Flashback — The Night the Alliance Fell
The night had been one of glimmering chandeliers and hollow toasts.
Inside the grand ballroom of the Luxe Concorde, the Veymonts and Greystorms had hosted what was meant to be a celebration — the twenty fifth anniversary of their corporate alliance, a merging of empires. Guests floated in gowns and tuxedos, flutes of champagne in hand, unaware of the storm brewing behind velvet curtains.
Gianna, barely sixteen, had been there — too young to drink, old enough to notice the cold glares exchanged between her father Lucien and Tristan's uncle, Elias Greystorm.
That night, Elias had vanished shortly after midnight.
Lucien was seen exiting the Greystorm office shortly after 1 a.m., holding a thick leather folder.
By morning, everything had collapsed.
Emails had leaked. Classified acquisitions, intellectual property details, high-stakes bids — all exposed. The stock plummeted. Joint projects dissolved overnight.
The Greystorms questioned Lucien — why had he entered the office late that night? What was in the file he carried?
Lucien's answer never changed: "Old project records I needed to review. I had permission."
No one believed each other.
The Veymonts questioned Greystorms - where was Elias and why is no one questioning about him?
But Greystorm's answer was the same he left the country to gain some business from other countries.
The empire fractured that night — and Gianna remembered standing in the hall, clutching her mother's sleeve, feeling like the chandelier overhead might fall and shatter just like their families had.
Present Day — Morning, College Grounds
Gianna adjusted the diamond hairpin at her temple as she stepped out of her limo. The whispers had already begun.
"She's back early?"
"Just how fast she regain herself"
"God, I'd still marry her. In a heartbeat."
She ignored them.
Then another sound swept through the courtyard — sharp heels, a designer perfume trail, camera flashes.
Gianna turned.
The girl descending from the black Mercedes Maybach had long auburn waves, crimson lips, and the kind of effortless grace that didn't need a name to cause a stir. But someone whispered it anyway.
"Sabrina Redwick."
"She's the Redwick heiress?"
"She's gorgeous—"
"Think she and Gianna will go head-to-head?"
"Or maybe... she's Tristan's type."
Gianna's jaw clenched. Sabrina crossed the quad like she owned it, stopping briefly to flash a half-smile at the crowd — and then at Tristan Greystorm, who had just arrived behind Gianna.
Sabrina's eyes locked on him with practiced ease. "So, you're the infamous Tristan."
He raised a brow, amused. "And you're the girl making all the noise before her first lecture?"
Sabrina smiled slowly. "Noise? Darling, I haven't even started yet."
Laughter rippled through the students. Gianna didn't laugh.
A Little Later — In the Library Corridor
Tristan found Gianna leaning against a wall near the private study wing, arms folded. She wasn't looking at him — she was looking at Sabrina, who was now animatedly chatting with Emrys at the far end of the corridor.
"So," Tristan said, smirking, "jealous already?"
Gianna's eyes snapped to his. "Why would I be?"
"You've been watching Sabrina like a hawk all morning. If I didn't know better... I'd say you're bothered."
Gianna's lip curled. "Don't flatter yourself. Or her."
Tristan stepped closer, his tone low and teasing. "Come on, Gianna. What is it really? Are you upset that someone finally matched your queen status on campus? Or that she's making eyes at me?"
Tristan chuckled, then leaned closer. "You're acting... possessive. Do you want to be Mrs. Tristan Greystorm now?"
Gianna blinked, stunned. "What?"
"You're watching my every move, picking apart the girls around me, questioning who I talk to... I'm flattered," he grinned. "Didn't realize you were so ready to let go of the family feud and elope."
She snorted. "You actually think that highly of yourself?"
He stepped back with a lazy smile. "Not really. But it's cute when you try to act unaffected."
Gianna's voice dropped into ice. "You couldn't handle me."
"Oh?" he said, amused.
"I'm fire, Tristan. Not every man plays with fire and walks away."
His eyes glinted. "That's the problem. Fire just makes me want to burn."
She stared at him, frustrated. "What is your deal? Why are you always... like this with me? One moment you're cruel, then you're flirting. Do you even know what you want?"
Tristan's gaze darkened. "I want to protect Emrys. That's what I want. I see what you're doing — charming your way in, same way your father did. First, business dinners. Then, boardrooms. Then we find our empire leaking again."
Gianna's heart stung. "You really think I'm capable of that?"
"I think your father was. And I think you're just like him."
Her voice cracked, not in sadness but fury. "Your uncle was in that office the night the files were leaked. And no one's seen him since."
"Your father walked out with confidential files," Tristan shot back. "Don't make him a saint."
Gianna took a breath. "Maybe it was neither of them. Ever wonder if your father had a part to play? No one's as silent as Aldric Greystorm without something to hide."
The air went still.
Tristan stepped back slowly. "You're playing a dangerous game, Veymont."
Gianna's voice was calm now. Controlled. "I always play to win."
Evening — Greystorm Estate
Celeste Greystorm sat in her room, flipping through her gallery. Her brother's paranoia had made him spiral all day. Time to give it a push.
She scrolled to a picture — Emrys and Gianna in the music room. She had captured it the other day. The way Gianna had looked at Emrys — soft, unguarded — it was worth gold.
She texted it to Tristan.
"You wanted proof she's manipulating him. Found this today."
Within seconds, the message was marked read.
Celeste leaned back against her velvet headboard, a small smirk on her lips.
Let the fire consume them all.
Evening — Veymont Mansion
Gianna sat on her balcony, the wind teasing her curls. She hadn't told her parents about Sabrina yet — they were busy dealing with a minor boardroom leak that had stirred the council. It wasn't serious, but in the Veymont world, everything was war.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Emrys.
"You okay?"
She stared at it for a moment.
Then typed back: "Yeah. Just tired of pretending I'm not."
Late Night — Tristan's Room
The photo was still open on his screen.
Gianna. Smiling. Sitting beside Emrys.
Too close.
He closed the tab.
But the words she'd spoken earlier still rang in his head.
"I'm fire, Tristan."
And all he could think was —
Why do I want to get burned so badly?