Chapter 3
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Anna arranged the medical supplies with theatrical care, making no move to depart.
Marina raised her head, meeting the other woman's stare without flinching.
Behind Anna's concerned expression, her eyes glittered with undisguised superiority:
"Marina," she began, her voice dripping with condescension disguised as concern, "while your intentions were admirable, your execution was dangerously reckless. Those men were clearly in the wrong, but violence is never the answer. Diplomatic dialogue and mutual understanding would have served everyone better than your... provocative approach. As a woman of breeding, shouldn't you aspire to more graceful conflict resolution?"
Though Marina had already pegged Anna's sanctimonious character, the sheer audacity of this lecture—from someone who had cowered in safety while others faced danger—left her momentarily speechless.
Anna pivoted toward Nick, her expression softening to something almost maternal:
"Nick, please don't judge Marina too harshly. Her impulsiveness comes from a good place, even if her methods are... unrefined. I think what she needs is gentle guidance rather than—"
Before she could complete her amateur psychology assessment, Nick's expression transformed into something dangerous enough to stop her mid-sentence.
In one fluid motion, he stood and upended the entire bottle of antiseptic over Anna's head. The purple-red liquid cascaded down her perfect features, staining her white dress and destroying her carefully cultivated image of pristine elegance.
Nick's eyes held the same detached interest as when he examined a target:
"Who the hell do you think you are to lecture her?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "I warned you once about commenting on Marina. Now get out of my sight before I forget my rule about not harming women."
Anna stood frozen in disbelief, her mascara running in black rivulets down her stained cheeks, her perfect lips quivering as she stared at Nick.
Tears welled in her eyes—the perfect damsel-in-distress performance that should have melted any hero's heart.
However, Nick didn't spare her another glance, turning his back completely to kneel before Marina, gently taking her hand in his.
A thin line of crimson crossed her palm—collateral damage from the earlier confrontation.
With surgeon-like precision, Nick cleaned and dressed the minor wound, his touch so gentle it barely registered.
Anna, witnessing this complete inversion of the narrative, finally shattered. With a strangled sob, she covered her face and fled, her white dress now a ruined canvas of purple stains.
Marina studied Nick's concentrated expression as he tended to her hand, her mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions and dangerous hopes.
The storyline had not merely derailed—it had crashed spectacularly and burst into flames.
Nick's warm breath ghosted over her sensitive palm as he checked his handiwork, sending an involuntary shiver up her spine.
She cleared her throat, desperate to break the intimate silence:
"You didn't have to be so harsh with her..."
"It won't happen again." Nick raised his gaze to meet hers, his eyes holding something raw and unguarded. "Marina, I swear on my life—your happiness and safety come before everything else."
Their eyes locked, and something electric passed between them—something that made her heart stutter painfully in her chest as she nodded, unable to look away.
Six weeks later, Marina finally grasped the full scope of Nick's promise of happiness.
It began with a visit from a silver-haired man in a bespoke suit who spent hours behind closed doors with Nick. Within days of that meeting, Nick's trajectory changed dramatically.
In a single month, his private security firm went from underground operation to NYSE listing, with financial analysts scrambling to explain the meteoric rise.
They relocated to a historic townhouse in Manhattan's most exclusive neighborhood—five stories of architectural perfection with a walled garden and a garage that housed vehicles worth more than most people's lifetime earnings.
Her new closet was larger than their previous apartment, housing collections from designers who wouldn't sell to celebrities without proper introductions.
When his schedule grew too demanding for him to cook, he didn't order delivery—he hired a former Michelin-starred chef whose sole responsibility was creating Marina's perfect meals.
Marina found herself transformed into a precious artifact, preserved in a museum of luxury that Nick had built around her.
Yet comfort breeds complacency. Gradually, her survival plan—to leave Nick and escape the script's deadly ending—faded from her daily thoughts.
Until she returned to that exclusive club once more.
Following the arena confrontation, Nick—concerned for her psychological wellbeing—had arranged private tutors to refine her social graces and teach her practical self-defense.
Two months of intensive training passed before she ventured back into the social arena.
Nick's meteoric rise had become the favorite topic in Manhattan's elite circles. His business genius, impenetrable reserve, and shadowy past had earned him the title "King of the Underground" among the club's female membership.
As the officially acknowledged partner of New York's most eligible bachelor, Marina found herself the target of intense curiosity and barely concealed jealousy.
The same people who had once whispered behind her back now competed for her attention, swarming around her at events, desperate for any scrap of information about her relationship.
Following a particularly tedious charity dinner, Marina excused herself with a migraine and sought refuge in the ladies' lounge.
As she pushed open the door, she froze—two intertwined figures occupied the velvet chaise: a woman with her dress hiked indecently high straddling a paunchy, sweating middle-aged man.
The man—incredibly—was Henry Costa, the same one who had rejected her so publicly in that damning video.
Marina stood paralyzed for two heartbeats before nausea rose in her throat. As she turned to flee, her hip caught the edge of a marble side table, sending a crystal dish crashing to the floor.
The couple's heads snapped toward the sound in perfect synchronization.
The woman, lipstick smeared and hair in disarray, was Anna.
The supposed paragon of virtue was engaging in a tawdry affair with Costa in a semi-public space.
Marina schooled her features into perfect neutrality and backed toward the door.
She claimed a secluded armchair in the corridor, nursing a flute of champagne as she processed what she'd witnessed.
A shadow fell across her lap; Anna loomed above her, hastily reassembled but still disheveled.
Though her cheeks still carried the flush of recent activity, her eyes were glacial:
"Finding me in a compromising position must be quite satisfying for you."
Marina sipped her champagne, offering nothing.
"As a fellow traveler who knows the story's true path, I should be following the heroine's script, but you've somehow corrupted everything—you, a disposable villainess."
"Don't get comfortable. This is merely a temporary deviation from the predetermined narrative. The Roundtable selected me and Nick as the central couple—you're marked for elimination! You should be groveling beneath my heel by now, not sharing my social circles and living in luxury. I'm the heroine! Why is Nick still fixated on you?!"
Marina observed Anna's deteriorating composure with clinical detachment, then offered a simple shrug and replied:
"I honestly have no idea."
She truly didn't understand why the narrative had veered so dramatically off course.
She couldn't explain Nick's inexplicable devotion to someone scripted for villainy.
She had no way of knowing how long this reprieve would last before the story corrected itself—
She was, after all, just the disposable shadow villainess whose scripted end involved blindness and starvation in a forgotten basement...
Marina excused herself from the club without another word.
Back in their palatial townhouse, she waited until Nick left for a meeting, then began methodically packing a single suitcase.
The decision crystallized with perfect clarity—she had to leave.
Anna, despite her flaws, was right about one thing: Marina wasn't the heroine of this story. She was a plot device destined for a gruesome end. Her fate wasn't hers to control, and she couldn't stake her life on this temporary deviation.
While Nick still harbored these inexplicable feelings, she should take advantage—secure some funds and disappear. The Roundtable would lose interest in a shadow who removed herself from the game, and she could avoid the horrific fate that awaited her in the original script.
Standing before her closet of couture and jewels worth millions, she hardened her resolve, selecting only the three black cards Nick had entrusted to her.
She arranged a private flight to Switzerland, where she would reinvent herself in Zurich's discreet banking community.
Marina was wrestling her suitcase toward the stairs when Nick's voice froze her in place—he'd returned hours ahead of schedule.
"Marina." His voice was carefully neutral. "Going somewhere? I don't recall us discussing any trips."
He stood in the foyer in a charcoal Tom Ford suit with a blood-red tie, sunglasses pushed into his hair, his expression unreadable except for the softness in his eyes.
She gripped the suitcase handle tighter, forcing a brittle smile:
"Oh! I'm just... heading to Madrid—no, Paris—for a quick getaway. Just a spur-of-the-moment thing. No need to trouble yourself, I've arranged everything."
She attempted to brush past him toward the door, her movements jerky with poorly concealed panic.
Nick closed the distance between them in two fluid strides, his fingers encircling her wrist—gentle but inescapable:
"I'll take you to the airport."
"That's really not necessary!" The words tumbled out too quickly, too desperately.
"You'll come back to me, won't you?" His grip tightened fractionally, his voice dropping to something raw and vulnerable.
She couldn't meet his eyes, her silence damning.
He'd seen through her from the start.
"Wherever you're really going, I won't stop you." His thumb brushed over her racing pulse. "If you prefer privacy, my driver will escort you. I've transferred fifty million to your private account—if you need more, just ask. Enjoy 'Paris.'" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'll be here when you're ready to return."
He released her wrist, stepping back to give her space.
Marina's throat constricted painfully:
"Okay." The single word felt like betrayal on her tongue.
She wheeled her suitcase across the threshold, each step heavier than the last.
Nick's custom armored BMW idled at the curb, his ever-efficient assistant Claire waiting beside it.
Claire stepped forward to take the luggage, stowing it efficiently in the trunk.
The trunk was meticulously organized with numerous packages of varying sizes. Marina opened one at random and felt her heart stutter.
With trembling fingers, she opened box after box, tears blurring her vision.
Each contained treasures selected with intimate knowledge of her preferences—limited edition couture pieces not yet available to the public, handcrafted Italian shoes in her exact size, jewelry from designers who created only one piece per year... even a temperature-controlled case of her favorite Belgian truffles.
"Mr. Sterling prepared these for your journey," Claire explained softly. "He asked me to ensure your comfortable departure and then return alone. He wanted me to assure you he won't attempt to track or contact you unless you reach out first."
Marina squeezed her eyes shut against the burning tears, stood motionless for three heartbeats, then spun on her heel and sprinted back toward the house.
Nick remained exactly where she'd left him, a solitary figure framed by the mansion's grandeur, his shoulders carrying a weight she'd never noticed before.
"Nick," she gasped, breathless from more than just running, "I had this recurring nightmare. You fell for Anna and turned on me—became someone I didn't recognize. You took my eyes, Nick. I was so scared."
Her voice fractured on the last words, tears streaming unchecked down her face.
Nick pivoted toward her voice, his composed mask slipping completely:
"Marina..." Her name emerged as a broken sound.
"How could I ever—" He crossed the space between them in three strides. "Please don't cry. I would never—"
The raw anguish in his expression made her decision for her—in this fractured narrative, perhaps the only truth was what they created together.
"I don't want Paris or Zurich or anywhere else." She stepped into his space, close enough to feel his warmth. "Can you make that lobster risotto I love?"
She wound her arms around his neck, burying her face against the solid warmth of his shoulder, her voice muffled and deliberately childlike.
"Of course." The tension drained from his body.
He enfolded her in his arms with reverent care, as though she might shatter if held too tightly or dissolve if embraced too loosely:
"In this life and any other, Marina, you are the only one I will ever love."
Epilogue: The Truth
Years later, Marina stood before the wall of glass in their Manhattan penthouse, the city spread beneath her like a carpet of stars. Behind her came the gentle sound of crystal meeting crystal as Nick approached with two tumblers of amber liquid.
"Happy fifth anniversary," he murmured, pressing the cool glass into her hand, his eyes holding that same intensity that still quickened her pulse after all this time.
The moment shattered as their living room door exploded inward. Anna stood in the threshold, flanked by a small army of black-clad assassins with weapons drawn.
"Finally," Anna's voice dripped with venom as she leveled her weapon, "the narrative returns to its proper path. Nick, I am your destined partner. And this parasite who derailed everything will face her scripted end."
Nick moved in front of Marina with liquid grace, his sidearm appearing in his hand as if conjured. His expression showed no alarm, no hesitation—not even surprise.
"I've been anticipating this visit for years, Anna." His voice carried the casual menace of someone discussing the weather. "It's time your delusion ended."
Anna's laughter echoed manically through the space: "You think I don't know what you are? Nick Sterling, you're also a 'transmigrator'! You've known the script all along, yet deliberately sabotaged it. Why?"
Nick's lips curved into the barest smile: "Because the script was a lie."
A single crack split the air, and Anna crumpled, a perfect hole appearing between her eyes. From behind Nick's protective stance, Marina stepped forward, an ornate pistol engraved with the intricate Roundtable sigil still smoking in her steady hand.
"I despise uninvited guests," she remarked conversationally, "especially on our anniversary."
The assassins, recognizing the weapon in her hand, immediately lowered their guns and dropped to one knee in perfect unison: "Honored Roundtable Matriarch."
Marina moved to Nick's side, sliding her hand into the crook of his arm: "Poor deluded Anna. There was never any script—only a trap."
—Just yesterday, hovering above the Roundtable's Manhattan headquarters in their private helicopter, Nick had finally shared the complete truth with Marina.
"I didn't meet you five years ago," Nick had said, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek with reverence. "I've known you for twenty years. You were the daughter of the Roundtable's murdered founder, and I was an assassin they molded from childhood."
"During a purge, I defied direct orders and saved you. As punishment, the Roundtable wiped our memories, transferred your birthright to Anna—a street girl they'd groomed as your replacement—and created this elaborate scenario. They scripted me to fall for Anna, cast you as the villainess, then destroy you with my own hands. Their ultimate revenge against us both."
"But they miscalculated one crucial detail." Nick had twisted the platinum band from his finger, revealing a scarred pattern beneath that matched the mark on her wrist perfectly. "Blood oaths transcend memory. Every time I saw you, something ancient and unbreakable stirred in me—a recognition deeper than thought, older than memory."
Marina had stared at her wrist in shock, at the pattern she'd dismissed as a birthmark her entire life.
"We swore a blood oath in the Roundtable's ancient temple when we were twelve," Nick had explained, his voice soft with memory. "No matter how fate separates us, no matter what memories they steal or plant, our souls will always find each other."
"I never fell for their fabricated narrative. Even with my mind wiped clean, my soul recognized its other half. Anna was merely another victim—a puppet with false memories, placed to monitor whether I could break through their conditioning."
Tears had welled in Marina's eyes: "Those recurring nightmares... my terror of blindness and imprisonment..."
"Artificial trauma," Nick had squeezed her hand fiercely, "designed to make you fear me at a primal level. But I gambled that even your subconscious would recognize the truth beneath the lies."
"We've won this shadow war, reclaiming your birthright piece by piece. And now," his smile had turned predatory, "it's time to spring the trap we've spent five years building."
The helicopter had descended onto a private island where the true Roundtable loyalists and Nick's elite mercenary unit awaited their arrival.
The elderly butler—her father's most trusted advisor—had bowed deeply: "Congratulations to Miss Howard and Mr. Sterling for breaking through the memory barriers. Marina, as the founder's only living heir, the Roundtable throne awaits its rightful occupant."
"And you, Mr. Sterling," the old man had presented an ancient dagger studded with emeralds, "as the sworn protector who passed the temple's ultimate trial, will stand as guardian beside the Roundtable Matriarch."
That night, on the moonlit terrace of the legendary underground hotel, Marina and Nick had renewed their blood oath before the assembled loyalists.
"So I was never the villainess," Marina had smiled, the truth finally settling into her bones, "I was the rightful heroine all along."
"And I," Nick had pressed his lips to her marked wrist, "never needed their script to guide my heart. Even with my past erased, my soul remembered what my mind could not."
In the silver moonlight, their matched marks had pulsed with crimson light—an ancient contract written in blood and magic, a bond that transcended memory, manipulation, and even death itself.
