Chapter 33 THE LAWSUIT

Chapter 33 THE LAWSUIT
VICTORIA POV

My heart was still pounding with the remnants of rage when my phone lit up on the dresser. Detective Walsh’s name flashing insistently. Perfect. Just when my morning couldn’t get any worse.

I didn’t bother to calm myself. I snatched the phone up, my pulse thundering in my ears.

“Talk,” I barked, because I didn’t have patience for greetings, pity, or whatever bad news he had reheated for me this time.

Walsh inhaled sharply, the sigh of a man who didn’t want to be the messenger of doom but didn’t have a choice. “Good morning, Victoria,” he began cautiously, as if I might combust through the line. “I’m calling because… Annabelle Callahan has filed a case.”

My entire body went still.

He continued, “She is officially suing you to court with multiple charges—defamation of character, document forgery, destruction of property, emotional distress and so many more”

I could feel the blood rush to my head. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” he said. “But she’s officially hired Miranda Chen.”

My stomach dropped.

Miranda Chen. Marcus Chen's sister. 

The pitbull of the legal world. The woman who dragged billionaires into bankruptcy court just because she felt like it. The lawyer who could make an entire courtroom bow with a single raised brow. People whispered her name the way children whispered the word ghost. 

She really hired her. I thought it was just a joke at first. I thought she would never be able to afford her. 

Walsh added softly, “It’s going to be a tough battle.”

That was when something inside me snapped. My fingers tightened around the phone, and before I even realized what I was doing, I screamed—a raw, guttural sound that ripped straight from the center of my chest.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!”

The phone flew from my hand, smashing against the windowpane with a sharp crack before bouncing to the floor. I didn’t care whether it survived. I didn’t care about anything except the boiling fury churning through my veins.

Annabelle Callahan.

The audacity.

The gall.

The absolute, blinding arrogance.

These people—these opportunistic, delusional parasites—were the ones trying to reap from where they never sowed. I was the one who had labored, strategized, nurtured, and clawed my way up beside Harrison Blackthorne. I was the one who weathered his scandals, cleaned his messes, dealt with his mistakes and destructive impulses.

Where was Annabelle Callahan and her mother then?

Where was Miranda Chen when Harrison couldn’t even see straight from the pressure of running an empire?

Now, after all my sacrifices, some half-baked, poor, pitiful bastard thinks she can wander in from nowhere and claim a seat at my table? My throne?

My life?

Never.

Not while I’m still breathing.

I stood in the center of my room, fists clenched, chest heaving. Everything inside me was fire and thunder, a storm threatening to tear through walls. For a moment, I wanted to scream again. To break something else. To shatter every fragile piece of the world that dared stand against me.

But then… reason whispered.

I closed my eyes and drew a shaky breath.

No.

Not like this.

Anger got you nowhere. Anger made you sloppy. Anger made you weak. I did not survive my childhood, my past, my enemies by losing control. I survived because I learned to turn my rage into steel—cold, sharp, precise.

“Calm down, Victoria,” I murmured to myself, voice tremoring. “Nothing moves you. Nothing shakes you.”

My hands were trembling, but I forced them still.

“You cannot think when you are angry.”

The mantra worked—slowly, painfully. My heartbeat steadied, the fire still burning but contained, caged behind the iron bars of my will.

I inhaled deeply, then turned and walked back into my bedroom, my steps deliberate, my heels tapping like war drums against marble. I stood before the full-length mirror. The morning light cast a pale glow over my reflection.

What I saw startled me.

The woman staring back had wild eyes. Hair tousled like she’d fought demons all night. Her breathing still too sharp, too fast.

This was not Victoria Blackthorne—polished, untouchable, powerful.

This… this was someone else.

Someone I had buried years ago.

The stripper.

The girl from the forgotten club with flickering neon signs and cheap perfume.

The girl who danced for tips and survival.

The hungry girl who’d done anything—anything—for money to eat.

I felt a chill crawl down my spine.

“No,” I whispered harshly at the mirror. “You do not get to come back.”

The reflection stared at me accusingly, as if mocking me with my own fear. As if reminding me that beneath the diamonds, beneath the luxury, beneath the gold-plated power and carefully curated identity—I was still her.

I slammed my palm against the glass.

“I am not that woman anymore!”

The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.

I straightened my spine, lifting my chin. Slowly, deliberately, I let the mask of Victoria Blackthorne slide back into place. The confidence. The poise. The ruthlessness.

“I am Victoria Blackthorne,” I said to my reflection, each word crisp as ice. “One of the wealthiest, most influential women in this city. And no little urchin. No insignificant, money-hungry cockroach will drag me back into the mud I crawled out of.”

My eyes sharpened, turning lethal.

“You will not make me lose my composure. You will not make me break character. I worked too damn hard for this life.”

I lifted my chin even higher.

“And I will not let anyone. Annabelle Callahan, her dead mother, Ronan, Miranda Chen, or whatever puppet master stands behind them—take anything from me.”

My reflection softened, transforming back into the woman people feared, envied, whispered about.

Victoria Blackthorne.

Cold. Calculated. Dangerous.

I exhaled slowly and crossed the room, retrieving my phone from the floor. The screen was cracked, but functional. Fitting. A war was starting—of course something had to break.

As I pressed the power button, the device buzzed alive with a cascade of notifications. Calls missed, messages received, emails stacking one after another like soldiers awaiting orders.

I ignored all of them and dialed Detective Walsh back.

He picked up on the first ring. “Victoria—are you alright? I heard a loud noi…”

“Stop worrying about noises and give me details,” I snapped, pacing. “What exactly did she file? Who signed off the documents? How solid is her evidence? And most importantly—who the hell is feeding her information?”

Walsh cleared his throat. “I can’t speak on all of that yet. But she’s claiming you manipulated hospital and insurance records, fake and hurtful news spread about her mother and herself, troubles cause at her work place… they are so many”

I laughed sharply. “Does she have proof?”

“She believes she does,” he replied quietly.

“Believes? Or wants to believe?”

“Victoria… she’s serious. And with Miranda Chen backing her, this will hit the media fast.”

I stopped walking.

The media. Something I'm still dealing with. 

Of course.

This wasn’t just a lawsuit—it was a spectacle. A circus with my name flashing in red lights.

“You said it’s going to be a tough battle,” I murmured, voice low and deadly calm. “Fine. Let her come. Let all of them come.”

“Victoria, you need a legal team…”

“I need Annabelle to remember who she’s provoking.” My lips curled into a vicious smile. “She thinks filing charges will intimidate me? No. It only confirms her fear.”

“Victoria…”

I cut him off. “It's Mrs Blackthorne. Thank you for the call. Now stay alert. Anyone who moves against me will regret it.”

I hung up before he could protest. Then I tossed the phone onto the bed and began pacing again, the rage morphing into clarity. Into strategy.

If Annabelle wanted war, she would get one.

A war she couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

I went back to the mirror, smoothing my hair, straightening my robe, watching the transformation in real time—the messy, panicked woman replaced by someone lethal enough to burn down empires.

“You’re still here,” I whispered to my reflection, “and you will win.”

I took a deep breath, letting my confidence settle like a crown atop my head.

“This city bows to me,” I whispered. “And nobody, absolutely nobody takes my throne.”

The fire inside me calmed. Not extinguished, but refined. Controlled. Ready.

War had been declared.

And I, Victoria Blackthorne, did not lose wars.