Talk About Bad Luck

A grizzled veteran officer with deep lines etched into his face stepped out from behind the front desk, cutting right through Corinne’s silent justifications. He had listened to the exchange, and he possessed zero patience for this wealthy family’s sudden, fragile shock. He stepped up beside the rookie, ready to twist the knife deeper.

"You want to know how bad it was?" the veteran cop asked, his voice a rough gravel that commanded the sterile lobby. He leaned his heavy forearms over the counter, locking cold eyes with each of the Vances. "I was one of the first on the scene. It was a bloodbath. When the patrol cars rolled up to that dead-end alley, the pavement was slick with it."

He paused, letting the gruesome image settle over their ashen faces. "Those thugs were battered into the concrete, sure. We just assumed the rich guy with the aggressive, shark-in-a-suit lawyer did the heavy hitting. Looking at your girl—quiet, gorgeous, shaking like a leaf—nobody in their right mind would think she was capable of dishing out such extreme damage. But the state she was in when we found her? A wreck."

The cop leaned closer, his gaze merciless as it swept over Corinne’s designer clothes and Arthur’s tailored suit. "She was curled up in a grimy corner, knees pulled tight to her chest, defensive as hell. Blood weeping from a busted lip, her arm jacked up and bruising a deep, ugly purple. She sat in the damp dirt, surrounded by sirens, looking like she had nobody in the world. We asked her to call someone. She tried. Dialed a few emergency contacts, over and over."

Damian’s breath hitched in his throat.

"Nobody bothered to answer," the cop finished, his tone flat and unyielding. "She put the phone down, her eyes hollow, and told me she was on her own. So I have to ask you folks. Where exactly were all of you last night while she bled?"

The piercing question struck the Vances like a heavy physical blow to the chest. The air rushed out of Damian’s lungs in a pained gasp. His mind played a cruel trick, echoing the exact pitch of Serena’s shaky, terrified voice from last night. She had begged for help. She had told him a group of men were following her in the dark. And what had he done? He had sneered into the receiver, callously told her to quit screwing around, and severed the line.

They all had. Assuming she was throwing another jealous tantrum over Camilla’s ruined engagement party, they had ignored her desperate calls. They had chosen to focus purely on Camilla’s minor, fabricated health crisis instead.

Crushing, suffocating guilt caved Damian’s chest in. He gripped the edge of the police station counter, his knuckles turning stark white as the phantom sound of his sister's desperate plea rang in his ears. He had left her to face monsters alone.

"We... we need to fix this," Arthur stammered, his voice cracking under the immense weight of his own remorse. He ran a frantic hand through his hair, desperate to rapidly make amends and assuage his screaming conscience. "We will organize a dinner. A big family dinner. We can have the chef prepare all her favorite foods. Make a whole lavish spread to show her we care."

Declan’s handsome face turned to ice, a newfound protective rage darkening his eyes. "A dinner?" he muttered, brushing past his father’s hollow gesture. "I want those alley thugs locked away forever. Use whatever power and influence we have in this city. Make sure they never see daylight again." He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen with frantic energy. "And the man who stepped in. The good Samaritan. I am sending him a massive, fat check. We need to formally thank the guy who bravely stepped up to save her when her own flesh and blood failed."

Meanwhile, across the city, that very Samaritan sat bathed in the cool, blue light of his sleek, modern office.

Dante Morland, notoriously lethal and currently very intrigued, reclined in his expansive leather chair. He lazily flipped through a thick, meticulously detailed dossier resting on his glass desk. The name Serena Vance was printed neatly across the top tab.

As his sharp eyes scanned the crisp pages, a clear picture emerged. Her life was fractured into two distinct eras. Before age six, she had been the beloved, spoiled Vance princess, a child glowing with warmth and privilege. After age six, she morphed into a neglected, soulless shadow wandering the halls of her own home.

Dante paused on a faded police report from her childhood. A horrific car crash. Her aunt, Lenora, had died in the twisted metal wreck while desperately searching for a runaway six-year-old Serena. The tragedy had permanently shattered the family dynamic. Guilt-ridden and desperate to right a cosmic wrong, the Vances had immediately taken in Lenora’s biological daughter, Camilla. They elevated the grieving girl to undisputed royalty. In the same breath, they systematically shoved Serena down into the dirt, treating her like a doormat to endlessly atone for her aunt’s death.

But the dossier highlighted a massive shift a decade later. At age seventeen, the obedient doormat snapped. She shed her submissive skin once and for all. She transformed into a relentless, venomous rebel who openly terrorized the precious Camilla, eventually ditching the suffocating Vance family for good.

Standing near the sprawling window, Dante’s assistant, Gavin, let out a dramatic sigh. "It really is like night and day with those two," Gavin mused, eyeing the summary page on the tablet in his hands. "You have the sweetheart, Camilla, playing the perfect, talented angel. Then you have the troublemaker, Serena, acting like a feral stray with no manners."

From behind the massive desk, Dante’s sharp, handsome face remained cold as ice. He let out a dark, cynical sound. "Tch. Idiots."

He scoffed at the profound blindness of the Vance family.

Gavin wisely snapped his mouth shut. He swallowed hard, keeping his grim thoughts to himself. The poor Vance girl is screwed, Gavin thought, stealing a glance at his boss. Now that the ruthless, unhinged Morland heir has taken a genuine interest in her, she is done for.

Dante slowly raised a hand, rubbing the still-tender red mark near his hairline. It was a lingering physical gift from last night’s feral hellcat. He stared intently at the side-by-side photos in the file. On the left, a sunny, smiling child with bright eyes. On the right, a sulking, dangerous thundercloud staring fiercely into the camera.

He was thoroughly captivated.

He knew the Vances despised her rebellious, violent streak. But he genuinely loved it. To Dante, any girl who possessed the sheer guts to openly flip off her golden-child sister, headbutt a mob boss in a dark alley, and boldly defy her entire wealthy family was a rare, fascinating creature. She was a spark in a terribly dull world.

Leaning back in his leather chair, Dante steepled his fingers. He looked up at his assistant, his tone as casual as someone inquiring about the daily weather forecast.

"Hey, Gavin."

"Sir?"

"Do you think Serena would burn the Morland estate down to the ground if I tossed her inside?"

Standing beside him, Gavin paled significantly, nearly choking on his own spit at the terrifying prospect.