Chapter 1
I was raised to hate the Mercier name.
To spit it from my mouth like something foul.
To never forget that their fortune was built on the ruin of families like mine.
“The Merciers take, Vera. And men like me are left to bleed.”
That’s what my father used to say, his voice steady, edged with something brittle, something that never quite healed. And even now, years after his death, his words echo through me.
And yet, here I am.
Standing in their estate. A guest in the lion’s den.
The Mercier Gala is a spectacle—a brilliant illusion of wealth and refinement. From the moment I stepped through the grand entrance, it was clear: no expense had been spared. Crystal chandeliers drip from the vaulted ceilings, their golden glow casting everything in a warm, deceptive light. A string quartet plays softly in the background, the delicate melody weaving through murmured conversations and the soft clinking of champagne glasses. Servers glide effortlessly through the crowd, carrying silver trays of hors d’oeuvres that cost more than some families make in a week.
It’s beautiful.
It’s suffocating.
Because I know what’s beneath all of this—the rot that money hides.
The Merciers stand at the top, their empire untouched, their power unchallenged. And the rest of us? We exist at their mercy.
I shouldn’t be here.
I don’t want to be here.
But wanting has never been a luxury I could afford.
I stand near the edge of the ballroom, gripping my glass of champagne too tightly, letting the coldness of the crystal ground me. Around me, men in tailored suits and women in gowns worth more than my mother’s house engage in quiet discussions—alliances being formed, deals being made. This is where power shifts hands. Not in boardrooms, not in courtrooms, but here, behind closed doors, in whispered conversations over glasses of aged whiskey.
A laugh rings out nearby, melodic and practiced, the kind of sound that exists solely to charm. I glance sideways, watching as a woman leans into a man, her hand brushing his sleeve, her smile coy. It’s a dance I’ve seen before—calculated, strategic. In this world, love is a currency, affection a weapon.
I scan the room, looking for my mother.
She moves through the crowd with practiced ease, her silver gown catching the light as she offers polite smiles and carefully measured words. To the untrained eye, she looks like she belongs. But I know better. I see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curl just a little too tightly around the stem of her glass.
This is all an illusion.
A performance we have perfected.
Because no matter how many galas we attend, no matter how expensive our gowns are, they will never let us forget what we are.
“Vera.”
My mother’s voice is soft but firm as she steps beside me. I don’t turn to face her, keeping my eyes trained on the guests, the predators draped in silk and wealth.
“Smile,” she instructs under her breath. “You’re being watched.”
I don’t need to ask who she means. I already feel it.
The weight of his gaze.
Slowly, I turn my head—and there he is.
Dante Mercier.
The golden son. The heir to it all.
He stands near the bar, dark suit perfectly tailored, exuding the kind of effortless confidence that only comes from knowing the world will always bend to your will. He’s relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily holding a tumbler of amber liquid.
A man who never has to try. Never has to bow.
A man who was handed everything while the rest of us were left with nothing.
A sharp pang of resentment twists through me, and my grip tightens around my glass. I thought seeing him in person after all these years might lessen the weight of his name. That he might be smaller than the version of him I created in my head—the villain I imagined as a child.
But he’s not.
Dante Mercier is every inch the enemy I expected him to be.
Power. Privilege. Untouchable arrogance.
And he’s watching me.
His gaze flickers over me—quick, indifferent. Like he’s scanning the room, and I just happen to be in the way. Not curiosity. Not intrigue. Just… disinterest.
I force my spine straighter, tilting my chin up in defiance.
If he’s waiting for me to look away first, he’ll be waiting forever.
But he doesn’t seem to care.
His lips press into a line—no smirk, no amusement. Just nothing. Then, without a second glance, he turns away.
Like I don’t even exist.
The dismissal stokes a slow burn in my chest.
Not because I care.
I don’t.
But because he looks at me the same way his family has always looked at people like mine. Like I am insignificant. Like I am nothing more than a speck of dust on his empire.
I exhale sharply, forcing my fingers to unclench from the glass. My mother watches me carefully, her dark eyes sharp with warning.
“Don’t do anything foolish, Vera.”
I meet her gaze, unblinking. “Have I ever?”
She doesn’t answer. Because we both know the truth.
I drain the rest of my champagne, the bubbles sharp against my tongue, The weight of the room suddenly feels suffocating, pressing in from all sides. I need air. Space. Distance.
Turning on my heel, I weave through the crowd, ignoring the curious glances as I slip through the doors leading to the terrace.
Cool night air greets me, crisp against my heated skin. I step toward the stone railing, placing my palms flat against the cold surface, inhaling deeply.
In the distance, beyond the perfectly manicured gardens, the city glows—a glittering illusion of its own. From here, everything looks perfect. Clean. But I know the truth.
I know what the Merciers did.
What they took from us.
The sharp click of footsteps behind me shatters the moment of quiet.
I already know who it is before I turn.
Dante.
Of course.
He stops a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, studying me in that same unreadable way. The way that makes my skin crawl.
“You don’t seem to be enjoying the party,” he remarks casually.
I lift a brow. “And you care because…?”
His mouth curves slightly. “I don’t.”
Of course he doesn’t. Dante Mercier doesn’t care about anyone but himself.
He tilts his head slightly, gaze unwavering. “But I do find it interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“That you hate this world so much, yet here you are.”
A sharp, mocking laugh escapes me. “Trust me, Mercier, I’m not here by choice.”
His eyes darken slightly at the name. “Dante,” he corrects.
I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “I prefer Mercier.”
Something flickers across his face—something unreadable. But it’s gone before I can place it.
He smirks, and something sharp twists in my stomach.
Because this is what he does.
Men like Dante Mercier—they take, and they smile while they do it.
And no matter how charming he may be, no matter how practiced his smirks are, no matter how much he thinks he can read me—he will never be anything other than my enemy.
And I will never forget that.
