**I want to kill her.**

This thought cut through my mind with terrifying clarity, like a blade slicing flesh. Standing at the Metropolitan Museum's Charity Gala in Manhattan, I held a champagne flute with a perfect smile plastered on my face. Meanwhile, my other hand gripped a small knife hidden in the folds of my evening gown—its blade thin as a cicada's wing and laced with poison.

Just five meters away from her.

Seraphina Sterling laughed with a cluster of socialites. With her platinum blonde hair and million-dollar diamond necklace, she beamed as though pain and evil had never existed in this world.

As if she'd never pressed scalding metal against a fifteen-year-old girl's skin.

My fingers tightened around the cold knife handle. All I needed was to walk over, fake an embrace, and plunge the blade into her heart. Quick, clean, lethal. I could end it all right here, surrounded by the powerful and privileged, with hundreds of witnesses.

But I stopped myself.

Not from fear or conscience, but because—it would be too damn merciful for her.

I'd spent eighteen years clawing my way back from hell. I couldn't just let her die. No, I wanted her to feel every ounce of pain, every second of despair I'd endured. I needed to watch her world crumble piece by piece, just as she'd shattered mine years ago.

I released the knife and lifted my champagne glass instead.

Just then, she turned, and our eyes locked across the crowd.

One heartbeat. Two.

Her gaze swept across my face with that polite yet distant smile—the standard upper-class expression for strangers. Then her smile froze, her pupils contracting slightly.

She recognized me.

No. Impossible. The woman I am now bears no resemblance to that poor, scarred girl who begged through tears eighteen years ago. I've changed my name, my appearance (courtesy of Korea's finest plastic surgeons), everything. Ella Vance died long ago; standing here now is Irala Vance—Columbia University Ph.D. in Educational Psychology, star professor at Whitemore College, and New York high society's newest darling.

She probably just finds me vaguely familiar. After all, victims' faces tend to haunt the nightmares of those who hurt them.

I raised my glass with a slight nod. She hesitated briefly before returning a polite smile and resuming her conversation.

Good. The game has begun.

---

**Eighteen years ago**

Before I tell you about my revenge, you need to understand what she owes me. You need to know why I've dedicated exactly eighteen years of my life to destroying one person.

Let me take you back to that hell.

---

Champagne bubbles popped gently in crystal flutes, though my sense of taste had long been numbed. Manhattan's most luxurious Charity Gala sprawled before me—diamonds and silk glimmering while expensive perfumes hung in the air. In my elegant black evening gown, I moved gracefully among these well-dressed predators, each smile a calculated weapon.

And there stood Seraphina Sterling, right ahead.

Even after so many years, she still radiated brilliance. Platinum blonde hair, diamond necklace, laughing and chatting with her socialite entourage.

My fingertips trembled slightly—not from fear but from anger. The kind of anger suppressed for eighteen years, hot as magma.

Memories flooded back like a tidal wave, dragging me back to the hell I'd endured eighteen years ago.

---

Trinity Academy. The oldest, most elite boarding school on America's East Coast. Gothic architecture gleamed in the New England autumn sunlight, ivy crawling across red brick walls. Students were either heirs to political and business dynasties or Hollywood celebrity offspring. And I, Ella Vance, was the lone anomaly in this ivory tower—a scholarship student from the Brooklyn slums.

I still remember walking into the dormitory that first day. My roommates wore designer casual wear and carried Hermès handbags, while I clutched a worn canvas backpack containing three sets of discount store clothes. Their gazes cut into me like knives, their naked contempt making me wish the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

"Well, look what we have here." A sharp voice cut through the air. I looked up to see Seraphina Sterling.

She stood at the dormitory entrance with perfect features, fair skin, and that innate sense of superiority. Her blue eyes swept coldly over me like I was a defective product at inspection.

"Our charity case has arrived," she said to the girls beside her, her tone casual as if discussing the weather. "Tell me, sweetie, what do your parents do? Janitors? Or maybe convenience store cashiers?"

My cheeks burned instantly. "My mother is a nurse."

"Oh, how noble," she laughed, her smile colder than ice. "Well, welcome to Trinity. I do hope you can... adapt to our environment."

Adapt. That word became bitterly ironic in the days that followed.

Seraphina and her followers—self-dubbed the "Inheritors Club"—turned tormenting me into an art form. They never showed their true colors in front of Professor Davis, but in private, they'd stop at nothing. They poured coffee on my textbooks, scattered breadcrumbs on my bed to attract ants, and stole my clothes in the bathroom, leaving me to sob naked.

But the cruelest incident happened on that cold October evening.

They tricked me into going to the abandoned steam room in the school basement. The place was damp and dark, reeking of mold and rust. When I pushed open the door, I found Seraphina sitting in a chair, holding a plugged-in curling iron. The metal rod glowed red-hot, radiating dangerous heat.

"Take off your top," she commanded, her voice terrifyingly calm.

I stepped back, but the door behind me was already locked. Her three followers blocked my escape, all wearing excited smiles on their faces.

"I said, take off your top." Seraphina repeated, her tone gentle, as if coaxing a child to sleep. "Or I'll have them help you take it off."

My hands trembled as I slowly unbuttoned my shirt. As the fabric slid away, cold air stung my skin, raising goosebumps.

Seraphina stood, her eyes flickering with morbid satisfaction. "You know what, Ella? This world has order. Everyone has their place. And your place will never be here."

When the scorching metal touched my skin, pain shot through my body like lightning. I clenched my teeth, refusing to cry out, but tears streamed down uncontrollably. The curling iron left a small circular scar below my collarbone, the stench of burnt flesh filling the air.

"This is a reminder." Seraphina gently caressed my cheek, her touch as tender as a mother comforting her child. "A reminder for you to never forget what you are."

She branded me twice more. Once on my rib cage, another near my shoulder blade. Each contact turned my world white, the pain robbing me of any ability to think.

"Please..." I finally begged.

"Beg me for what?" Seraphina leaned closer, her warm breath brushing my ear. "Beg me to stop? But we've only just begun. We need to make sure this lesson stays with you for life."

When they finally left, I lay on the cold floor with three horrific burns on my body. Every breath pulled at the wounds, sending waves of pain crashing through me.

But the worst suffering was yet to come.

I tried reporting them. I went to the principal, the dormitory supervisor, even wrote to the school board. Each appeal sank like a stone. The professors ignored my injuries, and the school refused to investigate, dismissing it as "minor friction between students." I realized that in a place where donation size determined who had a voice, mine was insignificant.

In desperation, I called my mother.

"Mom, please, take me home. I can't stay here anymore." I sobbed into the phone, my voice so hoarse I barely recognized it.

"What's wrong, baby?" Mother's voice sounded exhausted. She'd just finished her night shift and was about to rest.

I told her everything. The bullying, the burns, the school's indifference. I thought she'd be furious, would drive over immediately to get me, would fight the whole world to protect her daughter.

But she was silent for a long time.

"Ella, do you know how much we sacrificed to get you into this school? I work twenty-four-hour shifts, live in that damn basement, all hoping you could have a better future. You can't give up because of some petty conflict."

"Petty conflict?" I could hardly believe my ears. "Mom, they burned my skin with heated metal!"

"Kids always exaggerate..."

"I sent you photos!" I was on the verge of breakdown.

Another long silence followed. Then her voice turned even colder: "Adapt to that place, Ella. Learn to fit in. This is your only chance."

Three days later, a man in an expensive suit came to the school. The Sterling family's lawyer. He had a private conversation with the principal for an hour, then found me.

"Miss Vance, we'd like to reach an agreement with you." His voice was gentle and polite, but his eyes were cold as a viper's. "Regarding the... misunderstanding between you and Miss Sterling."

The agreement was simple. I would sign a statement admitting I had lied, that the burns were self-inflicted, and that my accusations against Seraphina were completely fabricated. In exchange, the Sterling family would give my mother money—five thousand dollars. For her, this equaled several months' salary.

"I won't sign it." I gripped the pen tightly, my wrist trembling.

The lawyer smiled slightly, took out his phone and played a recording. It was my mother's voice on a call with someone.

"Five thousand dollars? Really? Oh my God, this could solve all our debt problems... Yes, I'll convince her. Ella can be stubborn sometimes, but she'll understand. For the family, she must understand."

The world collapsed before my eyes.

That evening, mother came. Not to save me, but to ensure I signed. We met in the school's reception room, her eyes showing no anger, no heartache, just fatigue and... relief?

"Sign it, Ella." She pushed the agreement in front of me.

"Mom, you know what they did to me. You saw the photos." My voice was barely a whisper.

"I saw some wounds. Kids roughhouse, bumps and bruises happen." She avoided my gaze. "What five thousand dollars means for us, you should understand."

"So you chose the money?"

She finally looked at me, a flash of guilt in her eyes quickly covered by determination. "I chose reality. Who do you think you are, Ella? Do you think you can stand as an equal with these people? You're just a girl from the slums, and you always will be."

I picked up the pen, my hand trembling. "If I sign this, will you still be my mother?"

Her answer stabbed my heart like a dagger: "If you don't sign, you're no longer my daughter."

As the pen tip moved across the paper, I felt my soul being torn in half.

But the cruelest part wasn't over yet. When I finished signing, as my mother tucked away the check and prepared to leave, I made one last attempt.

"Mom, take me home. Please. We can find another way."

She turned to look at me, her expression more unfamiliar than ever before. Then she raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face.

Crack!

The sharp sound echoed through the quiet room. My cheek burned with pain, but this suffering was nothing compared to the anguish in my heart.

"Never covet things that don't belong to you." Her voice was cold as a knife. "You are not a princess, and this is not your castle. Go back to where you belong, and learn to be grateful for the opportunities others have given you."

She left, leaving me standing alone in that unfamiliar room. Through the blinds, I watched her get into a taxi and leave without looking back. At that moment, I knew I was truly alone in this world.

---

That night, I walked out of the school into New York's rainy October darkness. The rain was ice-cold and piercing, quickly soaking through my uniform. I walked block after block, without destination, without direction.

I thought about dying. Standing on the Brooklyn Bridge, looking down at the churning waters below, I seriously considered jumping. That way, all the pain would end. Seraphina would continue her perfect life, my mother would use that five thousand dollars to pay off her debts, and I would become a tragic story soon forgotten.

But as I swung one leg over the railing, anger conquered despair.

Why? Why let them win? Why let them continue their carefree lives while I pay for their sins with my life?

I slowly backed away to safety, rain and tears mingling as they slid down my cheeks. On that cold night, the old Ella died, and a new Ella was born.

I would survive. Not to forgive, not to forget, but for revenge.

I would make everyone who hurt me pay the price. I would climb to heights they could never reach, then drag them one by one into hell. I would make Seraphina Sterling kneel before me, begging for forgiveness. I would let everyone know that Ella Vance was not someone to be trampled upon at will.

Standing in the rain, I made a vicious oath. I would become more beautiful, smarter, and more powerful than them. I would lurk in the shadows, learn their rules of the game, and then destroy them with their own weapons.

Ten years. I gave myself ten years.

---

Now, the lights of the Charity Gala pull me back to reality. After eighteen years of preparation and countless sleepless nights, I finally stand here. I set down my champagne glass and adjust my gown. The woman in the mirror is dangerously beautiful, with the flames of revenge burning in her eyes.

My phone vibrates again.

"She's looking for you," reads Julian's second text. "She's asking others who that woman in the black dress is."

She's looking for me? She remembers my face? Or is she just... curious?

I turn around and spot Seraphina through the crowd, standing twenty meters away, talking to a middle-aged woman. But her eyes occasionally sweep in my direction.

Our gazes meet again.

This time, she doesn't look away. She stares at me, brows slightly furrowed, as if struggling to remember something. Then she walks toward me.

Each step graceful and unhurried. Each step making my adrenaline surge.

Distance: fifteen meters. Ten meters. Five meters.

She stops before me, her perfect red lips curving into a polite smile. That face, those eyes, even after eighteen years, still remind me of scorching metal and helpless screams.

"Hello." She extends her hand. "I feel like we've met somewhere before?"

I take her hand—the same hand that once pressed against my head, forcing my face into the cold floor. Her skin is smooth and soft, her fingers slender and long, coated with expensive nail polish.

"Really?" I smile, my voice surprisingly calm even to myself. "Maybe we have. New York is such a small world."

She stares at my face for a long time, confusion flickering in her eyes. "What's your name?"

"Irala Vance," I say. "And yours?"

A question to which I already know the answer. But this is part of the game.

"Seraphina Sterling." Her smile grows brighter, but her eyes still scrutinize me. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Vance."

Just then, the host on stage begins to speak, announcing the official start of the banquet. Seraphina releases my hand and turns away gracefully.

But in that moment of turning, she glances back at me once. That look makes my blood freeze instantly.

Because in that second, I see—

Fear.

She recognizes me. Or at least, she's beginning to suspect.

Perfect Revenge: The Dark Sun — Chapter 8

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