Chapter 1 1

The heavy oak door didn't make a sound. The thunder outside was too loud, shaking the very foundations of the Crown Prince's Palace, masking the turn of the brass handle.

She pushed it open.

The study was warm, smelling of old leather and expensive scotch. And smoke.

Bradley was standing by the fireplace. He wasn't looking at the storm raging against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He was watching a stack of papers curl and blacken in the flames.

Fiona recognized the heavy, cream-colored vellum and the distinctive crimson ribbon Bradley had forced her to tie around the bundle herself just yesterday. The fire licked at the edges, and for a split second, she saw the Orozco family's wax seal-a two-headed serpent entwined around a sword-melt and vanish into the flames.

Her trust fund documents. The final authorization for the transfer of her family's assets.

"Bradley!"

The scream tore from Fiona's throat, raw and burning. She rushed forward, her hands reaching into the fire, ignoring the heat, desperate to salvage what was left of her grandfather's legacy.

A hand grabbed her shoulder. Not to pull her back from the danger, but to shove her away.

Bradley didn't use much force. He didn't have to. Fiona stumbled back, her heels catching on the thick Persian rug, and fell hard onto her tailbone. Pain shot up her spine, but it was nothing compared to the coldness spreading in her chest.

"Stop it, Fiona," Bradley said. His voice was calm. Terrifyingly calm.

He dusted off his hands, brushing away imaginary ash from his pristine navy suit. He adjusted his cufflinks, ensuring the gold glinted just right in the firelight.

"It's done," he said, looking down at her.

There was no love in his eyes. The warmth, the practiced adoration he displayed for the cameras, the gentle smiles he reserved for charity galas-it was all gone. In its place was a flat, bored indifference. Like he was looking at a piece of furniture he intended to replace.

"You... you stole it," Fiona whispered, her breath hitching. "That money was for the foundation. For the children."

"It's for the Crown," he corrected smoothly. "And since I am the Crown, it's mine. You were just the vessel, Fiona. A vessel with a very convenient bank account."

Her stomach lurched. Bile rose in her throat. Three years. Three years of marriage. Three years of trying to be the perfect Crown Princess, of enduring his cold shoulders and long absences, believing he was just stressed, just burdened by duty.

"I am your wife," Fiona said, her voice trembling. "I have supported you. I have loved you."

Bradley laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "And that was your mistake."

He turned to the intercom on his mahogany desk and pressed a button. "Send him in."

The door opened again.

Jimmie walked in. Her ten-year-old adopted son. He was wearing his silk pajamas, his hair tousled, but his eyes were wide awake. There was no sleepiness in them.

"Jimmie," Fiona gasped, reaching out a hand. "Jimmie, come here. Daddy is... Daddy is scaring me."

Jimmie looked at her. He looked at her outstretched hand, trembling in the air.

Then he walked past her.

He didn't even pause. He walked straight to Bradley and took his father's hand.

"Dad," Jimmie said.

He turned to look at her then. And in that moment, the resemblance was undeniable. The same shape of the eyes. The same cruel set of the jaw.

"Don't touch me," Jimmie said. His voice was ice.

Bradley rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, a gesture of pride Fiona had never seen him direct at anyone else.

"He's not adopted, Fiona," Bradley said softly. "Jimmie is mine. Mine and Icy's. We just needed you to... fund his future."

The world tilted.

A high-pitched ringing filled her ears, drowning out the thunder. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

Icy. His sister-in-law. The Duchess. The woman Fiona treated like a sister.

"You..." Fiona couldn't breathe. Her lungs felt like they were filled with concrete. "You monsters."

She scrambled to her feet, fueled by a sudden, blinding rage. She lunged at Bradley, her nails aiming for his smug, perfect face.

She never reached him.

Jimmie moved faster than a child should. He grabbed her wrist, his small fingers digging into her pulse point, and sank his teeth into her arm.

Pain exploded. Sharp and wet.

She screamed and yanked her arm back. Jimmie let go, stumbling back against his father. There was blood on his mouth. Her blood.

He grinned. "Don't touch my dad."

Bradley sighed, checking his watch. "She's hysterical. Just like her mother."

He snapped his fingers.

Two guards stepped out from the shadows of the hallway. They were huge, faceless men in dark suits. They grabbed her arms, their grip bruising.

"Get her out of here," Bradley commanded. "The car is ready."

"No! Let me go!" Fiona kicked and screamed, but her feet barely touched the ground as they dragged her backward.

She watched them as she was hauled away. Bradley and Jimmie, standing by the fire. Father and son. A perfect picture of evil.

They threw her into the back of a black sedan waiting in the driving rain. The door slammed shut, the lock engaging with a heavy thud.

The driver didn't look at her. He just gunned the engine.

They tore out of the palace gates, speeding onto the winding coastal road. The rain lashed against the windows, turning the world into a blur of black and gray.

"Where are you taking me?" she yelled, pounding on the partition glass. "Stop the car!"

The driver didn't answer. He just accelerated.

They were approaching Dead Man's Curve. The cliffs dropped sheer into the churning ocean below.

Suddenly, the driver unbuckled his seatbelt.

He opened the door while the car was still moving at eighty miles an hour. And he rolled out.

The car swerved.

She screamed, bracing her hands against the front seat, staring in horror as the guardrail rushed toward her.

Metal shrieked against metal. The world flipped.

Weightlessness.

Then, impact.

Pain shattered every bone in her body. Cold water rushed in, filling her nose, her mouth, her lungs. Darkness swallowed her whole.

Her last thought, as the air left her body, wasn't fear. It was hate. Pure, distilled hate.

If she came back, she vowed into the void. She would burn them all.