PROLOGUE

I came home early from my business trip on Christmas Eve, intending to surprise Jared.

The Seattle rain was freezing, a relentless sheet of ice that turned the city lights into a blur of grey and gold.

I barely felt the cold as I punched the code into the keypad of his penthouse condo, my heart fluttering with anticipation.

In my hand, I gripped the gift bag tightly, imagining the look on his face.

But when the lock clicked and the door swung open, the surprise was entirely on me.

The hallway lights were dimmed, casting long, intimate shadows across the entryway.

And there, bathed in that soft, golden glow, was Jared.

He wasn't alone.

Sasha Miel was straddling him on the entryway bench, her knees pinned on either side of his hips.

She was wearing a "sexy reindeer" costume that left nothing to the imagination—cheap red velvet cutting high across her thighs, white faux fur clinging to her chest.

They weren't just kissing.

They were devouring each other.

I stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight.

I watched Jared’s large hands grip her bare waist, his fingers digging into her soft flesh as if he owned her.

I watched Sasha arch her back, grinding down into his lap, a low, breathy moan escaping her throat as she tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him deeper.

The sound of wet, open-mouthed kisses filled the silence of the apartment—slurping, hungry, desperate noises that made my stomach churn.

They were so lost in their heat, so wrapped up in the friction of their bodies, that they didn't even hear the door open.

The damp chill from outside swept in, seeping into my bones, but the scene in front of me burned like acid.

I forced myself to breathe, forced my lungs to expand against the crushing weight in my chest.

"What exactly..." My voice cracked, then hardened. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

They broke apart, gasping.

A string of saliva connected their lips for a brief, humiliating second before snapping.

Jared looked up, his face flushed, his lips swollen and slick.

There was no guilt in his eyes.

No panic.

Just a frown of annoyance, as if I were a waiter interrupting a fine meal.

Sasha didn't scramble off. She moved slowly, deliberately, smoothing her costume down with a smirk.

"Look at yourself, Eden," Jared said, his voice rough, still breathless from the make-out session.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze dripping with condescension.

"You're making a scene. Sasha and I are just celebrating Christmas. In Europe, a kiss is just a greeting. It's polite."

He adjusted his shirt, covering the red marks on his neck, looking at me with that self-righteous expression I knew so well.

"Stop being so provincial."

Staring at his face, at the raw, undeniable evidence of his lust still lingering in the air, I felt something inside me die.

The last lingering warmth of the love I had held for him for four years didn't just fade.

It was extinguished.

Like a candle in a storm.

At that moment, standing in the entryway of the home I kept for him, watching his chest heave from kissing another woman, I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

I just watched him justify his betrayal with the arrogance of a man who thought he was untouchable.

Months later, when I was in someone else's arms—a man who worshipped every inch of me—I would watch Jared break down on the sidelines like a madman.

But by then, it would be far too late.

PROLOGUE

The nor'easter hammered against the windshield of the unmarked black cargo van. Inside, the heater was fighting a losing battle against the chill.

I looked down at the carbon-fiber delivery case on the passenger seat. Inside was a custom Omakase set from Masa, worth fifteen thousand dollars.

Beside it lay a single, crisp hundred-dollar bill—a tip from a previous delivery. I had been smiling about it just moments ago.

One hundred dollars. It meant I could buy Dorian the organic supplements he needed for his therapy this week.

I parked near the service entrance of the cliffside villa, shielding the case with my body as I stepped into the driving rain.

I was about to ring the bell when I heard laughter drifting from the cracked terrace door.

"She actually believes you're paralyzed? And she's out there in this storm working like a dog to feed you? She even sold her mother's heirlooms?"

The voice was sharp, cruel, and unmistakably familiar.

Felicity.

"If she knew you were actually Dorian Lockwood, the trust-fund heir worth billions, just playing poor to test her... wouldn't she just die crying?"

Dorian swirled the wine in his glass, a smirk playing on his lips.

"That kind of cheap woman is born to serve, Felicity."

He took a sip.

"Who asked her to be better than you in school? Tricking her... it's just her punishment. For you."

I stood in the rain, the water mixing with the sudden, hot tears tracking down my face.

Two years.

He had faked it for two years.

The broken legs, the dead parents, the helpless tears at night... it was all a carefully orchestrated lie. Just to help his childhood sweetheart get revenge.

I pulled out my phone. My hands were trembling, but not from the cold.

I dialed a number I hadn't touched in years.

"Dad," I said, my voice breaking. "I lost. I agree to the merger."

PROLOGUE

My boyfriend, Eamon Pryor, is a lingerie designer.

I used to think that sounded romantic.

Until I saw a sketch lying carelessly on his desk—a design for a capsule collection. It was undeniably erotic, dripping with Christmas motifs. Red lace, white fur trim, straps designed to be untied.

My heart had fluttered. I was foolish enough to think it was his Christmas gift for me.

But on Christmas Day, the woman Eamon called his "Muse"—Saskia Pike—posted a photo of the finished garment on her Instagram Story.

She was wearing it. And nothing else.

The caption read:

"Thank you, my Santa, for the gift. Here’s to spending every Christmas together. #Muse #TheOne"

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glowing image. My hand didn't shake. I felt oddly detached, like I was watching a car crash in slow motion.

Then, I tapped "Like."

That same day, I booked an appointment at the clinic to terminate my pregnancy.

I planned to rest for two days, email the signed contract to the Paris HR department, and collect my visa.

I was done waiting.