Then, my phone vibrated on the marble vanity.
I reached for it, my lace-gloved fingers trembling slightly. The screen illuminated the dim room, pushing away the shadows with a glaring, blue light. It was a message from Carter. Just ten characters. Ten characters that defied all logical comprehension, stopping the breath in my lungs and the blood in my veins.
FOUND SOMEONE BETTER. DON’T WAIT UP.
The room began to spin. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the string quartet playing softly in the hallway. I read it again. And again. The sheer audacity, the brutal cowardice of a text message—a text message!—to end a generational alliance while four hundred vultures waited downstairs.
My hands betrayed me. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, dropping in slow motion until it met the unforgiving marble floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of fractured glass. I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air amidst yards of white silk, my meticulously constructed world disintegrating around me.
Before the first sob could even tear its way out of my throat, a heavy, authoritative knock echoed on the mahogany door.
I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t move. I waited for my mother, or my maid of honor, to rush in and find me broken on the floor. But the heavy door didn’t just open—it was pushed perfectly ajar by a polished Italian leather shoe. A tall, imposing figure stepped into the suite, looking down at my crumpled form. A low, unfamiliar voice drawled, “Well, isn’t this a tragic waste of premium champagne?”
Chapter 2: The Devil’s Proposal
I blinked through the stinging tears, my vision clearing just enough to recognize the man standing above me. It wasn’t my father. It wasn’t a groomsman. It was Julian Vance.
At thirty, Julian was a self-made tech billionaire and the sworn corporate rival of my father. He was the wolf pacing at the borders of our old-money territory, a man who despised the Harringtons and the Sterlings with equal measure. His dark eyes were sharp, calculating, and entirely devoid of the pity I expected to see. He wore a sharply tailored Tom Ford suit that looked like armor, and he carried an aura of dangerous, kinetic energy.
Julian knelt, entirely uncaring that the dusty marble floor scuffed his trousers. He didn’t offer a tissue. He didn’t offer comforting platitudes. Instead, he offered a hand.
“He’s a fool,” Julian stated, his voice a low, steady rumble that commanded absolute attention. “If you walk out there alone right now, Eleanor, you are the jilted bride. You will be a weeping victim for the tabloids by midnight, and Sterling Global’s stock will hemorrhage at the opening bell.”
I stared at him, my breath hitching. He knows. How does he know?
“Marry me instead,” Julian said. The words hung in the air, heavy and lethal. “Right now. I will hand you the sword to make sure Carter Harrington regrets this for the rest of his pathetic, trust-fund life.”
