CHAPTER 40: THE POST

"So you’re the one who’s been bothering my boss," one of them sneered. His voice was rough, the cut across his lips pulling as he spoke, making him look even more menacing. It was the kind of scar that hinted at a knife fight gone wrong, or one barely survived. "But why would a pretty girl like yourself be mixed up in something like this?"

Alisha resisted the urge to roll her eyes so hard they’d get stuck in the back of her skull. She was standing there wrapped in nothing but a towel that barely touched her knees, water still dripping from her damp hair.

"Who is your boss?" she asked, her voice steady, her gaze sharp.

Her calmness unsettled them. She could see it in the way they shifted their weight, in the way their eyes flicked toward each other, expecting panic, begging for it even.

"You’re really going to ask that question right now? You don’t know who you’ve offended?"

Those words—she hated them. They were too familiar, the exact same ones she’d once heard from the leather-clad thug who had captured her when she was trying to escape Lexora. The memory made her jaw tighten. Why couldn’t her enemies ever come at her directly instead of sending pawns?

"What do you want from me?" she asked lazily, as if this whole ordeal was nothing more than an inconvenience keeping her from a good night’s sleep. "Look, I’ve got a fashion show to return to. Be quick with whatever you want to do."

Her remark caught them completely off guard. They expected trembling, tears, maybe even a plea for mercy—but not this. Not a girl in nothing but a towel looking at three armed men as if they were a minor delay before her evening plans.

Alisha sighed, tugging her towel tighter around her chest. "Come on then," she muttered, her hands curling into fists, ready if they made the mistake of getting too close.

The three men grinned, teeth yellowed and jagged, the kind that told her they hadn’t seen a toothbrush in years.

Before they could act, the door exploded open again, this time with Dante standing in the frame, a storm carved into his face. His eyes swept the room, sharp and alert, and the air grew heavier.

The men reacted immediately, springing toward him like wolves lunging at prey. But Dante wasn’t a prey.

He didn’t dodge, didn’t hesitate—he welcomed their attack. The first man went flying backward as Dante’s boot drove into his stomach. The other two tried to grapple him, but with quick, brutal efficiency, he slammed them into the walls and floor.

In less than two minutes, the room was filled with groans. The three men were bruised and broken, struggling to stand, their earlier confidence shattered.

"Who the fuck are you?" one of them rasped, clutching his ribs.

Dante didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on Alisha.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice low but edged with urgency. He moved a step closer, hand halfway raised as if to check her, but she immediately stepped back.

"Why are you always interrupting me when I could have easily handled this?" she snapped, her scowl cutting deeper than any wound could.

"I just saved your life," Dante said, genuine confusion flashing across his face.

"I never asked for it," she shot back.

The men, still groaning on the floor, glanced at each other. One of them—the one with the slashed lips—saw his chance. Crawling toward the gun that had fallen just a few feet away, he grabbed it, his hand trembling but his intent clear.

Dante didn’t notice. His attention was still fixed on Alisha.

The man raised the weapon, aiming directly at Dante’s head. But before his finger could squeeze the trigger, the sharp crack of a gunshot echoed through the room.

The man’s body jerked, then slumped lifelessly to the ground, the gun clattering uselessly beside him.

Alisha’s eyes widened, her breath caught.

The other two barely had time to react before Dante spun, firing two more shots in swift succession. Both men collapsed where they stood, blood pooling beneath them.

Silence crashed into the room. The only sound was Alisha’s uneven breathing and the faint ringing in her ears from the gunfire.

She stared at Dante, her body frozen, her mind struggling to process what had just happened. He had killed them—executed them without hesitation.

Dante turned to her, his chest heaving. His eyes, however, weren’t filled with regret. They were sharp, focused, and strangely calm.

"What have you done?" she demanded, her voice low but sharp like glass. "If you wanted to kill them, you should have done it outside. Now how are you going to get rid of their bodies?"

Her words stunned him. He’d expected her to be horrified, maybe even terrified of him. But instead, she was scolding him for the logistics of the murders.

Dante blinked, struggling to process it, before pulling out his phone. He called Rico.

Within minutes, Rico arrived, his expression morphing into shock when he stepped inside and saw the scene.

"My goodness..." was all he managed, his voice tight with disbelief.

Not long after, a group of Dante’s men entered the room. With unsettling precision, they cleaned up the mess. The bodies were carried out, the blood scrubbed from the carpet, every trace erased as if nothing had happened at all.

Alisha stood there, watching silently. This wasn’t new to her. Blood, violence, cleanup crews—she’d been there before. She didn’t flinch, didn’t judge him. Because her own hands weren’t clean either.

When it was done, Dante looked at her. "Get dressed. I’ll wait for you outside."

He left without another word.

Alisha wasted no time. She slipped into her clothes, fixed her hair, and stepped out into the corridor. But when she looked around, Dante was nowhere to be found.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Typical.

Heading back toward the main hall where the fashion show had been held, she was met with a wave of noise. The event was still alive with chatter and laughter, the glamour of the night undisturbed by the bloodbath that had just taken place upstairs.

She spotted Katherine across the room, surrounded by adoring fans, signing autographs with a smile that was just a little too smug.

But the second the fans noticed Alisha, they abandoned Katherine in an instant, rushing toward Alisha for autographs and selfies.

Katherine’s smile froze. Her eyes widened. Alisha was supposed to be shaken, broken, gone. Yet here she was—alive, radiant, untouchable.

Bethany, standing nearby in her sea-green gown, shared the same shocked expression. How many times was this woman going to escape death?

Before Katherine could compose herself, her phone buzzed violently in her hand. Notifications flooded her screen, one after the other.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she opened one.

Her stomach dropped.

She looked around the room. Guests were staring at their phones, then lifting their eyes toward her, their expressions shifting from admiration to disgust.

On her screen was a single headline from an anonymous post;

Katherine Cross Cheating On Nathan Cross.