The Wrong Mercer

Bellhaven， on the U.S. East Coast

A Foundation Fundraising Gala

Light from the crystal chandeliers caught the champagne glasses， bright enough to make Sophie’s eyes ache.

Sophie Hale stood at the edge of the ballroom in the Mercer family’s mansion. She had maintained the same flawless smile for two hours.

She wasn’t here to look pretty.

Inside her handbag were a photocopy of an old note and pages of tightly packed questions. The note was the only clue her mother had left before the unexplained car crash six years earlier.

Tonight， playing the sweet， devoted fiancée had finally earned Sophie a chance to speak with Mr. Vance， one of the foundation’s longtime donors.

Ten minutes. That was all she needed to find out who had signed off on the old project designated M-17.

She was about to approach him when a hand caught her arm.

“Sophie， give Emma your interview slot with Mr. Vance.”

Julian Mercer stood before her， a drink in his hand， issuing the instruction as though her agreement were a formality.

Beside him， Sophie’s younger stepsister， Emma， wore a striking couture gown. Her arm was tucked through Julian’s， her smile all innocence.

“Sophie， the PR team thinks I’d be better on camera for this foundation interview.” Emma blinked， her voice soft and sweet. “You’re still new to podcasting. Taking too much interest in foundation business might make people think you’re overstepping.”

Looking at the two of them—the man she was supposed to marry and the woman he was already sleeping with—Sophie felt a familiar nausea rise in her stomach.

Refusing would put a crack in the image she had worked so hard to maintain: the fiancée who adored Julian and never caused trouble.

Agreeing would cost her another chance to get closer to the truth.

Last month， she had yielded just like this. Julian’s promised compensation had never materialized.

Not this time.

“I’ve already arranged it with Mr. Vance.” Sophie eased her arm out of Julian’s grip. Her voice was quiet but firm. “Those ten minutes are for my show.”

Julian’s expression darkened. Apparently， he hadn’t expected a woman who usually indulged him to contradict him in public.

“Come on. Be good.” He gave a dismissive laugh. “Nobody listens to that podcast of yours. You don’t need to play investigative reporter at a party like this. Your job tonight is to be the future Mrs. Mercer.”

A few guests within earshot gave awkward， knowing chuckles.

To them， she was just another social climber trying to attract attention with a little performance.

Sophie didn’t lash out. She simply understood， with sudden clarity， that no amount of accommodation would earn her respect in this relationship.

She went to find Mr. Vance anyway. A staff member informed her that the interview slot had been reassigned.

Sophie set her untouched champagne on a passing waiter’s tray. Without giving Julian another glance， she headed into the deserted side corridor.

The thick carpet swallowed the sound of her heels. Behind her， the ballroom’s glitter and mockery faded.

She leaned against the cool wall and drew a deep breath， forcing down the shame and anger churning in her chest.

Feelings weren’t evidence. She needed another way to reach the records.

Taking the gold-embossed brochure she had picked up that evening from her bag， she compared it with the old notes on her phone beneath the dim wall lights.

Her frown deepened.

She called her colleague Maya.

“The interview fell through，” she said quickly. “But I found something.”

“The brochure is vague about the dates for the outsourced projects. The public materials give the period as 2012 through 2015， but the old M-17 file I have clearly says it started in 2011.”

“They’re blurring the timeline.”

“Or they used fiscal years in the public report rather than calendar years.”

The low， cool voice came from the shadows， cutting across her call.

Sophie went still， then turned sharply.

A man stepped out from behind a column.

He was tall and straight-backed， wearing an impeccably tailored black suit. He looked about forty， with an unhurried composure that seemed settled into him.

Sophie ran through what she had just said. Instead of panicking， she seized on the gap in his explanation.

“If it’s only a difference in reporting periods， where did they account for the spending before the official launch?” The question escaped before she could soften it. “Where can I find the original audit index?”

He stopped. Surprise flickered in his dark eyes， then gave way to a measured scrutiny.

He was no longer looking at a delicate young woman nursing her hurt feelings after a slight at a party. He saw a hunter with a sharp mind.

Sophie realized she had pushed too far.

She smoothed the edge out of her expression， slipped her phone into her bag， and put on the same agreeable face she used with Julian.

“I’m sorry. You must think I’m taking this far too seriously.” She lowered her gaze， making her voice soft and harmless. “I’m just curious about the foundation’s history. A little background research for my show.”

Her performance didn’t seem to fool him. He stepped closer.

His height cast her into shadow. She caught the faint scent of cedar， with something sharper beneath it—antiseptic.

“A little show to pass the time doesn’t require checking discrepancies in ten-year-old accounts in a dark corridor.”

He looked down at her， his voice as calm and precise as a surgeon’s blade.

“What are you looking for?”

Sophie’s pulse gave a hard beat.

She tried to smile her way around the question.

“You’re reading too much into it. I’m only—”

“Don’t lie to me.” He cut her off without hesitation. “It wastes both our time.”

For a moment， neither of them moved.

The attraction unsettled her. His mind met hers without yielding， and there was something dangerously compelling about it.

For the first time that evening， someone was taking an interest in what she thought. He wasn’t treating her as an attractive accessory.

But the authority he wore so easily set every warning inside her ringing.

This man was dangerous. She couldn’t afford to trust him.

“Uncle Adrian? What are you doing out here?”

Julian’s voice came from the far end of the corridor， breaking the tension.

Sophie’s blood turned cold.

His uncle.

Adrian Mercer—the celebrated surgeon with a reputation for decisive action. The foundation director who held real power.

She had just been trying to draw information out of one of the most influential members of her fiancé’s family.

Julian strode over and draped an arm around her shoulders with careless familiarity.

“Don’t mind her， Adrian. The wedding planning’s got her worked up， and now she insists on doing this ridiculous interview. Just a little hobby to keep her busy.”

Adrian’s gaze moved slowly over the hand resting on Sophie’s shoulder.

He ignored his nephew’s attempt to explain her away. Looking past Julian， he addressed Sophie directly.

“Your project requires access to the old records?”

Julian blinked， apparently caught off guard by his usually aloof uncle’s interest.

He was about to intervene again when an assistant hurried down the corridor， whispered something in his ear， and summoned him back to the ballroom.

Sophie and Adrian were alone once more.

He took a plain black business card from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it out.

“If you want access to the records， contact me through the proper channels.”

His voice had settled back into a calm that made obedience seem almost instinctive.

“I have no patience for pointless fishing.”

Sophie reached for the card. Her fingertips brushed the cool skin on the back of his hand.

She was about to thank him and leave when his gaze dropped to the corner of the interview notes protruding from her bag.

“One more thing， Ms. Hale.”

He spoke softly， but the words struck hard.

“Project M-17 was shut down six years ago. Its records were destroyed.”

He raised his eyes to hers.

“Why are you still pursuing a dead end?”