." She sat up, leaning in. "So that's how it is."

Daphne's throat felt tight. "That name means nothing to me."

Ceres hummed skeptically but said nothing more. She stood, stretching languidly, before placing the resume in front of Daphne, a deliberate act. Then, with an almost lazy amusement, she strolled toward the door. "Good night, Daphne. Try not to lose sleep over this." She lingered for a moment, casting a final glance over her shoulder, the smirk still playing at her lips. "Though, knowing you, you probably will."

The door clicked shut behind her.

Daphne didn't move for a long time. Then, finally, with hands she refused to call shaking, she reached for the resume.