Rosa DeLuca had never needed to announce her presence; it was something she exuded naturally. But tonight—tonight wasn't about entrances or grace. Tonight was war.
The penthouse was alive with noise, a cacophony of glass clinking, laughter so plastic it could almost snap, and jazz music humming low in the background. But beyond the glamour, beneath the surface, there was something thicker in the air—an unspoken tension, like someone had soaked the champagne in secrets. And secrets were the poison Rosa thrived on.
She stepped out of the elevator, her heels clicking on the polished floor like gunshots. The sound cut through the noise and reached every corner of the grand room, making heads turn, conversations falter, and eyes follow her with the kind of intensity reserved for those who've come back from the dead.
She was dressed in blood-red satin, the fabric hugging every curve of her body like a lover's touch, a symbol of her wrath. Her hair was slicked back, eyes smoky, unreadable—no mask to hide behind, no shield to protect her. It was just Rosa, raw and unfiltered, risen from the ashes of her own deception.
The room parted for her, the crowd instinctively stepping aside, though some couldn't tear their eyes away.
And there he was. Lorenzo Mancini.
He leaned casually against the bar, a picture of control—suit impeccable, tie loose just enough to be dangerous but still charming. He was speaking to some French heiress, her name already forgotten in Rosa's mind. But the moment his gaze found hers, everything stopped. The world around them stilled. His jaw clenched, the glass in his hand stuttering mid-air, and those dark, calculating eyes locked onto hers with disbelief.
Rosa gave him nothing. No smile, no recognition. She moved past him, her stride purposeful, her gaze gliding over him like he was invisible. He had no power here. Not anymore.
It was Cassian Moretti's party, after all.
Cassian stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city, flanked by CEOs and vultures eager to sink their teeth into the meat of his success. He was every bit the billionaire enigma—dark-haired, dangerously composed, with a smirk that suggested he knew everything and nothing at once. When Rosa approached, he offered her his arm, his smile genuine but knowing.
"Right on time," he murmured in that smooth, velvety voice.
Rosa took his arm without hesitation, allowing the cameras to snap away, capturing the chemistry between them like it was something real.
"Wasn't gonna miss the circus," she whispered back, her tone laced with cold amusement.
Cassian smirked, eyes glinting in the low light. "You mean the funeral."
She raised a brow, intrigued. "Whose?"
Cassian nodded toward Lorenzo, who had been watching her from the bar, like a man faced with his own ghost.
"Yours… or his. Depends on who plays the game better."
The penthouse, beneath its polished surface, was a battleground. Politicians in designer suits, washed-up celebrities desperate for relevance, underground kings too rich for their own good—all of them gathered under the guise of celebrating Cassian's latest business venture. But Rosa knew better. They weren't toasting his success. They were watching, measuring, waiting for blood. And tonight, that blood would be hers to spill.
Rosa felt the weight of every eye on her as she moved through the crowd. She wasn't just Cassian's guest tonight; she was the show. The game had begun.
It was inevitable—Lorenzo made his move.
He cut through the crowd with the ease of a man used to getting what he wanted, abandoning the French heiress with barely a glance. His steps were purposeful, his eyes locked onto her like a predator homing in on its prey.
Cassian didn't flinch. He didn't need to. This was Rosa's war to fight.
Lorenzo stopped in front of her, voice low, thick with disbelief and anger. "Rosa."
She didn't flinch. Didn't look surprised. She merely turned, slowly, her champagne glass steady in her hand, eyes cold as ice.
"Lorenzo," she said, her tone as calm as if they were meeting over coffee, not on the edge of a battlefield.
He took a moment to register her. His gaze flickered to her lips, to the confidence radiating off her, and then back to her eyes. "You're alive," he whispered, the words heavy with disbelief.
Rosa's lips curled into a smile, sharp, like the edge of a blade. "Surprised?"
Lorenzo's nostrils flared, and he stepped closer, his voice lowering even further. "They told me you were—"
"Dead?" Rosa interrupted, laughter barely contained in her voice. "I know. That was the plan."
Lorenzo's face twisted with a mix of rage and confusion. "You faked it?"
She sipped her drink slowly, never breaking eye contact. "Don't act like you wouldn't have celebrated if it were real."
Without warning, his hand shot out, grabbing her arm too tightly, too forcefully. The crowd gasped, watching the scene unfold.
Cassian was there in a heartbeat, his presence a silent threat. "Let her go."
Lorenzo's gaze flicked to him, sizing him up like a man trying to understand a new enemy. "Who the hell are you?"
Cassian smiled, his voice laced with authority. "The man who doesn't need to ask who she is."
The tension between them snapped like a taut wire, the room holding its breath. Lorenzo's grip loosened, but his eyes still blazed with fury, a silent promise of war.
"You don't know what you're getting into," he warned, voice tight.
Cassian didn't back down. "Actually, I know exactly what I'm investing in."
He wrapped his arm around Rosa's waist, possessive but not demanding. It wasn't just an embrace; it was a declaration. His territory. His rules.
Rosa leaned into him like it was nothing, her heartbeat racing in her chest. But she didn't let herself show it. This was the game. This was the Penthouse Game. A delicate dance of masks, motives, and power plays. And right now, everyone in the room was waiting to see her next move.
She looked at Lorenzo, her expression cold, unyielding. "You should leave."
Lorenzo's face darkened. "Not until you tell me why," he pressed. "Why disappear? Why come back now?"
Rosa's smile was dangerous, a perfect reflection of the person she'd become. "To watch you fall."
Later, when the party had splintered into drunken chatter and careless distractions, Rosa and Cassian stood alone again, the city lights glimmering beneath them like distant stars. The cool glass beneath her fingertips felt oddly comforting as Cassian handed her another glass of champagne, his gaze assessing, measuring.
"You handled that well," he said, a hint of approval in his voice.
Rosa took the glass but didn't drink. She didn't need to.
"You invited him," she stated, eyes narrowing.
Cassian didn't deny it. "I did."
Her eyes searched his, trying to read the layers beneath the surface. "Why?"
Cassian stepped closer, voice dropping low. "Because you needed to see him again. Feel it. Burn in it."
She flinched at his words, but only for a moment. "That was cruel."
Cassian's smile didn't falter. "That was necessary. You're not just here to play businesswoman, Rosa. You're here to destroy a kingdom. You can't do that if he still owns any piece of your heart."
Her gaze dropped to the reflection in the glass, the woman she'd become staring back at her—cold, unfeeling, merciless. Red lips. Unforgiving eyes.
"He doesn't," she whispered. "Not anymore."
Cassian's voice dropped even lower, his breath warm against her ear. "Good. Because I don't share."
She looked up at him then, startled by the intensity in his eyes. For a second, the room disappeared, leaving just the two of them, too close, too much.
But she pulled away, heart hammering. "We're partners, Cass. Nothing more."
He smirked, the hint of something darker flickering in his eyes. "We'll see."
Alone in her apartment later that night, Rosa tossed her heels across the room with a force that almost made the walls shake. Her phone buzzed, interrupting the silence.
One new message.
Unknown Number: I don't know what game you're playing, Rosa. But you're going to regret it. – L.
She stared at the message for a long moment, letting the words sink in. Then, without hesitation, she deleted it.
No fear. Not anymore.
Because this time, she was the one holding the cards.
And the Penthouse Game? It had only just begun. And Rosa DeLuca? She was the mastermind.