Madeleine Riley shot a glance at her father, the anger coiling inside her kept in check by a sudden, unexpected smile. "You have a point. Let's hand this project over to Jacqueline." Her words left both John Riley and Jacqueline Riley stunned. Madeleine had busted her ass to land this deal—burning the midnight oil, running herself ragged, even giving herself a stress ulcer in the process. She'd closed a multimillion-dollar contract, and now she was letting it slip away without so much as a fight.
John's face relaxed into something dangerously close to satisfaction. "Madeleine, I know how much effort you've put into this. Once things settle down, you can work under Jacqueline. After all, you're both my daughters."
"No need. I'm done with this company." Her tone was calm, almost cool, as she let her gaze drag over the father-daughter duo with a hint of mockery. She wasn't about to bust her back for anyone without a paycheck attached. John had always favored Jacqueline, so let him deal with the fallout. The new partner in London was a nightmare to negotiate with—the whole department had been pulling their hair out over him. If Jacqueline could handle the mess, soothe the shareholders, and keep the company's stock from tanking, that was her problem now.
After wrapping up the resignation paperwork, Madeleine headed straight home. She started packing for her Alps trip, pulling out the clothes and jewelry Nicholas Hawkins had given her. Back then, Nicholas had showered her with items identical to the ones he gave Jacqueline—a pathetic attempt to stir jealousy. But most of Madeleine's were knockoffs. At the time, she'd assumed Nicholas was just oblivious when it came to women's things, too embarrassed to call him out. Now she had a sinking feeling the real stuff had all gone to Jacqueline.
Madeleine gathered every last piece and posted a photo on Facebook: "Free to a good home." Nicholas wanted to gift Jacqueline the same pieces as a subtle show of favoritism? Fine. She'd make sure half the city ended up with them. The thought of Jacqueline showing up somewhere in the same outfit as a bunch of other women had her biting back a grin.
No sooner had she shipped off Nicholas's so-called gifts than her phone buzzed with a message from her brother, Ethan Silva: "Madeleine, I've got some leads on that thing you asked me to dig into. But nailing down solid evidence is going to take more time—you might have to hang tight a little longer."
Reading his words, a wave of gratitude swelled in her chest. "Thank you, bro. Sorry for the hassle."
Nicholas's people had been careful—they'd covered their tracks well when it came to the blame game. Uncovering the truth wouldn't be easy, but she wasn't in a rush. If Nicholas had a hand in it, the trail would surface eventually. People always slipped up.
Lost in thought, another message from Ethan popped up, this one carrying a heavier tone: "All these years, we were afraid our family history would make it hard for you to fit in with your birth family, so we stayed out of your life. It's on us—we're the reason you've been through so much."
That message hit her right in the chest. She realized, in that moment, that she'd never been unloved. She'd been so fixated on chasing a hopeless dream, she'd missed all the people who actually gave a damn about her.
"It's not your fault," she replied, about to explain further when another text came through—a string of numbers.
"Madeleine, while you're in Europe, you might need connections. Remember that arranged marriage offer you turned down? The Thompson family is still interested. Here's Victor's number."
"Also, his mother has serious connections there. If you ever need help, reach out to him. Mom and I think you two might just hit it off."
Ethan kept it brief. The Thompsons were one of the most prestigious families in London. Victor wasn't the heir, sure, but he had a reputation for being decent and straight-up. More importantly, his older brother basically ran the city's business empire—think prince of London. With that kind of firepower behind him, Victor could pull strings just about anywhere.
Madeleine almost turned it down—she had zero connection to this guy, after all—but her brother's gentle push made her agree to at least think about it.
"Got it, bro," she finally wrote back.
With Ethan squared away, Madeleine stared at that phone number for a long while. Then she typed out two messages.
"Hello, this is Madeleine Riley, Ethan's sister."
"I've been through some rough patches in Europe. If you don't mind, maybe we can get to know each other."
She kept it blunt. She figured a messy past didn't have to stop someone from starting fresh. And if Victor was going to hold her history against her, then marriage wasn't in the cards anyway. Who in their right mind would want someone who'd been through all that? She was being practical about it—except she'd made a tiny mistake. She typed the number wrong. Just one digit off, second-to-last.
Meanwhile, in a grand manor overlooking the bustling Thames, Victor Thompson stood by the window. The home—steeped in history, dripping with old money—glowed with warmth and luxury, the kind of place that screamed wealth without saying a word.
Victor, shrugging into an overcoat, let his gaze wander across London before glancing at his phone. Two unread messages. He paused when he saw the sender—Madeleine Riley.
He knew the Thompsons were trying to set up an arrangement between his brother and the Silva family's adopted daughter. But it looked like she'd sent her message to the wrong person, confusing him for his brother Edmund.
Victor's lips curved into a slow, amused smile as he started to type. "Miss Riley, I appreciate your honesty. I don't mind."
