Chapter 125
Chapter 125
Chapter 125
The Devil's Handmaiden
(Aurora’s POV)
Weeks had bled into one another, a blur of nights and whispers, of gunpowder and signatures on papers that once belonged to my father.
And now, here I sat, like a queen who is ready to conquer the mafia world.
At the head of his empire, the Valeryk bloodline.
The chair beneath me wasn’t just furniture, it was a throne carved from blood, debt, and power. My father’s study had been cleared of his personal clutter, the air heavy with cigar smoke and ink, but his shadow lingered in every corner of his study room.
The men gathered around me, the same men who once doubted me, the same men who watched Tiffany and Alex play games with my life, now bent their heads with a mixture of fear and respect towards me.
Dominique stood to my right, ever unshaken, his hand resting on the table like a silent declaration that no one would dare move against me while he lived. His devotion was a weight and a shield, one I both leaned on and feared with passion.
Damian stayed to the left, half in the light, half swallowed by the shadows. His gaze followed me everywhere, not hostile, but sharp with suspicion, with worry. He didn’t need to speak for me to hear his thoughts: How far will she go before she forgets herself?
They called me many things now. Some whispered “queen.” Others muttered “witch.” But the name that stuck, the one that spread like wildfire through the underworld, was the one I never asked for, the one I never denied.
The Devil’s Handmaiden.
From been sold as a Handmaiden into the blackwood mansion, to rising as the queen, the one who stole the heart of the Devil “Dominique”.
I hadn’t chosen it. But it was mine.
And I would carry it well with so much pride abd dignity.
The meeting ended with murmurs of obedience, the men dispersing into the night to carry out my commands. Dominique lingered, his hand brushing mine for the briefest moment, comfort, loyalty, love, all tangled together. Damian’s eyes narrowed as he noticed, his jaw tightening, his silence loud.
But even when the room emptied, the ghosts didn’t leave.
Later that night, when the house fell quiet and the world outside slept uneasily, I walked alone into my father’s private study. The heavy door groaned open, releasing the familiar scent of leather, old books, and the faint echo of his presence.
His chair sat there, untouched since the day he died.
I sank to my knees before it, my fingers brushing the worn leather, my chest tightening as though the weight of his gaze lingered still. For weeks, I had been everything he could never imagine me becoming, cold, decisive, merciless. And yet, here, in this room, I was only his daughter.
My voice cracked when it finally escaped.
“I won, Papa. But at what cost? What cost?” I soloquised.
Tears stung, unbidden, trailing down my cheeks. My reflection caught in the fireplace’s glow, casting my face in fire and shadow. I lifted my head slowly, my eyes hard, cold, unflinching, eyes that no longer belonged to the fragile girl who once cowered beneath Tiffany’s cruelty.
The fire flickered, and I whispered into the flames, to him, to myself, to the world that had tried and failed to crush me:
“They thought they could break me. Instead, they built me into something they didn't expect.”
The words tasted like steel and ash, final and eternal.
And yet, far from where I sat, the story wasn’t finished.
It was far from finished.
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(Unknown POV)
The automatic doors of the private hospital slid open with a low hiss. Sterile air, sharp with disinfectant, swept through the dimly lit corridor as footsteps echoed.
A figure in black walked with purpose, avoiding the nurses who barely glanced up. Their destination was clear, an isolated wing, cordoned off from prying eyes of people.
The door opened to a quiet room. Machines hummed softly, monitors blinking steady rhythms into the silence. On the bed lay a woman, pale but awake, her eyes glinting with malice despite her weakened body.
The visitor stopped at her side, bowing their head slightly. “Welcome back, ma. Thetes alot we need to catch up on.”
The woman shifted slowly, her lips curling into a faint, bitter smile. Her voice rasped, hoarse from disuse. “How long… was I under the coma?”
“Two weeks,” came the reply. “Two long weeks.”
Her laugh was a dry, jagged thing, like glass breaking. She dragged her eyes toward the ceiling, venom dripping from every syllable.
“Oh, my, my… Aurora fears she killed me. But she was wrong. Very wrong. Once again she prooves that she weak to do what's needed.”
Her hand clenched weakly around the sheets, trembling with rage and promise.
“I’m back, back with a fresh mission, End what Aurora started.”
Her smile spread, feral despite the frailty of her frame.
“Tiffany… is back, bitch.”