Chapter 1
2414words
Nick Sterling knelt before Marina, his black suit immaculate despite the grime of Brooklyn surrounding them. His eyes—cold as arctic ice—never left her face as his fingers danced a titanium tactical knife between them, its blade drinking in the dim light with hungry flashes.
Marina perched on the edge of the bed in Nick's Brooklyn safe house, the heavy golden sigil burning against her palm—the underground hotel's pass and the blood currency of their shadow world. According to the script, she should thrust it into his hands now, forcing him to accept this suicide mission.
Warning bells screamed in her mind. She stuffed the sigil back into her pocket and dropped to her knees before him, her designer skirt suit—worth more than this entire building—pooling around her on the stained floor.
"I was just testing you," she explained, words tumbling out as her gaze darted like a cornered animal. "Seeing if you would betray your oath for money."
Nick's eyes frosted over, and she hastily backpedaled. "I- I'm joking! I just… wanted to test your loyalty to me, that's all." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
As the words left her mouth, her legs felt weighted with concrete.
How could they not? After thirty-two years of existence, she had awakened today to the horrifying truth—she was merely a villainess in this world, a "shadow" character destined for erasure.
Five years ago, the Roundtable Syndicate had orchestrated her entry into Nick's life, supposedly to monitor this assassin of limitless potential. Nick, finding her collapsed and abandoned, had inexplicably kept her by his side.
During these five years, by day he "cleaned up problems" for the underground hotel, by night he spilled blood in fighting rings for extra cash. Yet he treated her like royalty. Designer wardrobes, Michelin-star meals, penthouse views—he denied her nothing, even securing her entry into Upper East Side circles where membership fees exceeded the cost of suburban mansions.
And how had she repaid him? With venom in her words and ice in her veins, leveraging her family name and Roundtable connections to burn through his blood money without a flicker of gratitude.
Nick, with his granite exterior, surgical precision, and features that could cut glass, had carved his reputation into the assassin world's consciousness with bodies and whispered legends.
Another council member had noticed his rising star, dangling two million dollars before him like bait for his allegiance.
According to the original script, she was meant to force Nick to betray his master for those millions. Nick, his faith in her shattered, would then excise her from his life like a tumor.
Soon after, he would meet the heroine—pure-hearted despite her deadly skills—fall madly in love, and together they would build their own assassin empire from the ashes of his betrayal.
In the days that followed, they would become the underworld's golden couple, their influence and power expanding like wildfire.
And she—consumed by jealousy that ate at her soul—would attempt to poison the heroine, only to have Nick himself gouge out her eyes before locking her in the hotel's forgotten basement, where she would starve in eternal darkness, screaming until her throat bled.
The vision of that end sent tremors through her body, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her.
"Marina." Nick's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I know what I am to you. Just a killer with convenient cash. But betraying the council? For money?" His laugh was hollow. "Do you have any idea what kind of hell they'd rain down on us both?"
Nick's voice scraped across her nerves like a blade on concrete, his gaze cutting deeper than the knife dancing between his fingers.
Marina flinched, words spilling out in desperate fragments:
"It's- it's not like that!" Her hands fluttered between them. "Listen to me… I just wanted you to—to choose me above everything else…"
"I know what I am—sharp-tongued, burning through your money, blind to your feelings. That's why I'm terrified you'll walk away. I'm so scared of losing you that I resorted to this… this pathetic test…"
As she spoke, she summoned tears that carved glistening trails down her contoured cheeks, each drop calculated yet somehow genuine.
Nick's gaze dissected her expression, layer by layer. The mask she'd worn for years was too firmly attached; her sudden sincerity seemed like another performance in their endless theater.
"Really?" The single word hung between them, frosted with disbelief.
"Cross my heart!" She nodded with the desperation of the drowning reaching for air.
She closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his solid waist, pressing her cheek against his chest where she could hear the steady drumbeat of his heart. The scent of him—gunpowder, sandalwood cologne, and worn leather—filled her lungs, dangerously intoxicating.
Nick's body turned to stone beneath her touch. For years, she had recoiled from the iron scent that clung to him, refusing even the briefest contact with his hands.
This was the first time she had willingly sought his warmth.
Nick's Adam's apple bobbed once, his voice strained like a wire about to snap. "Marina, let go."
"No." She clung tighter, as if he were a cliff edge and she was dangling over an abyss.
"I know trust isn't something I've earned, and I've been poison to you from the start."
"But you need to understand—I grew up in the Roundtable's shadow, where affection was currency and abandonment was guaranteed. In relationships, I seize control because it's the only way I know to keep the monsters at bay."
"I've never truly despised what you do, nor do I care about the money beyond what it represents."
"I just need you to hear me, to stand between me and the darkness—and to be mine alone."
The words flowed from some hidden reservoir, part calculation and part buried truth, her voice a soft tremor against his chest.
Nick remained silent, his breath a warm ghost against her hair, then released a sigh that seemed to carry years of tension.
He gently disentangled her hands. "There's blood on me." Not an excuse—a warning.
Then he lifted her as if she weighed nothing, placing her back on the bed with unexpected tenderness.
His fingers traced her hairline with a reverence that stole her breath, his voice dropping to a register she'd never heard—raw and unguarded:
"Marina, forgive me for doubting you. You're not alone anymore; I'll stand between you and harm until my heart stops beating."
He pressed a black card into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "Everything I have is yours now." His expression shifted into something complex—tender yet somehow relieved. "Marina, do you know something? You always… surprise me."
"Just like that?" She stared at the black titanium card as if it might bite her. This surrender was too easy, too complete. Something wasn't adding up.
Wasn't Nick Sterling supposed to be the ice-veined killer whose name made hardened criminals tremble? How could her clumsy performance crack his armor so completely?
Her bewilderment registered to Nick as vulnerability—the rare, genuine emotion he'd been searching for.
His gaze intensified, pupils dilating in the dim light. "Whatever you need, Marina—it's yours. Just ask."
"O-okay," she whispered, the word barely audible in the heavy silence.
Later, Nick drove her back to her Midtown apartment in his bulletproof Mercedes, the engine purring like a predator beneath the hood. The luxury residence was his gift to her—a strategic position from which she could infiltrate Manhattan's elite circles.
Meanwhile, he returned each night to a spartan safe house in Brooklyn's shadows, the peeling walls and creaking floors a stark contrast to her marble and glass sanctuary. Closer to his targets, he'd always said. Safer for her, he never added.
If she were honest with herself, he had shown her nothing but generosity; she, playing her "shadow" role to perfection, had repaid him with calculated cruelty and contempt.
Self-loathing coiled in her stomach like a familiar serpent.
The next evening, she prepared for another social performance.
She slipped into a champagne gown from the "wardrobe arsenal" Nick had built for her, strapped on platinum heels that cost more than most cars, and grabbed a custom handbag that whispered old money. The Upper East Side's most exclusive club awaited—a fortress of diamonds and deceit where she'd play her part.
Though her mind rebelled against her fate, her body still obeyed the "script"—the hunger for status and recognition hummed in her veins like an addiction she couldn't shake.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she felt the shift—calculating glances, hushed whispers behind manicured hands, the subtle repositioning of bodies to better observe her entrance.
She had barely settled at the bar when a vision in white glided toward her—a woman whose angelic features masked something far less divine.
It was Anna Howard —this world's designated heroine and the woman destined to steal everything from her.
"Oh, Marina," Anna's voice dripped with honeyed concern, though her eyes remained cold as winter. "Have you seen that dreadful video everyone's talking about?"
"What video?" Marina's stomach clenched with foreboding.
Anna thrust her phone forward, perfectly manicured nail tapping the screen with barely contained glee.
One glance was all it took for Marina to understand the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere.
The club's internal forum displayed crystal-clear surveillance footage.
In the damning video, she cornered a fleshy-faced middle-aged man in a hotel corridor, slurring a desperate confession before lunging for a kiss. His disgusted shove sent her sprawling, champagne soaking her dress as laughter erupted off-camera. The humiliation was exquisite in its completeness.
Marina's expression froze into perfect stillness.
The man was Henry Costa—a club regular whose weapons smuggling operation made him a minor player in the Roundtable's vast network.
The incident occurred just last week, when she'd pursued Henry with an intensity that had confused even her at the time.
In the aftermath, she'd questioned her own sanity—with her refined tastes, how could she possibly desire Henry? The man was a toad compared to Nick's panther-like grace.
Now the pieces clicked into place—this humiliation was scripted, designed to showcase the heroine's magnanimity against her own depravity.
"Marina, darling," Anna sighed, her voice a masterclass in false sympathy, "I understand you were… not yourself that night. But poor Henry is quite upset. He's making noise about consequences. I heard your boyfriend works in some dangerous circles; this could splash back on him. A public apology here at the club would smooth everything over. Wouldn't that be best for everyone?"
Anna's perfect brow furrowed with practiced concern, her head tilted at the exact angle to appear compassionate.
Marina fought the urge to laugh. Was this amateur manipulation supposed to work?
The vultures circling them seized their moment:
"Anna, you're an absolute saint. Marina's always been a gold-digger with the moral compass of a snake. Utterly revolting."
"I heard her boyfriend's some thug who kills for pocket change. Probably scarred and disgusting. No wonder she'd throw herself at even Costa's feet."
Anna raised her voice slightly, ensuring the growing audience caught every word of her performance:
"Marina, loyalty is a lady's crown jewel. If you can't find it in yourself to make amends, I'll be forced to reach out to your… companion… and explain this unfortunate situation myself."
Marina felt ice crystallizing in her veins, a cold laugh building in her chest.
She pressed elegant fingers to her temples, her expression shifting to one of bored exasperation.
Seriously, scriptwriter? This is our heroine? A sanctimonious, manipulative hypocrite straight from a bad soap opera?
Marina took a deliberate sip of her martini, set the glass down with a soft clink, and met Anna's gaze directly. "Save your breath, Anna."
Anna's eyes instantly welled with perfect tears. "Sis, how could you speak to me that way? After all I've done for you?"
She stomped one designer heel and spun dramatically toward the exit.
The crowd swarmed around her like moths to flame. "Anna, darling, are you alright? Just say the word and we'll handle that awful woman…"
Marina slipped in her earbuds, the world's chatter fading to blessed silence.
Script aside, there was something viscerally repulsive about Anna that transcended their assigned roles.
Perhaps because Anna was, in fact, her half-sister—same father, different mothers, different worlds.
Five years ago, when golden-child Anna set her sights on the Roundtable's inner sanctum, their father had delivered his verdict: Marina would sacrifice her birthright to clear Anna's path.
She refused. The next morning, her stepmother had her belongings packed and the locks changed.
After days of wandering, her designer clothes growing filthy and her stomach hollow with hunger, she collapsed outside a grimy Brooklyn bar. What seemed like rock bottom was actually a stage set by the Roundtable—a theater of cruelty designed to test Nick Sterling's loyalty. They had marked his exceptional talent and decided to place Marina in his path as a "shadow"—first to earn his affection, then to force an impossible choice between love and ambition.
After her father's betrayal, the Roundtable approached with a seductive offer: play the role of a "time bomb" in Nick Sterling's life, and in exchange, they'd restore her access to the elite circles she craved. She'd accepted with pathetic eagerness, blind to the truth—there was no "qualification" to be earned. She was merely livestock being fattened for slaughter.
When Nick found her crumpled form on that rain-slicked Brooklyn street, the Roundtable's twisted game began in earnest. He carried her to his safe house, tending her fever with unexpected gentleness, never suspecting that hidden cameras captured his every tender gesture for the organization's amusement.
Even understanding this was merely a scripted reality, rage still burned in her gut at her father's callous betrayal and the Roundtable's elaborate manipulation.
As for Saint Anna with her manufactured halo, Marina felt nothing but contempt.
Yet she had no plans to move against Anna—the golden heroine was untouchable, while Marina remained a disposable villainess whose existence could be snuffed out at the scriptwriter's whim.
Her priority now was reshaping Nick's perception of her. If she played her cards right, when he inevitably fell for Anna, he might grant her a generous parting gift—enough to vanish from this narrative and escape the eye-gouging horror of her scripted fate.
For the first time since her awakening, a fragile spark of hope flickered in her chest.
