The yellow taxi idled outside the massive wrought-iron gates of the Mason Estate in Long Island.
Sloane stepped out. She wore a cheap, black polyester suit that hugged her sharp curves perfectly. She looked up at the sprawling limestone mansion. The house that swallowed her father's company.
The security guard sneered at her ID before buzzing the heavy gates open.
Sloane walked up the long driveway. She stepped into the grand foyer. The marble floor echoed beneath her cheap shoes. She kept her eyes lowered, burying the toxic hatred deep in her gut.
Eleanora Mason sat on a velvet armchair. The matriarch of the family looked at Sloane like she was a stain on the rug.
Eleanora tossed a thick stack of papers onto the glass coffee table.
"This contract isn't just for nursing Gerard," Eleanora said, her voice like grinding stones. "It includes a marriage registry with my eldest grandson, Donavan Mason."
Sloane kept her face blank.
"It's a PR move to cover up a family scandal," Eleanora continued. "You are a prop. Don't ever dream of touching a single cent of Mason money."
Sloane's stomach didn't even flutter. She picked up the pen and signed the prenuptial and the NDA without hesitation. She played the part of the desperate, money-hungry peasant flawlessly.
Marla, the head housekeeper, grabbed Sloane's arm and dragged her down a dark, wood-paneled hallway.
They entered the intensive care suite at the end of the first floor. The smell of antiseptic hit Sloane's nose, making her throat tight.
Gerard Mason lay in the hospital bed. The man who had ruthlessly crushed her father was now a skeleton hooked up to a ventilator.
Sloane picked up a warm washcloth from the basin. She grabbed Gerard's frail hand and scrubbed the skin roughly.
Gerard's eyelids twitched in pain.
Sloane leaned down, her lips inches from his ear. "I'm back," she whispered.
By nightfall, the estate was blazing with light. The trust fund restructuring banquet was in full swing.
Marla shoved a drab, conservative gray evening gown into Sloane's chest.
"Put it on. You are Donavan's bride tonight. Let them look at you."
Sloane slipped into the dress. She walked down the grand staircase. The chatter in the ballroom died down. Hundreds of eyes locked onto her. The disgust in the room was a physical weight pressing against her skin.
The grand double doors opened.
Haden walked in. Corrie clung to his arm, radiant in a custom gown. Around Corrie's neck sat a diamond necklace.
Brynn's mother's necklace.
Sloane gripped her champagne flute. Her knuckles turned white. Her chest burned with the urge to lunge forward and rip Corrie's throat out. She forced herself to breathe.
Corrie spotted Sloane standing alone in the shadows. Corrie's eyes narrowed. Even in that hideous gray dress, Sloane's bone structure was striking.
Corrie smirked. She grabbed a glass of red wine and strutted over.
Right as she reached Sloane, Corrie's ankle "twisted." The red wine flew from the glass, splashing directly onto the hem of Sloane's gray dress.
A few muffled laughs echoed from the surrounding guests.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry," Corrie gasped, covering her mouth. Her eyes danced with vicious triumph.
Sloane didn't flinch. She didn't blush. She calmly set her champagne flute on a passing tray. She pulled a silk handkerchief from her clutch and dabbed her fingers.
"C'est dommage," Sloane said, her voice dripping with a flawless, icy Parisian accent. "That haute couture piece is from last season. And whoever altered the waistline completely ruined the silhouette."
The socialites standing nearby stiffened. Corrie's fake smile froze. A flash of panic crossed her eyes.
Haden heard the commotion and walked over. "What's going on?" he snapped.
His eyes landed on Sloane. He stopped dead. His heart gave a violent, unnatural thump against his ribs. He stared into those deep, cold eyes.
Sloane stared right back.
"The hospitality of the Mason family is truly eye-opening," Sloane said in English, her tone flat.
Across the room, Eleanora slammed her cane into the marble floor. A sharp warning.
Haden grabbed Corrie's arm and dragged her away, his face pale.
Sloane turned and walked toward the hallway to find a restroom. As she stepped into the shadows, the hair on the back of her neck stood up.
She felt a heavy, suffocating gaze on her.
She snapped her head up toward the second-floor balcony. A tall, broad-shouldered shadow stood in the dark.
The air shifted. A heavy, suffocating weight seemed to press down on her from the balcony, a gaze so intense and predatory it felt like a physical grip around her throat. A cold shiver raced down her spine, making the fine hairs on her arms stand up.
Sloane's lungs seized. She had only felt this kind of absolute, terrifying scrutiny once before, in the darkest corners of her nightmares. She shook her head, forcing the impossible thought away.
The banquet ended early. Marla escorted Sloane to the master bedroom at the end of the second floor. Donavan's private territory.
Sloane pushed the heavy oak door open. The room was pitch black.
A massive figure stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her.
The man turned around. The moonlight hit his face. It was a face carved from marble, flawless and absolutely freezing.
"Get out," Donavan ordered. His voice was a blade.
