《UNRAVELING US – Twisted Fate, Love, and Betrayal》

He was darkness. She was light. But in the end, they both burned.

Some stories should have never began.

Liana Bennet has spent her life proving her worth. To her father, to the world, to herself. A journalist desperate to make a name for herself, she takes on the one story that could change everything- the mystery behind the country’s most enigmatic nightlife empire, Stasya Noir. But the deeper she digs, the more the lines between right and wrong blur, and at the center of it all stands a man who is both the answer and the problem-

Aleksander Sokolov.

Cold. Calculated. Untouchable. Alek has built walls no one can break. But when Liana walks into his world, curiosity turns into obsession, and enemies turn into something far more dangerous. As their fiery connection ignites, secrets unravel. Lies bleed into the truth. And soon, neither of them can escape the storm that’s been waiting to consume them both.

A past soaked in betrayal.

A present tangled in deception.

And a future neither of them saw coming.

Because the sins of the past were never buried.

And when the truth finally comes to light, love might not be enough to save them.

UNRAVELING US – A story of twisted fate, love, and betrayal.

Coming soon.

...ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ...

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...LIANA BENNET...

The first thing that hits me is the scent- something intoxicatingly rich, like aged whiskey poured over secrets, tangled with the bite of cigarette smoke and the kind of cologne that costs more than my rent. It’s heady, consuming, and just for a second, I feel like I’ve stepped into a world I have no business being in.

Then again, that’s exactly why I’m here.

Stasya Noir.

To the outside world, it’s just another high-end restobar, tucked between luxury boutiques and five-star hotels. Understated. Exclusive. The kind of place where power and money breathe the same air, where names aren’t exchanged but numbers are, and where sins are committed under the hush of crystal chandeliers. But the moment you step inside, the illusion shatters.

Golden light drips from the ceiling, casting a honeyed glow over velvet seats and marble floors polished to a mirror shine. The deep hum of jazz bleeds into the pulse of a distant DJ set, creating a rhythm that shouldn’t make sense but somehow does. And the people? They’re the kind you don’t expect to see in the same room- politicians, A-List actors, billionaires, criminals. New money. Old money. Powerhouses with unreadable expressions, draped in designer and diamonds, speaking in hushed tones as if the walls themselves are listening.

Maybe they are.

I move deeper into the space, my boots a quiet contrast to the expensive Louboutins clicking against marble. Unlike the sleek suits and silk dresses around me, I’m in my usual jeans, a black tee, and a leather jacket worn soft with time. If anyone cared to notice fashion then they might probably wonder who let the stray in. I know I look out of place. That’s the point. If I blend in too well, I risk standing out for all the wrong reasons.

Journalists aren’t welcome here.

Which is exactly why I have to be here.

I weave through the crowd, taking mental notes, my heart a steady drum against my ribs. My seniors at Vérité Global told me Stasya Noir was untouchable, that whatever happens behind its gilded doors stays buried. The last journalist who tried to uncover its secrets disappeared off the media map overnight. But if I crack this? If I get something solid? I won’t just keep my job-...I’ll make my career.

And after everything I’ve clawed my way through, failure isn’t an option.

Lost in thought, I don’t see the waiter until it’s too late.

“Shit—”

Glasses clink violently as I collide into him, liquid sloshing dangerously close to spilling. His tray wobbles, but he’s quick, adjusting the weight before anything crashes. I exhale sharply.

“Sorry,” I murmur, flashing an apologetic smile. To soften the impact, I grab a random glass from the tray, raising it slightly. “For the trouble.”

The waiter eyes me but doesn’t question it. Smart. Questioning things here probably doesn’t end well.

Drink in hand, I slip onto a barstool, keeping my gaze sharp, my presence unobtrusive. I’ve barely settled when my phone buzzes against my palm.

Manager Julia: Where are you?

I sigh, already dreading this conversation.

Me: Working.

Manager Julia: Working or slacking?

Me: If you mean ‘risking my ass in a place where journalists aren’t welcome,’ then yes. Working.

Manager Julia: You better have something worth the risk, Liana. The final project is in two months. If you screw this up, you’re out. No second chances.

Me: Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.

Manager Julia: I don’t deal in confidence. I deal in results. Get me something solid. And don’t get caught.

I lock my phone, pressing my lips together. That’s Julia for you- mid-forties, all business, no bullshit. She doesn’t just want a story. She wants the story.

And so do I.

A year ago, I thought I’d be wearing a power suit, making closing arguments in a courtroom like my father. Instead, I flunked the bar exam. Once. Twice. By the third time, I had to admit that maybe law wasn’t for me. But journalism? Digging into the dirt, uncovering things people want to stay buried? That, I could do.

That, I had to do.

I clawed my way up from an intern to a staff writer at one of the top media firms, learning how to survive in an industry that thrives on pressure and deadlines. Now, my entire career hangs on this investigation. Stasya Noir isn’t just another assignment. It’s my lifeline.

I take a slow sip of my drink, letting the burn settle in my chest as my gaze flickers across the room.

I don’t know what I’m looking for yet.

But I know one thing.

Secrets don’t stay buried forever.

And tonight, I plan to start digging.

----------------

An hour seems to pass, though it feels like longer. I stand at the restroom sink, washing my hands, watching the water swirl down the drain like my patience. The dim golden lighting in here is softer than the rest of the place, but it doesn’t hide the exhaustion settling on my face. My reflection stares back at me- messy waves of dark brown hair, eyes that are a little too sharp from analyzing every damn detail in this club, and a frown that refuses to budge.

I sigh, dragging a damp hand down my face. Nothing. Nothing worth my time, nothing remotely close to what I expected. So far, Stasya Noir has offered me expensive cocktails, music that shifts between jazz and deep bass drops, and a floor full of almost respectable people dry-humping each other like they’re in some underground den of sin.

And it’s not just people.

Oh no. That would be too normal.

It’s A-list celebrities- the kind who sit prim and proper in interviews, flashing their pristine smiles, talking about yoga and organic diets. The kind who win humanitarian awards and thank their grandmothers at the Oscars. Yet here they are, grinding against each other like the cameras don’t exist, like their million-dollar reputations don’t hang by a thread. I just watched an actor- whose entire career is built on playing devoted husbands in romance films- get a little too devoted to a woman who is not his wife.

I did not need that visual.

Shaking off the thought, I grip the sink edge, exhaling slowly. Honestly, I’m not sure what I expected. A secret meeting in the corner? Suspicious exchanges? Someone slipping an envelope under a table like a bad crime thriller? Maybe. But definitely *not* my Hollywood crush going at it like a damn animal.

Which reminds me-...

I still haven’t recovered from 'that'.

Getting to this restroom was an entire ordeal. This place is huge, practically a labyrinth designed to confuse drunk millionaires and reckless journalists. I took a wrong turn-..actually, several- and ended up pushing open a door marked with a sign I thought said ‘Restroom.’

It did not.

It was a staff room. And inside? Kevin Peters- yes, that Kevin Peters, the three-time Golden Globe winner, America’s sweetheart- bent over a couch with a very naked Russian actress, moaning things I can never unhear.

I didn’t scream, because I have some dignity. But I did make a noise that can only be described as a strangled wheeze before I bolted, slamming the door shut behind me.

And now, standing here, I run a hand through my hair, shuddering at the memory. That was not how I planned to meet my celebrity crush.

Not even close.

I shake my head, pushing away from the sink. I’ve had enough of this particular corner of Stasya Noir. Time to get back to my actual job. Stepping out of the restroom, the music swallows me again- deep bass, laughter, the clinking of expensive glasses. I start toward the bar counter but pause mid-step.

Maybe I’ve been going about this wrong.

So far, I’ve sat, observed, and waited. Maybe it’s time to do something else.

Maybe it’s time to wander. Because journalism is definitely not a waiting game. It’s about chasing the story.

And if the story won’t come to me, then I’ll go straight to it.

...****************...

...****************...

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...LIANA...

.

The elevator doors slid open with an exhale of cool air, and I stepped forward, my boots heels clicking against the polished black marble. The moment I set foot onto the second floor, an unsettling realization settled in my bones...this place was nothing like the restobar I had left behind moments ago. From the outside, Stasya Noir posed as just another high-end luxury bar, a haven for the elite to sip aged whiskey and exchange pleasantries over caviar platters.

But this? This was something else entirely.

The hallway stretched ahead like a labyrinth, broad yet winding, as if designed to disorient. The golden chandeliers from downstairs were gone, replaced by dim sconces casting muted glows against obsidian walls. There was no steady hum of conversation, no clinking of glasses or distant echo of jazz. Only silence. A silence so deep it pressed against my skin, heavy and deliberate.

I moved carefully, forcing my strides to carry the confidence of someone who belonged here. But the deeper I walked, the clearer it became- this floor wasn’t just another lounge or private suite extension of the bar. It was built for something far more intricate, something that thrived in the dark, unseen by prying eyes.

The doors weren’t neatly aligned like a hotel or even a members-only lounge. There was no structure, no order. Each room was set apart, placed in a way that made no sense-...unless, of course, the purpose was secrecy. I counted the distance between them, noted the lack of uniformity. Some were tucked into corners, others stood boldly in the open, yet all were eerily silent. Soundproofed, most likely. Built to contain whatever happened behind them.

No whispers. No stray echoes. No evidence.

A chill ran down my spine, but I ignored it. This was what I came for. If I let a maze of hidden rooms and suffocating air rattle me, I might as well turn around now. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. But the worst part? I have to pretend I belong here.

I move, careful and slow, like someone who knows exactly where they’re going. But the reality is… I am not welcome here

8 men.

That’s how many I counted so far.

All in identical black suits, stationed strategically throughout the hallway. Some stood guard outside certain doors, unmoving, their presence like that of silent sentinels. Others patrol, their dark sunglasses sweeping over everything- including me. Me, in this ridiculous dress that does nothing to make me blend in...they weren’t just watching. They were assessing. Calculating. The longer I stayed, the closer I came to being marked as something that didn’t belong.

I kept my face blank, my movements smooth, like this wasn’t my first time weaving through this world. Like I wasn’t the least bit unsettled by the weight of those gazes or the sharp awareness that I was being evaluated for something beyond just my presence.

I couldn’t even check my phone for updates or text Julia about it, not without drawing suspicion. A simple move- pulling it out, glancing at the screen might be the one mistake that gives me away. So I kept my hands by my sides, my fingers relaxed despite the tension buzzing beneath my skin.

I just had to keep walking.

Like I’d been here before.

Like I was meant to be here.

Like I wasn’t an uninvited guest about to shatter the illusion of belonging the second I made one wrong move.

The center of the floor stretches out before me, a crossroads of uncertainty. Left, right, straight, back-..four open paths waiting for my decision. What in the actual hell? My pulse quickens. I regret not having studied the layout of this place beforehand, but it’s not like I had access to a damn blueprint anyway.

With a groan, I roll my shoulders and make a choice...left. Might as well regret it.

I step forward, my heels barely making a sound against the polished floor, and suddenly, the corridor opens into an unexpected dead-end. Except it’s not quite a dead-end. A staircase. One singular, lonely stairway leading up to God knows where. There’s a sign...bold, clear, and practically glaring at me- NOT FOR VISITORS OR NON-PERMITTED STAFF.

Anyone with half a brain would take that as a warning and turn the hell around. Not me. My toxic trait is screaming at me to go ahead. And let’s be honest, in my line of work, following my gut-..no matter how reckless-..is the only reason I’ve survived this long.

So, with a deep inhale, I move.

The stairs aren’t like the luxurious, grand ones scattered across this place, all marble and glass meant to impress. No, these are narrow, functional, and steep, like they exist for necessity, not aesthetics.

When I reach the top, I find another door. I push against it. Nothing. Locked.

I exhale sharply, pressing my forehead against the cold metal. “Of course, it’s locked,” I mutter under my breath. “Because why wouldn’t it be? Why make things easy, right?” I knock against it once, as if the universe might take pity on me.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

Fine. Waste of time. I should go back and check the other hallways before I lose my shot tonight.

Except time decides to cut me a break.

The second I turn to step back down the stairs, I hear it. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate. Voices- male, deep, discussing something in a language I don’t fully understand. The weight of their presence coils around me like a warning. And they’re coming straight toward me.

Panic seizes me by the throat. Shit. Shit. Shit.

My brain completely blanks, my body stuck in a frozen moment of pure why-the-hell-did-I-do-this regret. I need to think. Fast. But all I can do is curse myself and my stupid compulsion to ignore every red flag in existence.

The voices grow louder.

Then, one of them speaks with a sharp edge of suspicion.

“Did you see that?”

I swallow hard. See what?

“The door. It wasn’t open earlier.”

Every nerve in my body locks up. Oh, great. Now they’re suspicious. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

“Someone’s here.”

Panic escalates to full-blown internal screaming. Okay, Liana, do something!!.

I glance around, but there’s nowhere to hide. The pillar by the stairs is too exposed. If I rush down now, I’ll be seen. My only chance is-...

Click.

The door behind me opens.

Without thinking-..without a single logical thought in my head- I spin around, grab the first thing my hands land on (which happens to be a wrist), and shove myself inside the doorway, dragging whoever it is with me.

The door slams shut behind us. Warm breath ghosts over the top of my head.

“What the he-”

The words die in his throat as I slap a hand over his mouth, my heart hammering against my ribs like it wants to make a run for it. My left hand shoves the door shut, locking it with a quiet but firm click. I press myself against the door, ears straining, tracking the footsteps outside as they slow.

Breathe. Just breathe. They won’t open the door. They can’t.

The voices linger...muffled, suspicious, questioning why the terrace door was left ajar. A knot tightens in my stomach, but I force myself to stay still. The seconds stretch unbearably, a cruel game of patience.

Then, finally, the footsteps fade.

I let out a slow breath, my tense muscles releasing only slightly. That’s when I realize it. Warm braeth, seething and slow, burning against my palm. My fingers twitch against soft skin, my pulse roaring to life in my ears. Slowly, my gaze shifts upward, following the rigid line of a sharp jaw, the dark shadow of stubble, the sculpted edges of cheekbones set under the dim blue light of the terrace.

And then.....the eyes.

A shade of blue so deep, so merciless, it knocks the air straight out of my lungs. Dark ocean waves in a storm, locked directly onto mine, unwavering, unreadable, and fucking pissed. A deep furrow sits between his brows, a silent demand for an explanation.

My hand is still covering half his face, my fingertips ghosting over the cut of his cheekbone.

Oh.

I rip my hand back like I’ve been burned, stepping away too fast, my back hitting the door.

“I..um...sorr-” The word barely makes it out before a hand clamps around my wrist.

Before I can even process it, I’m spun, the world tilting for a split second before my back collides with the wall. A sharp gasp leaves my lips, my eyes widening, my wrists pinned on either side of me, the cold press of his fingers against my pulse making my heart pound even harder.

He towers over me. The scent of musk and something darker fills my lungs-...something expensive, something dangerous. His grip is firm but not bruising, just enough to let me know who’s in control now. My breath stutters as his face inches closer, shadows carving out every sharp line, every angle, every restrained edge of fury in those damn eyes.

“What,” he drawls, his voice as smooth as it is lethal, “the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

My throat dries. My mind scrambles for something, anything, but all I can do is stare-..stare at the fire licking at the edges of those dark blue eyes, stare at the press of his lips as they twitch in barely restrained irritation.

I’ve made a mistake.

A very, very big mistake.

.

...****************...