Chapter 40: Velvet Betrayal.

Midnight wrapped itself around Blackwood Industries like a velvet shroud, cloaking its steel and glass façade in a suffocating stillness. The silence that hung in the air was not the kind born of peace or sleep; it was heavy, ominous, and absolute.

A silence that didn’t belong in a corporate tower.A silence that was usually only found in two places: graveyards, where the dead whispered their secrets to the dirt... and war zones, just before the first scream.

Sherry stepped out of the elevator onto the executive floor, her heels echoing like gunshots against the polished marble tiles. Enzo was beside her, silent, his posture rigid and alert. The air was cold, clinical, and almost too clean, but beneath the sterile surface, something felt wrong.

It wasn’t just the betrayal. It wasn’t just Ethan. It was the way it had been done. Betrayal was one thing. But this? This was personal.

Because betrayal this intimate could only come from someone who had once loved you. Or someone who had pretended to. Only love, real or manufactured, had the power to wound you in a place so deep that the blade twisted in your soul rather than your back.

"I trusted him," Enzo muttered, his voice low and tight, like steel under pressure, seconds away from snapping.

Sherry didn't answer. She couldn't. Not because she didn’t have words, but because the raw fury in Enzo’s voice, the tremor in it that didn’t quite reach his face, terrified her in a way bullets never had. His rage was controlled, contained, but barely.

Together, they stepped into Ethan’s office. It was chaos.

Drawers hung open, some completely ripped out. The sleek company laptop was missing. Books had been torn from the shelves and strewn across the floor like dead birds. The security hardware, usually locked down and discreet, had been gutted, its components dismantled, and wires left dangling like exposed veins.

Whoever had done this hadn’t rushed. They had time. And, more importantly, they had access.

"He knew everything," Sherry said quietly, her voice just above a breath. "He had security codes. Vault entries. Our private correspondence. Even…" Her voice caught, throat tightening as if the truth was a fist pressing into her windpipe. "...even where I slept."

Enzo didn't respond. He walked instead, slow and deliberate, until he reached the center of the room. At his feet lay a photograph, cracked, face down, its frame shattered. He turned it over.

It was a picture of the three of them, taken a year ago, during a time that now seemed like a cruel joke. Ethan was smiling, bright and unguarded. Enzo stood beside Sherry, his arm around her waist. Sherry’s hand rested on Ethan’s shoulder.

It had looked like a family. But now, it looked like a lie. Downstairs, the last of Blackwood’s backup servers flickered weakly in the tech room. Most of the sensitive intel was gone, scrubbed clean. Ethan had been thorough. But not perfect.

One file remained. Hidden. Obscured inside an old, forgotten archive buried under outdated financials and quarterly reports.

Sherry stared at the encrypted file, a hollow ache tightening in her chest as she read the label.

Encrypted by: Ethan Bishop

Password Hint: Your first breath.

Her heart stilled. "It’s my birthday," she said, barely audible. Enzo raised an eyebrow. “Try it.” Her fingers trembled as she typed the numbers. The screen blinked. Access granted. Inside, there was a folder labeled simply "V." And inside that—dozens of files.

Logs. Voice recordings. Email threads. Internal transfer records. Call histories. Surveillance footage. Every scrap of data is meticulously compiled and timestamped. And all of it pointed to the same chilling conclusion.

Victoria’s aim had never been limited to Blackwood Industries. This had never just been about destruction.

It had always been about replacement. She didn’t just want to bring Sherry down. She wanted to become her.

Take her place beside Enzo. Not as an assistant. Not even as a mistress. But as Mrs. Blackwood. Sherry’s stomach turned, a visceral wave of nausea rising as the realization settled.

“She wanted me,” she said, her voice raw with disbelief. “My life. My image. My name.”

Enzo’s expression hardened, his voice like thunder muffled through snow. “She’s been planning this from the beginning.”

“Using Ethan,” Sherry whispered, horror dawning on her face. “To study me. To observe everything about us. What do you like? How you touch me. How I breathe…” A silence followed, long, thick and electric. Then Enzo stepped forward. “She touched nothing,” he growled, voice low and guttural. “What we have, what’s real, she couldn’t even imitate it.”

He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing the edges of her jaw and before she could speak, think, or breathe, his mouth crashed into hers.

There was no preamble. No soft build. The desk caught her back with a dull thud, papers scattering to the floor, the sound of breaking glass echoing as a lamp tipped and shattered.

Enzo pinned her down, not out of dominance, but desperation.

Their mouths collided again and again, bruised and biting, as if pain could rewrite the grief burning in their bodies. This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t protection. This was survival.

There was no time to undress. No time to hesitate. The world was cracking open around them, and this, this was the only ground they had left.

His hands tangled in her hair; hers clawed at his shirt. Each breath was a prayer. Each thrust a scream. You are mine and only mine. When it was released, it wasn’t silent.

Sherry sobbed his name into his shoulder, while Enzo’s voice cracked on hers, his cry both broken and defiant. After, their bodies stayed tangled, still shaking and still burning.

Enzo leaned forward, his lips brushing the curve of her shoulder, his breath cooling the sweat along her skin. “We end her. Together.” His words were steady. Cold. Final.

Sherry met his eyes, her own no longer filled with tears but with purpose. “I want her to see me when it happens.” There was no room left for fear. No room for doubt. Just as they were catching their breath, the silence was broken by a buzz from the floor and a phone. Enzo snatched it up. Answered, voice sharp. “Speak.”

Ethan’s voice came through, shaky and low. “I never meant for it to go this far.” Sherry straightened, her eyes narrowing. “Where are you?” Enzo snapped.

“I’m not coming back,” Ethan said. “But I have something. Something she doesn’t know I kept.” “What is it?” “The original contract,” Ethan replied. “The real one. The agreement your father made with her. That’s where everything started.”

Sherry’s stomach dropped. “I’m sending it now,” Ethan said. “But after that… don’t come looking for me.” The line went dead. He was gone, but what had he left behind? That could change everything.

Twelve hours later, Victoria stood before the press, cloaked in a crimson dress that shimmered like blood under studio lights. Her voice was icy and clear, every syllable sharpened to pierce.

“I have proof of Enzo Blackwood’s financial crimes and his coercive relationship with his assistant. Unless he ends their connection permanently, I intend to bring it all down.” The press surged. Cameras clicked like automatic gunfire.

Sherry stood frozen in front of the television. Beside her, Enzo’s jaw clenched. “She just declared war.” “No,” Sherry said softly. “She made one mistake.” “What mistake?” he asked. “She thinks I’d let you destroy yourself to protect me.” Enzo turned to face her fully. “I would. You know I would.” “I do,” she said, fierce and calm. “That’s why I won’t let you.”

From her bag, she pulled the envelope Ethan had sent. Inside was the contract, not the one from their staged marriage, but the one signed decades ago. The real one. It was old. Worn. The paper yellowed, and the edges curled, but the signatures were still bold. One from Enzo’s father and one from hers.

The bride’s name had never been filled in. But the initials written next to the placeholder were clear: S.H. “They planned to trade me long before I ever drew breath,” Sherry whispered.

“And they failed,” Enzo said with quiet fury. “Because you don’t belong to them.” Sherry’s eyes blazed. “Then let’s remind them.” That night, she posted a single image to her public account. No caption. No hashtags. Just the contract.