15 Million Reasons For Revenge

Who is this woman

Alina looked puzzled, “Honey, who’s this Donovan they’re mentioning?” she asked Damian, her brows knitting.

Damian’s reaction was instant. “Quiet,” he hissed, throwing her a sharp glare that made her lips clamp shut. Then, trying to appear casual, he stepped toward the nearest security guard. His tone was awkwardly polite, almost sheepish as he spoke.

“So… it was Mr. Donovan who wanted the club cleared out, right?”

The guard nodded repeatedly, almost too eager to confirm. “Yes, sir. I believe it’s because the man who drove in earlier intends to greet a very important person visiting tonight.”

A ripple of gasps swept through the guests. The music in the background seemed to dim, replaced by whispers. Damian’s eyes widened, and for once, he looked genuinely shaken.

Who was this man they were talking about?

To the public, Mr. Donovan was a polished entrepreneur—charismatic, admired, and generous. But in the underworld? He was a storm in a tailored suit. Ruthless. A name that made even the boldest men think twice before crossing him. The fact that he had come out personally to welcome someone… that was something else entirely.

I leaned back, quietly observing the chaos unfold. Curiosity tugged at me, but I didn’t dwell on it. Whoever this “important person” was, it wasn’t my business. I checked my phone instead—twenty minutes almost up. My assistant should’ve been arriving any second now.

Then came the commotion. The entrance of the club suddenly turned into a parade of greetings.

“Good evening, sir!”

“Welcome, sir!”

“Pleasure to see you, sir!”

Their tones were syrupy, voices almost trembling with respect as they formed a path for the man who had just stepped out. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how much power he held. His gaze swept through the crowd, so calm, calculating, and cold.

“My apologies, everyone. Drinks will be on me later.” he said smoothly, his voice deep and composed.

Before anyone could respond, another man in the crowd chuckled. “It is actually not a big deal, sir. How could we be mad over such a small thing?”

Another voice chimed in, “You’re very kind, coming out to explain to us yourself.”

“Yes, please don’t make a fuss over us!” 

The tension melted away almost instantly. Faces that had been scrunched in irritation moments ago now bloomed with smiles. The air filled with sugary compliments, the kind people used when power was watching.

Mr. Donovan nodded once, acknowledging their words without much expression. He walked to the club’s entrance and stopped by the door, his posture straight, his eyes scanning the driveway like he was waiting for someone. There was something in the way he stood—a subtle reverence. Whoever he was waiting for had to be someone important. Important enough to make him wait.

The crowd, now buzzing with anticipation, decided to stay. Phones lowered, drinks forgotten, everyone wanted to see who this mysterious guest was.

As people shifted aside to clear the way, Damian and Alina’s movement brought them close to where I sat. Alina’s gaze caught mine, she curl her lips in disapproval.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked sharply, as if my presence offended her.

“I’m waiting for someone,” I said flatly.

“Waiting for me, right? Hehe, still hung up on me? Poor and shameless.” Her eyes flicked over me with that same disdain I’d seen a hundred times before, as if I was something she’d scraped off her shoe.

She leaned closer, her perfume thick and cloying, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “Want some heartfelt advice, Ethan?” she whispered, her eyes narrowing into a crescent shape. “Give up.”

For a moment, I couldn’t even find words. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I finally said, meeting her gaze. “I’m not waiting for you.”

“Oh?” She smirked, tilting her head mockingly. “Someone’s in denial. Aw, did I hurt your fragile ego?” Her voice dripped with fake pity before twisting into venom. “You disgust me, Ethan.”

Before I could answer, Damian stepped forward, his grin wide and malicious. “What a coincidence,” he said, his tone filled with mock sympathy. “Running into me again, huh? Unfortunate for you.” His eyes glinted with amusement as he added, “You should get down on your knees and start begging for mercy.”

Get on my knees?

Fuck off.

My hands curled into fists. The old anger was right there, burning under my skin. I could already feel the heat in my veins, the weight of every insult they’d ever thrown at me pressing against my control.

Damian smirked wider. “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you want to be thrashed again. I’m not in the mood tonight—but if you insist…”

Before I could take a step, someone in the crowd shouted, “Look! Someone’s coming!”

The noise around us shifted instantly. I turned my head, following everyone’s gaze. A sleek, black luxury car rolled to a stop in front of the club. The headlights dimmed, reflecting off the polished hood. The man who had arrived earlier suddenly straightened, his demeanor flipping from arrogant to almost reverent. He hurried toward the car and bowed deeply, lowering his head like a servant before a king.

The crowd went silent for a beat, then erupted in whispers.

“My god,” someone gasped, “that guy’s actually bowing! To whoever’s in that car?”

“Unimaginable! Who could it be?”

Even Damian and Alina turned their attention toward the commotion. Alina frowned, her eyes narrowing at the glossy black car. “Seriously? What kind of ‘important person’ drives a lousy Mercedes?”

Damian shot her a glare. “Are you an idiot? That’s a Volcanus Maybach. First class. Do you really think that’s some regular Mercedes?”

Her mouth parted slightly. “Woah… so it’s worth, what, over a hundred thousand?” Her voice was suddenly sweet, eager.

Damian chuckled darkly. “A regular Maybach’s a hundred grand, but the custom mods on that beast cost more than the car itself.”

Alina’s eyes practically sparkled. “Spending hundreds of thousands just to make a car look low-key… so rich.” She gulped, eyes darting toward Damian as if realizing what she’d just said out loud. He ignored her, too fixated on the car to care.

Then the soft click of locks echoed through the air.

Two BMW 7 Series parked behind the Maybach, their doors opening in perfect sync. Eight men stepped out, all in matching black suits. They moved like shadows—cold, precise, radiating an aura that made the air feel heavier.

Bodyguards, no doubt. But not the kind you hire off a security list.

These men had seen blood.

Even Mr. Donovan took a cautious step back, his face pale. For a veteran in underground circles like him to flinch… that said everything.

The crowd murmured in awe as the door of the black car opened.

A slender leg stepped out, black high heel touching the pavement with the kind of grace that silenced even the loudest whispers. The movement was elegant, commanding, the kind of entrance that turned heads without trying.

Someone gasped behind me. “It’s… a woman?”

She stepped out and the world flattened for a heartbeat.

Up close, she was almost painfully beautiful almost made people stop breathing. She looked like she was in her early twenties, with a porcelain complexion. Her skin had that cool, milky translucence. Her eyes were midnight — deep, unreadable, fringed with long dark lashes — and when they glanced over the crowd they held nothing and everything at once: a bored, sovereign calm that made men feel lucky to be noticed.

She wore an exquisite black suit that hugged her the right way. Black silk stockings wrapped her long legs. She moved with a predator’s grace, with a half-smile that never quite reached her eyes, felt like a quiet challenge. There was a seductive arrogance about her — not needy or inviting, but contained, powerful. You wanted to conquer her, to make her look your way and stay; you wanted to possess that cool aloofness.

The crowd started to murmur like a tide rolling in.

“Beautiful,” someone breathed.

“How can there be a woman this beautiful in the world?” 

“Is this the person Mr—” someone began, and the rest of the question fell into a collective hush.

My heart gave an odd, small leap. That face. The posture. My mind snagged on a ridiculous thought: could she be the woman who’d been on the phone? The one who’d said my father had sent the money? I have my eyes fixed on her.

Mr. Donovan approached her with all the deference of someone greeting his king. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Whitemore,” he said, his voice hollow with awe. “I’m the director of Mirage Real Estate. An honor, truly.”

Seeing him bow deep before her confirmed the chill suspicion in my bones. He looked like a subordinate greeting a leader, not the other way around. The kinds of cracked crowns you saw in the underworld didn’t bend like that unless they were terrified of the boot about to step on them.

She glanced at him once, her mouth drawing back. "You're not the person I’m looking for,” she said.

The man flinched. “Ms. Whitemore, I’m truly sorry,” he stammered, bowing even deeper, eyes sincere as a beggar’s. “Since you arrived in Miami, every influential group here has been watching your movements closely. They mean no harm — they are cooperating with the Cole Group, which you represent. I only asked for a few minutes so I might update you on Mirage Real Estate. I can guarantee the club is clear; no one will disturb you.”