Game On
Gigi’s phone buzzed nonstop.
Blocked cards. Frozen accounts. Rent unpaid. Her luxury condo? Gone. The handbags? Confiscated for debt. The staff? Walked out the moment their salaries bounced. Even the chef that used to prep her breakfast smoothies sent a petty text: “Best of luck, ma’am.”
Her mother called, voice shaking. “Gigi… we can’t access our account. What’s happening?”
She hung up.
The Vaughn accounts had been severed. No more black cards. No more designer deliveries.
And worst of all?
No more name to stand on.
The video dropped like a bomb.
Someone leaked footage from a hotel suite. Gigi. Laughing. Drunk. Seducing Sebastian Vaughn, Rowans grandfather and long-time rival.
Then another clip.
She was heard saying, “Rowan’s just a stepping stone. Once I have his name, I’ll bleed the rest dry.”
Within hours, #VaughnVenom trended.
The invitations stopped. PR firms blacklisted her. Even the charity foundations—her last refuge—scrubbed her name from their website. A journalist asked if she had any comment. She slammed the door.
****
At an elite garden gala two nights later, Rowan showed up in a clean black suit, flanked by Jo and Cedric—now back in the public eye.
Gigi was already there, hiding in the corner. She’d forced her way in using an old connection, wearing a gown she couldn’t afford.
When she saw him, she rushed over. Makeup too bright. Smile trembling.
“Rowan,” she whispered. “Can we talk?”
He didn’t stop walking.
She stepped in front of him.
“Please,” she said louder. “I made a mistake. I was angry, hurt. But I loved you—”
Rowan looked at her calmly. Voice even. No emotion.
“You ruined yourself,” he said. “I just stepped back and let it happen.”
The hush that fell was thick and immediate.
People stared. Whispers started.
And Rowan walked past her without even a glance back.
****
Gigi’s screams echoed through Lucious Davenport’s estate.
She slammed her fists on his office door. “You used me!”
Lucious looked up from his desk, the tension in his jaw deadly quiet. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “You used yourself. I just let you.”
“You promised me the Vaughn fortune—”
“I promised you nothing.”
Gigi stepped closer, but the flicker in his eyes was warning enough. Still, she pushed. “I lost everything because of you!”
That’s when he stood.
And without warning—he slapped her. The back of his hand cracked across her cheek, sending her stumbling into a glass cabinet. She gasped, holding her face, tears mixing with blood from a small cut on her lip.
“You think I give a damn about your tears?” he growled. “You were leverage. Now you’re noise.”
He nodded to his guards. “Get this parasite out of my house.”
“Lucious, please—!”
“Dump her wherever. Just make sure it’s far from me.”
Two guards grabbed her by the arms. She kicked, screamed, tried to scratch—but they dragged her out. The gates closed behind her, and the next time she opened her eyes, she was lying on the side of a dirt road, mascara smudged, dress torn, heart empty.
At the same time, Lucious’s world began to crumble.
The first hit? A formal investigation. Whispers turned to headlines.
Fraud. Embezzlement. Bribery.
Anonymous files reached regulatory bodies—tax audits, falsified shipping documents, shell companies tied to drug trafficking. Cedric had kept receipts, apparently. Rowan too.
Then came the betrayal from within.
His own blood.
His niece, a rising junior executive, quietly flipped. Gave the authorities everything in exchange for immunity. Names. Locations. Codes.
Lucious didn’t even see it coming.
The arrest was humiliating.
They walked into his office in the middle of a shareholder briefing.
“You’re under arrest for financial crimes under federal statute—”
Lucious didn’t blink.
But his board did.
By the time he reached the holding cell, his empire had started vanishing. Clients pulled out. International branches dissolved. His name was removed from the company he spent decades building.
In one week, he became a ghost in the industry.
The Vaughns didn’t have to lift a finger.
They just had to be patient.
He was given bail but his trial would be taken to court.
Lucious sat alone in his private office—what was left of it. The lights were dim, the air stale, thick with the kind of silence that made men go mad.
Dust clung to untouched files. The once-constant hum of phone calls, assistants, and board meetings had gone dead. All that remained was the soft whirring of a television overhead.
It played like a sick joke.
"The Vaughn Empire Expands into AI: A New Era for the Family Legacy," the anchor announced with a smile that made Lucious' fingers twitch.
His jaw clenched as the screen shifted to Rowan, standing tall, charismatic, shaking hands with world leaders. Applauded. Praised. Celebrated.
Lucious let out a short laugh.
Not the amused kind.
The broken kind.
He stood up and hurled a paperweight at the screen. The television shattered, sparks flying, shards raining across the floor.
“All of it,” he muttered to himself. “Gone.”
His empire. His legacy. His allies.
He had orchestrated deaths. Accidents. Deals in the shadows. And for what?
To watch a man half his age take everything from him without even raising a damn voice.
He sat back down.
No guards. No staff. No one to pour his drink. He poured it himself with shaky hands.
Remi hadn’t died.
Rowan hadn’t crumbled.
The Vaughns hadn’t fallen.
The revenge he had built his life on—was hollow. A failed campaign. A crumbling tomb.
The sound of the news replayed in his head.
“Rowan Vaughn leads a generational shift in business...”
“...poised to become one of the most influential families in the world.”
Lucious tilted his head and laughed again. But there was no strength left in it. No madness either. Just the sharp, final edge of futility.
He reached for the drawer under his desk. Pulled it open.
The cold steel of the pistol stared back at him.
He ran his thumb along the barrel. Slow. Careful. Thoughtful.
Then he pressed the gun to the side of his head and closed his eyes.
“Congrats, Rowan,” he muttered. “You won.”
A pause.
“But in my next life…”
His lips twitched.
“You won’t.”
His finger tightened.
“Game on.”
And the sound that followed was the last note of a ruined man’s symphony.
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