The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and old secrets.
Verina Vance held her breath, her fingers trembling as she picked the lock of the heavy mahogany desk. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights of the metropolis mocked her. They were bright, cold, and out of reach—just like the man who owned this office.
Just one more click, she prayed. Find the debt bond. Burn it. Save my father.
Click.
The drawer slid open. Verina's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. There it was—the thick, cream-colored envelope sealed with a wax stamp. The Vance family's death warrant.
She grabbed it, but before she could retreat, the lights hummed to life.
"It's rude to touch things that don't belong to you, Verina."
The voice was like velvet over shattered glass. Verina froze. She didn't need to turn around to know who was standing in the doorway. Silas Vane. The man the media called 'The Architect of Ruin.'
She turned slowly, clutching the envelope to her chest. Silas stood there, his bespoke black suit jacket discarded, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension. He didn't look angry. He looked bored. And that was far more terrifying.
"I... I can explain," Verina whispered, her voice betraying her.
Silas took a slow step into the room. Each click of his Italian leather shoes on the marble floor sounded like a countdown. He stopped inches from her, his height towering over her, his scent—sandalwood and cold rain—wrapping around her like an invisible leash.
"Explain what?" He reached out, his thumb grazing her jawline, forcing her to look up into eyes as dark as an eclipsed moon. "That you broke into my home to steal back the three hundred million dollars your father gambled away? Or that you thought I wouldn't be waiting for you?"
Verina swallowed hard. "He's an old man, Silas. He didn't know what he was signing. Please... I'll work. I'll pay it back. Just give me time."
Silas let out a dark, low chuckle that sent a shiver down her spine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold fountain pen, sliding it across the desk toward her.
"Time is the one thing you don't have, Verina. The collectors are already at your father's door. By sunrise, he'll be a memory."
Verina felt the blood drain from her face. "What do you want?"
Silas leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "I don't want your money. I want a bride. Someone to play the perfect, obedient doll while I dismantle your family's legacy piece by piece."
He flipped open a leather-bound folder on the desk. Inside was a fresh document. A marriage contract.
"One year," Silas whispered. "Sign your name, and your father lives. Refuse, and you can pick out his casket tonight."
Verina looked at the gold pen. It felt heavier than a mountain. Her hand shook as she reached for it. She looked at Silas, seeing the cold triumph in his eyes.
"Why me?" she gasped.
Silas's grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against his hard chest. His eyes darkened with a flash of something that looked like ancient, burning hate—and something else she couldn't name.
"Because, Verina," he leaned down, his voice a lethal promise, "death is too easy for a Vance. I want you alive. I want you mine. And I want to watch you break."
He pressed the pen into her hand.
"Sign it. Now."