365-Days Burning Vengeance

Morana's Point of View

Back at the Blairs' mansion, I sat in my room with a glass of champagne in hand, the events of the day replaying in my mind like a favorite movie. I laughed, louder and louder, until my ribs ached.

If I could, I would pay to rewatch it all over again. My little accomplishment had left a sweet taste of victory, but as I savored the moment, those haunting words echoed in my mind.

"Three hundred and sixty-five days. That is the time you have to carry out your revenge."

The laughter died in my throat, replaced by a creeping seriousness. Could it really be true that people get reborn? That I had been granted this impossible second chance? The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

I couldn't fail. The consequences for failure were grave, far more severe than death itself.

"You will cease to exist. Your soul will turn to dust and vanish, leaving no trace of you in any realm."

I shuddered, gripping the champagne flute tightly. I couldn't afford to waste a single day. But revenge wasn't my only priority. If I was going to make my enemies pay, I needed to first rebuild what I had lost.

My name.

My career.

My image.

I used to be one of the most sought-after models in the industry, until she joined. Sophia. My so-called sister. It wasn't enough for her to take the spotlight; she needed to destroy me completely. And I let her—because I was forced to.

The memory came rushing back, vivid and cruel. It was the night of that runway show, the one that changed everything. I'd been preparing for weeks, perfecting every step, every pose.

It was supposed to be my moment, my triumph. But just hours before the show, my stepmother cornered me in the dimly lit backstage corridor.

Her cold, calculating eyes bore into mine as she grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. "Morana," she began, her voice deceptively calm, "you know how much your grandfather means to you, don't you?"

"Of course," I replied, already uneasy.

"Then you'll do exactly as I say," she said, leaning in closer. "If you step onto that stage tonight and try to outshine Sophia, your grandfather will pay the price."

I froze. "What are you talking about?" My voice trembled as I stared at her.

She smirked, pulling her phone out and showing me a photo. My grandfather, frail and vulnerable, was sitting in what looked like an abandoned room, fear evident in his eyes.

"You wouldn't," I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes.

"Try me," she snapped. "All it takes is one call, Morana. One call, and he's gone. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"Please," I begged, falling to my knees. "Don't do this. He's all I have left."

"Then ruin the show," she said coldly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Create a spectacle. Make them hate you. Or he dies."

I clutched her skirt, sobbing. "I'll do anything else. Please, just....."

"Enough!" she barked, pulling away from me. "You're wasting my time. Do as you're told, or suffer the consequences."

I watched her walk away, her heels clicking against the floor. My world shattered in that moment.

The flashback twisted, morphing into the chaotic scene on the runway.

The bright lights blinded me as I stepped onto the stage, my heart pounding in my chest. The audience was packed—fashion elites, reporters, photographers. All eyes were on me.

I stumbled deliberately, my heels catching on the edge of my dress. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

"Is she drunk?" someone whispered from the front row.

"What's wrong with her?" another murmured.

I pressed forward, faking a clumsy turn that sent one of my straps snapping. The gown slipped off one shoulder, exposing more than I intended. The camera flashes intensified, and I could hear the sharp intake of breaths.

"This is a disaster," someone hissed.

I tripped again, falling to my knees this time, the hem of my dress tearing loudly. My hands shook as I pushed myself up, my face burning with shame.

"She's ruining the show!"

"Unbelievable! Who let her walk?"

The whispers turned into outright murmurs, a cacophony of judgment and ridicule. I could feel their eyes on me, dissecting every move, every stumble.

I turned my head slightly and saw Sophia backstage, her expression smug, her arms crossed as she watched my public humiliation unfold.

Tears blurred my vision as I made my final stumble, storming off the runway to a chorus of shocked murmurs and disapproving stares.

That night, the media shredded me to pieces. Headlines screamed about my "meltdown," my "unprofessionalism," my "fall from grace."

My fans abandoned me, my agency cut ties, and Sophia took the crown.

Back in my room, I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as the humiliation washed over me anew.

"This time," I muttered aloud, my voice cold and steady, "they'll regret everything they did to me."

For now, I needed a plan. I would start by rebuilding my reputation, reclaiming my title as the queen of the runway. But I wouldn't stop there. One by one, those who hurt me, who killed me and my child, would face the consequences.

I was still lost in thought, reliving the humiliation I had endured and the fire of vengeance now blazing within me, when the door to my room slammed open.

My head snapped up, startled, and there she was—Isabella. Her face was a mask of fury, her eyes burning with hatred. Before I could react, her hand flew across my face, the slap sharp and stinging.

The force of it sent my head whipping to the side. My cheek burned, but I refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Slowly, I raised my hand to touch the spot where her hand had struck, feigning shock and timidity.

"What was that for?" I asked softly, keeping my voice low, almost meek.

Her sneer deepened as she took a step closer, towering over me like a vulture circling its prey. "Don't you dare play innocent with me, you little wretch. Do you think I don't know what you did today?"

I blinked, keeping my expression neutral, despite the anger bubbling beneath the surface. "I don't understand....."

"Don't lie to me!" she hissed, her voice venomous as she leaned in.

"You humiliated me, humiliated Sophia, in front of everyone! Do you have any idea how hard I've worked to secure her place in society? And now, you've destroyed everything!"

I let my lips tremble slightly, my head bowing as though in shame. "I didn't mean to cause trouble," I murmured, my voice trembling for effect. "It was an accident....."

"Accident?" She laughed, a cold, hollow sound that sent a chill through the room. "You expect me to believe that? No, Morana. You did this deliberately, and you're going to pay for it."

Her words were sharp, cutting through the air like a blade, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I sank to my knees, clasping my hands in mock supplication.

"Please, Isabella," I begged, forcing my voice to quiver. "I'm sorry. I'll make it right. Just give me a chance."

But her gaze only hardened. "Pathetic," she spat. "You've always been pathetic, Morana. Always a thorn in my side. Always defying me."

She turned sharply toward the door, her voice ringing out like a command. "Guards!"

I heard their heavy footsteps before I saw them. Two burly men entered, their faces blank and unfeeling.

"Take her to the basement," Isabella ordered coldly. "Lock her up. No food, no water. Let her rot until she learns her place."

My heart raced, but outwardly, I remained composed. "Please, Isabella," I said, my voice soft, pleading. "I swear, it won't happen again."

Her sneer deepened. "You're pathetic, Morana. Absolutely pathetic."

The guards grabbed my arms, their grip firm as they dragged me toward the door. I didn't fight. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I went willingly, like the obedient puppet I had once been.

The basement was just as I remembered—cold, dark, and suffocating. The air was damp, the walls whispering tales of despair. The door slammed shut behind me, the sound echoing like the final note of a dirge.

For a moment, I stood still, letting the silence settle around me. Then, slowly, a smile crept across my face. Not one of submission, but of quiet, simmering determination.

"This is the last time you will ever have any control over me, Isabella," I whispered into the darkness.

My voice was steady, resolute, a promise to myself and a warning to her. This was the end of my submission. From this moment on, I would play the game, and I would win.