Page 120 of Damsel in Disguise

Getting Ariella arrested has already unsettled the Keinston family. Agitation ripples beneath their polished exterior, though they’ll never allow it to surface publicly.

They’re doing what they do best—scrubbing, rewriting, erasing. Their name remains spotless to the point of suspicion.

I’ve heard enough over the years to know the current heads—Adrian Keinston and Asher Keinston—have ties that stretch far beyond corporate boardrooms. Russian Bratva currently residing in Australia. Early allegiance under Mafia Prince Nico Vangelus Trivosky.

Men like them don’t simply transition into legitimate power. They carry their past with them, buried beneath tailored suits and controlled smiles.

Now Ariella Keinston is no different. And that’s exactly what the Triarch Dominion has been wanting to find out about her ever since she was flagged on their radar.

It’s been two days since she’s been locked away.

I scoff with disdain.

Her naivety is too offensive. If she had agreed to work with me from the beginning, she could’ve avoided this entire drama.

No arrest. No exposure. No unnecessary involvement from her family.

But of course she didn’t.

Which leaves her where she is now—with very limited options. Two, to be precise.

And if she possesses even a fraction of the intelligence she pretends to wield, she’ll choose the second.

A doctor escorts me down the corridor, his voice a constant drone of precautionary instructions. Safety protocols spill from his mouth one after another, as though he’s briefing me for proximity to something volatile, much too dangerous, and entirely unpredictable.

‘A borderline psychopath,’ according to them. I almost laugh. If that’s their conclusion, I almost wonder what diagnosis they would assign to me.

We stop in front of a set of stark white doors. He turns to me, repeating himself for what must be the third time, his tone firm but laced with unease.

“Remember to maintain at least one foot distance from her,” he presses a small stun-gun into my palm. “Use this if she becomes aggressive.”

I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

The door unlocks, and I quietly step inside. The sterile air brushes cold against my skin.

She notices my presence immediately.

I can tell by the subtle shift in her posture, the way her body stills for a fraction of a second.

But she doesn’t acknowledge me.

A pop melody—Boy is Mine by Ariana Grande—bleeds through the room, soft at first, then invades the silence.

My head turns toward the TV, then back to Ariella.

She’s replaying it again.

And again.

And again.

Not watching—studying.

There’s something disturbingly intimate about the way her attention clings to every frame, not consuming the story but reliving it.

It’s almost poetic in a grotesque way. A condensed dark romance—girl breaks into a politician’s glass-walled sanctuary, watches him in his most unguarded moments. When he notices her and makes an attempt to flee, she catches him and tries to feed him a love potion. He removes her mask and throws away the potion. The screen goes dark.

The epilogue shows they’re living a happily ever after.