Chapter 1: The Silk Ghost
The monsoon rain lashed against the tinted windows of the black sedan, blurring the neon lights of Bangkok into streaks of gold and crimson. Inside, Pakpao—now known only as Paul—watched the raindrops race.
Ten years.
Ten years since she was escorted out of the Varma Estate in the back of a police cruiser, her stepmother's feigned tears still ringing in her ears. Back then, she was the rebellious heir with short hair and a defiant heart. Today, she was a ghost in a bespoke suit, her presence sculpted by cold discipline and a singular, sharp purpose.
"We are arriving, Khun Paul," her assistant, Wit, said quietly.
"The documents?"
"In the briefcase. The offshore accounts Sunee has been hiding are flagged. One word from you, and the audit begins."
Pakpao straightened her silk tie—Varma silk, ironically. The very fabric her grandfather had built an empire on. She stepped out of the car, the humid air instantly clinging to her skin. She didn't head for the main entrance. She wanted to see them before they saw her.
The Lion's Den
The gala was a sea of false smiles. At the far end of the hall, her father, Somchai, looked older, his stature diminished. Beside him sat Sunee, looking like a queen in a traditional pha biang that cost more than a worker's yearly salary. And there was Kitt—the stepbrother who had planted the forged ledgers in Pakpao's desk a decade ago. He was laughing, clinking glasses with a group of investors.
Pakpao felt the familiar ice in her veins. She began to move through the crowd, her stride long and confident. She was a "Masc" lead in every sense—commanding the space, her aura projecting a quiet power that made people instinctively step aside.
"You look like you're planning a murder, or a takeover," a voice remarked.
Pakpao stopped. Standing by a pillar was a woman who didn't fit the frantic energy of the room. She wore a champagne-colored gown that draped over her curves like liquid moonlight. Her hair was swept up, exposing a long, elegant neck, but it was her eyes—piercing and intelligent—that caught Pakpao off guard.
This was Rin Siri-Aroon. The daughter of the textile industry's most respected family. And, as of three months ago, Kitt's fiancée.
"A takeover is much cleaner," Pakpao replied, her voice a low, melodic baritone. "Less paperwork."
Rin tilted her head, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. "Most people here are trying to impress the Varmas. You look like you're measuring them for a casket."
"I have a keen eye for tailoring," Pakpao said, stepping closer. The scent of Rin's perfume—sandalwood and jasmine—hit her, momentarily distracting her from the sight of her stepmother across the room. "I'm Paul. I represent the VC firm looking into the merger."
"I know who you are," Rin whispered, her gaze dropping to Pakpao's lips before returning to her eyes. The "slow burn" didn't start with a spark; it started with a heavy, magnetic pull. "But I don't think you're here for the silk, Mr. Paul."
The First Crack
Before Pakpao could respond, Kitt appeared. "Rin, darling! There you are." He slid a possessive arm around Rin's waist. Pakpao's jaw tightened, a reaction she hadn't expected. She hated Kitt, yes—but seeing his hand on this woman felt like a personal affront.
"Kitt," Pakpao said, her voice like grinding stone.
"Paul! Glad you could make it," Kitt said, oblivious. "I was just telling my father that your firm is the key to our expansion. Rin, this is the man who's going to make us the biggest name in Asia."
"I look forward to seeing exactly what he's capable of," Rin said, her eyes never leaving Pakpao's.
As Kitt pulled Rin away to greet another guest, Rin looked back over her shoulder. It was a brief, lingering look—one that communicated she knew "Paul" was a mask, and she was interested in what lay beneath.
Pakpao watched them go, her hand tightening around her champagne glass until her knuckles turned white. The plan was simple: Use Rin's family assets to overextend the Varmas, then pull the rug out, leaving Kitt and Sunee with nothing.
But as she watched Rin move through the room, Pakpao realized that the "Replacement Heir" wasn't the only one playing a dangerous game. For the first time in ten years, Pakpao felt a flicker of something other than hate.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.