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.

PROLOGUE

Christmas morning found me not unwrapping presents under a tree, but trapped in a boardroom that smelled of stale coffee and high-stakes desperation.

The quarterly projections were on the screen, but my mind was drifting.

My phone buzzed against the mahogany table, a lifeline in the sea of corporate monotony.

It was Tristan.

My husband of convenience.

Or, as the tabloids liked to call him, the CEO of the Sterling-Vane Consortium.

"There's a limited edition Holiday Latte at that place you like," his message read. "Ordering one for you."

I glanced at the screen, suppressing a smirk.

Even on Christmas, even after I'd given him his "freedom" weeks ago, he was still checking in.

I needed to reply quickly before the VP of Finance noticed I wasn't paying attention to his pie charts.

My thumb glided hastily across the screen, utilizing the swipe-to-type feature I usually swore by.

I meant to type: "I'm screening."

As in, I'm in the middle of screening a presentation.

But in my haste, and perhaps due to the universe's twisted sense of humor, my thumb took a slightly different trajectory.

I hit send without double-checking.

The message bubble popped up, blue and innocent.

"I'm screwing."

Time seemed to freeze.

The air in the boardroom suddenly felt very thin.

I stared at the words, willing them to change, but they sat there, mocking me.

Screening. Screwing.

Damn autocorrect. Damn swipe typing.

On the other end, the typing indicator vanished.

Silence stretched for what felt like an eternity.

Then, three dots appeared.

His reply came through, short and sharp enough to cut glass.

"Shall I order two, then?"