Chapter 1 False Treasure

Adela Richmond never expected that Harmon Holland, who was still her brother-in-law yesterday, would now become her husband.

A day ago.

"So, you really aren't going to dump that boring Adela Richmond?"

The door to the Peacock Room was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of light and sound escaping into the corridor. The words bled through the crack.

Adela's hand froze inches from the brass handle. The velvet jewelry box in her other hand suddenly felt like a block of lead. Inside rested an obsidian necklace. She had spent three months sourcing the stone, grinding and polishing every single link by hand for their one-year anniversary.

Her heart, which had been racing with sweet anticipation just a second ago, slammed against her ribs.

A lazy, familiar laugh echoed from the unlatched gap of the private room. It was Juston.

"Dump her? Why would I dump her?" Juston's voice dripped with a casual cruelty she had never heard before. "She's a Richmond. She's the perfect, obedient little pawn for a strategic marriage. She doesn't cause trouble."

The blood drained from Adela's face. The dim light of the Elysium club's hallway seemed to flicker, the marble floor tilting beneath her designer heels.

"But I heard the Richmonds actually care about the adopted girl, Kara," Brock, Juston's friend, pressed, his tone thick with amusement. "Kara is the real socialite. Adela is just... there."

"So what?" Juston scoffed. The clinking of a whiskey glass against a table punctuated his words. "Adela is stupid enough to be loyal. She's desperate for validation. She thinks I actually give a shit about those ugly little design projects she makes. I throw that garbage out the second she leaves my apartment."

Adela's stomach violently contracted. Acid burned the back of her throat.

She pressed her spine against the cold wall of the corridor. Her fingernails dug so hard into the leather of her purse that the seams groaned. The obsidian necklace. The sketches she stayed up until 3:00 AM perfecting for him. Garbage.

"Her only real value to me," Juston continued, his voice lowering into a vicious sneer, "is that keeping her pisses off Harmon Holland. We all know Adela was supposed to be Harmon's little arranged bride. Taking her from him is just good business."

The room erupted into a chorus of mocking laughter.

"I'll kick her to the curb when I get bored," Juston added over the noise. "She's got nothing but the Richmond last name anyway."

Adela couldn't breathe. Her lungs felt like they were packed with wet sand. Her knees shook, threatening to give out right there on the expensive carpet. Every sweet text, every kiss, every promise of a future-it was all a calculated, sterile transaction.

She closed her eyes. The stinging heat of tears threatened to spill over her lashes.

She forced them back.

She dug her nails deeper into her palms until the sharp sting of pain grounded her. The violent churning in her stomach hardened into a block of solid ice. The ringing in her ears stopped.

The color was gone from her cheeks, but her jaw locked into place. She didn't turn around. She didn't run away crying like the weak, boring girl they thought she was.

She stepped away from the wall. She reached out, her hand perfectly steady now, and gripped the brass handle.

She pushed the door open.

The heavy wood swung inward with a soft click. The raucous laughter inside the Peacock Room died instantly.

Juston was leaning back on a leather sofa, a cigar between his fingers, a smug grin plastered on his handsome face. Brock was sitting across from him, mid-laugh. Five other men froze, their eyes darting to the doorway.

Adela stood there. Her face was a mask of pale, terrifying calm. She looked at Juston not with heartbreak, but like she was staring at a stranger.

At the far end of the dimly lit corridor, hidden entirely in the shadows of a private alcove, a man slowly lowered his crystal tumbler.

His sharp, blue eyes locked onto the scene unfolding at the door.

"Sir," Donovan Tate, his assistant, murmured from the darkness. "That's Miss Richmond."

Harmon Holland didn't reply. He adjusted the silver cufflink at his wrist. A slow, dangerous smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.