The smell always came first.

It was not soft or slow. It wasn't like flowers or food. It came sharp. Fast. Like it had been waiting. Like it had teeth. It was thick, wet and metallic. It was the kind of smell that crawled down your throat and stayed there. It was blood. That smell was always blood.

Even in my sleep, I could feel it. Taste it. Breathe it in. And no matter how many years passed, no matter how hard I tried to bury it deep, that smell would always find a way back.

I was dreaming. I knew I was dreaming, but the nightmare didn’t feel like a dream. It felt real. Too real. The way nightmares from real memories do.

I was small in the dream. Fourteen again. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor behind the long heavy curtain in my father’s office. I still remember the way that curtain smelled. It smelled dusty. Like old books. It was like secrets no one was supposed to hear.

Outside, the rain fell hard. It was a stormy night, the kind that made the windows rattle and the wind scream like it was alive. The chandelier above was swaying just a little, and the glass caught the flashes of lightning. The room was quiet, but not the peaceful kind. It was quiet like the world was holding its breath.

And then it started.

The voices were heard. It was my mother’s voice that was the first to break the silence. I still remember the way she sounded. She sounded so scared. But strong.

"Please, Norman, don’t do this. We trusted you."

Her voice cracked at the end. Like something inside her broke.

Then my father’s voice came, very louder, and angrier. "You bastard. We gave you everything. You were family. My children played with yours."

He was standing near the desk. And I could see his shoes from where I hid, the black leather shoes, polished like always. His legs were stiff. Like he was frozen.

I didn’t understand everything they said that night. Not the business deals that were mentioned. Not the betrayal. But I remember the look in Norman Malcovich’s eyes when he stepped into the light.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t shaking. He was just calm and still. Like he was made of stone. His suit was dark gray, sharp at the edges. His tie was perfect, like he had dressed for a meeting, not a murder.

"You shouldn’t have crossed me," he said as his voice came soft. Almost too soft. Like he wasn’t talking to people but to numbers on a page.

"You ruined us," my father said, stepping forward. "You framed me and you know that….. Norman, you stole the company. You think I won’t fight back?"

Norman didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His hands were inside his coat.

My mother stepped in front of my father, her arms were spread wide. Her nightgown clung to her body, and wet from the open balcony doors behind them. She wasn’t crying. But I could see her chest rising and falling fast. Too fast.

"Think of my daughter Norman, think of Aria," she said. "Please. She’s just a child."

He didn’t even flinch.

He didn’t say anything.

He just reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun.

It was a simple gun. Black in color. Just small. But silent.

My heart started to pound hard against my chest. I bit my lip. Bit it so hard that it bled.

Then came the sound. Not loud like in movies. Just a soft pop. Like a balloon being stepped on.

The first bullet hit my mother.

Her body jerked. Her mouth opened. But no sound came out.

She dropped to the floor like a puppet whose strings were cut. Her blood spread so fast. Red and thick. It touched my father’s shoes in seconds.

He screamed her name. Not loud. Not long. Just once.

Then the second shot came.

My father fell to his knees first, then collapsed beside her. His hand reached for her fingers but stopped just before touching.

And then silence again.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t move.

I stayed behind the curtain with my fingers clutched around the fabric like it was the only thing keeping me from falling apart. The thunder roared again outside. Lightning flashed. But the room stayed frozen.

Norman Malcovich stood over their bodies. Calm and Cold. Like he had just closed a deal. Then he turned and walked away. His shoes clicked against the marble floor as if they were marking time. He didn’t look back. Not once.

That was the last time I saw my parents.

That was the night I died too. At least, the part of me that believed in kindness, In safety, In family died with my parents.

The world I knew ended behind that curtain.

I used to think maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe it was a nightmare made up by my broken mind. But then I would wake up. And I would still smell the blood.

Just like now.

My eyes flew open. And my breath came fast, like I had been running.

I sat up in the small bed, soaked in sweat. My hands trembled as I pushed the hair out of my face. My shirt clung to my skin. The thin blanket I had kicked off during the dream lay twisted around my legs.

The room was dark, but not as dark as the one in my dream. A small lamp buzzed on the nightstand. The bulb flickered once, then settled into a warm glow.

I looked around.

My apartment was small. One room. One bed. One broken sink in the corner and a mirror too cracked to show my face properly. But it was safe. At least for now.

I swung my legs off the bed and stood up. My knees were still shaking. And my heart was still beating too loud.

On the wall in front of me, pinned with an old silver push pin, was a photo.

His face.

Ethan Malcovich.

I stared at him. His sharp jawline. His smug little smile. The same icy gray eyes his father had.

I walked up to the photo. My fingers itched to tear it down. To burn it. To scream.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I just stared.

My chest burned with everything I had buried for years. The pain. The rage. The silence.

Ethan Malcovich. The son of the man who murdered my parents. The man who walked over my father’s dead body and called it ambition.

I knew I’d meet him tonight. At the gala.

I had waited years for this moment. I have trained myself. I learned so many things. Got starved. I hid. Everything was just for tonight.

And yet… the dream still shook me.

My eyes stung.

I stepped back from the wall and let out a long breath.

I wasn’t that girl anymore. I wasn’t the child hiding behind a curtain. I wasn’t weak. Not anymore.

I had a plan. I had a mission.

And Ethan Malcovich had no idea who was walking into his life tonight.

I looked at his face one more time.

"Your father killed mine," I whispered, my voice low, and raw.

Then I narrowed my eyes.

"And now, Ethan Malcovich... I’ll take everything from you."

I walked to the cracked mirror and stared at my reflection.

There were shadows under my eyes. My lips were dry. But my gaze? It was steady. Very cold. Like fire that turned to ice.

I pulled my coat off the chair, slipped it on slowly.

My fingers brushed the invitation I had stolen weeks ago from a woman who never knew what hit her.

Tonight was the night.

I would smile. And my smile would charm him. I would make Ethan believe I was just another pretty face with sharp words and soft hands.

And when he fell for me?

I would make sure he lost everything.