REBORN My Second Life I Became The Villianess (Nyxara) novel Chapter 8

I hung the lavender dress in the center of the closet, lit the light, and made sure the room looked inviting for a thief. Then, I turned on the shower, letting the water run to create the illusion that I was occupied 

I slipped out the service door, quiet as a shadow, and headed back to the garage to check on my real dress. Nysa was about to get a front-row seat to the humiliation she thought she was inflicting on me. 

She’d destroy the lavender gown, she’d feel the rush of her petty, pathetic victory, and she would walk into that gala tonight entirely unaware that her downfall had began with that dress. 

I stood under the steaming water, but the heat of the water didn’t even touch the ice cold/burn of revenge that was flowing my veins. My phone was propped up on the vanity, on the screen was the a high- definition feed from the tiny lens I’d hidden in the crown molding of my closet. 

I watched in real-time as Nysa crept into my room. She looked ridiculous and frantic just like a cornered animal. She didn’t even check the corners or check it anyone was around; she went straight for the gown. 

Her expression was a mix of pure, toxic glee as she grabbed a pair of crafting shears from her pocket and went to town on the dress. Snip, rip, shred. She sliced the silk into ribbons, her breathing was ragged and her eyes were wild with that same pathetic, hollow superiority. 

She thought she was ruining my night. She thought she was stripping away my confidence. I didn’t rush. I finished my shower, dried myself off, and wrapped myself in a robe, waiting until the very last second. When the feed showed her slipping out of my room, leaving my closet looking like a crime scene, I finally stepped out. 

I walked into the closet, the fabric of the lavender dress crunched beneath my feet, it was a total disaster. I didn’t even flinch, I just stared at the wreckage, a small, sad smile playing on my lips. It was perfect. I had every second of her tantrum saved on a secure server, timestamped and ready to be used when the time was right. 

Knock. Knock. 

My bedroom door didn’t wait for an answer. My father stormed in, his tie undone and his face twisted into a mask of pure annoyance. He didn’t even glance at the closet; he didn’t care enough to look. 

“Get a move on, Nyxara,” he barked, checking his watch with a sneer. 

“We’re leaving for the gala now. Do not be late. Just meet us there and try to be invisible, I won’t have you embarrassing us tonight.” 

I kept my head down and shoulders hunched, I gave him the most pathetic, wide-eyed look I could muster. “Yes, Father. I’m sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

He didn’t stick around for an apology; he just turned and walked out, his frustration echoing down the hall. I walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain just a fraction. Down in the driveway, the engine of the limousine was purring. 

Nysa stepped out of the house, looking like the picture of fake perfection in her designer gown. Before she climbed into the car, she paused and glanced up at my window. She smirked, that sharp, triumphant, hateful little curl of her lip. 

She thought she’d left me crying in a pile of silk ribbons. I didn’t smirk back, I just stood there, completely still, watching them pull away until the taillights disappeared into the darkness. 

Once they were gone, the timid posture disappeared. I turned away from the window and walked back into the closet. I reached behind the back panel a spot I knew was there from my first life and pulled out the garment bag holding the midnight-blue gown. 

I slid the zipper down. The fabric caught the dim light of the room, shimmering like a weapon. I stepped into the dress, the silk molding to my body as if it had been made for me, because, in a way, it had been. I was sharp, expensive, and it was going to be the catalyst for everything that was about to go wrong for them. 

I sat at the vanity and finished my makeup, drawing a thin line of kohl along my eyelids that made my gaze look colder and more precise. I checked my phone one last time, the footage of Nysa was safe, encrypted, and ready to be weaponized. 

Her face went pale, then a mottled, ugly shade of red. Rage, pure, hot, and desperate screamed behind her eyes. Beside her, my mother looked annoyed, her brow furrowing as she tried to understand why all eyes were on me instead of her precious Nysa. My father, however, held a glass of scotch, a slow, satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. He was impressed, he saw a product he could sell. 

And then there was Dario Valteri. He was standing right next to Nysa, but he might as well have been standing in another room. His eyes were fixed on me, dark and unblinking, tracking my movement as I navigated the floor. He didn’t look confused; he looked intrigued, like a man who had just found a missing piece of a puzzle he didn’t know he was solving. 

I didn’t rush, I took my time ad walked toward them with fluid, practiced grace, my heart was beating in a steady, rhythmic pulse. Every step was a victory. I stopped just a few feet from them, dipping my chin my posture shifting back into the shy, forgotten girl mask. 

I let my voice come out soft, trembling, and perfectly timed to hit the ears of the nearby socialites. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late, everyone,” I murmured, my voice light and hesitant. “I hope I didn’t miss anything too important.” 

I watched Nysa’s hands. She was clenching them into fists so hard her knuckles were white, her breath was coming in shallow, jagged hitches. She wanted to scream and probably claw my eyes out, but she couldn’t Not here and not with everyone watching. 

Internally, I was laughing, I had them exactly where I wanted them right in the palm of my hand. 

The atmosphere around us thickened, shifting from mere curiosity to something much more predatory. My father, sensing an opportunity to pivot the attention back to a Vexari success, signaled for a group of industry titans to join us. These were men who didn’t just move money; they moved markets. 

“Gentlemen,” my father said, his tone dripping with practiced charm. “I’d like you to meet my youngest daughter, Nyxara.”