The party was pure chaos, but exactly the kind Zubby Daniels was known for. His billion-dollar mansion pulsed with life - music so loud it could wake the dead, laughter echoing in every corridor, and luxury liquors flowing like water. The who’s who of the city were all here; actors, music icons, politicians, real estate giants like him, all gathered under his roof for one reason: to have a night to remember.

Girls in shimmering designer gowns clung to him like vines, their laughter sharp and intoxicating. They whispered seductions in his ear, fingers trailing over his tailored suit but for the first time in years, he barely noticed. His father’s ultimatum pounded in his head: Tame your reckless ways and find a wife within a year, or your half-brother takes everything. That couldn’t happen. He needed to find a woman. Fast. But not just any woman, one who could change everything.

Something or rather, someone had stolen his attention.

Across the dimly lit lobby, where the music didn’t drown out conversations, she stood alone. A woman in a simple black dress, sharply cut, elegant but nothing flashy. While everyone else was drunk on pleasure, she was pacing, phone pressed to her ear, brows drawn together.

Zubby studied her, intrigued. She wasn’t here to party.

"Who is she?" he murmured to himself.

She didn’t belong in his world of indulgence, yet there she was, standing in the middle of his empire like a queen with no interest in the throne.

Curiosity won. He steered away from the clinging hands and strolled toward her.

"First time at one of my parties?" His voice was smooth, confident.

She barely spared him a glance, focused on her call. Her lips parted slightly. "Hold on...." she told the person on the line before meeting his gaze.

Zubby had seen women faint at the sight of him. This one? Not even a flicker of recognition.

Interesting.

"You look lost," he pressed, tilting his head.

"You look persistent," she countered, unimpressed.

Zubby chuckled. “It’s called making conversation.”

“I’m not here to mingle.”

“Then what are you here for?”

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and suddenly, her expression changed. Something urgent. Dangerous.

She turned on her heels and walked away, fast. A sleek black car pulled up just as she stepped outside. She jumped in, doors slamming shut before he could say another word.

The car sped off into the night.

Zubby stared after it, something sharp and unfamiliar tugging at his chest. What the hell was that?

"Boss," a voice murmured in his ear.

His PA, Sam, had materialized beside him.

“She’s coming.”

Zubby’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need a name to know who she was.

"Who the hell invited Vanessa?" he asked, his voice sharp.

Sam didn’t answer. Zubby cursed under his breath.

He didn’t want this drama - not tonight. Without another word, he turned and disappeared through the back exit.

Moments later, the doors to his mansion were thrown open.

Three women walked in.

And the party turned into war.

Vanessa Peters, in a crimson gown that screamed power and destruction, led the charge. Her two friends, just as stunning, flanked her like an army.

Her eyes scanned the room, sharp and unforgiving.

“Where’s that idiot?” she snapped.

Her friend winced. “Vanessa, maybe we shouldn’t...”

“I don’t see him anywhere,” the third woman said, ignoring the warning.

Vanessa smirked. "Then we’ll make sure he knows we were here."

She grabbed a glass from a passing waiter, downed it in one go, then threw it onto the floor.

The music stopped.

Heads turned.

Vanessa wasn’t here to party, she was here to raise hell.

She grabbed a random man’s tie, yanked him toward her, and whispered something in his ear that made his girlfriend scream in outrage. Her friends danced on tables, knocked over drinks, snatched champagne bottles from VIP guests.

It was a full-blown scandal waiting to explode.

And then...

BANG! BANG!

Gunshots.

Screams ripped through the air.

Two police officers stormed in, guns raised.

Zubby’s party had just turned into a crime scene.

***

Vanessa slammed her palms against the cold metal table, rage coursing through her veins.

“How dare you?” she spat, her voice cutting through the tension in the dimly lit interrogation room. “Do you know who I am?”

The detective sitting across from her barely lifted a brow. He was used to rich people throwing tantrums. This one? She was a hurricane.

“Haven’t you heard of Sir Peter’s Heiress?” Vanessa snapped. “CEO of Peter’s Group? What am I doing here?”

The detective leaned forward, unimpressed. “You and your little entourage were causing a riot. Breaking glasses, fighting, disturbing the neighborhood...oh, and did I mention? Someone got stabbed.”

Vanessa’s breath hitched. “What?”

“A neighbour called us,” the detective continued. “This is the richest neighborhood in the city, Miss Peters. We don’t get bar brawls at billion-dollar mansions.”

Vanessa’s nostrils flared. “Gina!” she barked, spinning toward her friend.

Gina, still looking shaken from the sudden arrest, fumbled for her phone. “I’m calling your lawyer again, Nessa.”

“You better.” Vanessa folded her arms and glared at the detective. “You’ll regret this.”

The man chuckled. “Oh, I’m shaking.”

Vanessa opened her mouth to unleash another storm, but just then...

The interrogation room door swung open.

A sharply dressed man in a navy suit strolled in, calm but lethal.

“Miss Peters will be leaving now,” he said, placing a signed document on the table.

The detective scowled. “She should be detained.”

“Try it.” The lawyer smirked. “And expect a lawsuit so big, your grandchildren will be paying for it.”

The detective exhaled sharply, kicking his chair back. “Fine. Take her. But this isn’t over.”

Vanessa flipped her hair. “It was over the second I walked in.”

She turned on her heels, her friends scrambling to follow.

Outside the station, her black Mercedes G55 was already waiting.

Her driver, a sturdy man in a crisp black suit, held the door open. “Miss Peters.”

Vanessa slid inside, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the car.

“Zubby,” she seethed.

Her fingers dug into her designer clutch as she thought of him.

“That bastard called the cops,” she hissed.

Gina shifted uncomfortably. “We… don’t know that for sure.”

“Oh, I know,” Vanessa snapped. “And he’s going to wish he never messed with me.”

The G-Wagon’s tires screeched against the pavement as they sped into the night.

She wasn’t done yet.

Not even close.