Chapter One

Aveline Rousseau

The lace running up my spine felt less like silk and more like chainmail.

Outside the windows of the estate’s private suite, Quebec City was drowning in silence. Thick, heavy snow fell from the sky, blanketing the courtyards and ancient stone turrets of Old Quebec in a suffocating coat of white. It was still. It was a jarring contrast to the panic clawing its way through me.

"Hold your breath, Mademoiselle Rousseau," the seamstress muttered, her fingers crossed against my skin as she tugged the satin laces tighter.

I inhaled sharply, my hands gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turned numb.  The oval mirror before me, reflected a stranger, one with storm-blue eyes filled with exhaustion, the kind that no amount of powder can disguise. 

I looked like a queen preparing to ascend a throne but in reality, I was a bargaining chip being offered up to pay off an empire's debts.

"It fits perfectly, Miss Rousseau " the seamstress whispered, stepping back with a practiced bow. She didn't look at my eyes. No one in this house looked at my eyes today. To them, I was simply the final detail of a multi-billion-dollar transaction, the delicate bow tied around the merger between Rousseau Enterprise and the Delacroix empire.

The heavy oak doors of the dressing room clicked open, and the scent of expensive cigar smoke and crisp winter air glided inside.

"Leave us," my father’s voice echoed through the room.

The dressmakers hurried out without a word, pulling the double doors shut behind them. I stayed motionless, watching my father’s reflection in the glass as he approached. Charles Rousseau looked ten years older than he had six months ago. The sharp, charismatic titan of the Canadian forestry and logistics industry was gone; in his place stood a man whose hollow cheeks and slumped shoulders betrayed the catastrophic truth.

"Aveline," he muttered, his voice thick with an emotion that sounded dangerously close to shame.

"Father," I replied calmly, turning around slowly. The heavy train of the ivory gown rustled against the floor. "Is everything ready downstairs?"

He didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from my veil. "You look... breathtaking. Your mother would have been so proud."

"Don't bring Mom into this," I said, my tone softer than I intended, though a cold edge remained. "Mom wouldn't have let you gamble the company into bankruptcy, and she certainly wouldn't have let you trade me to the Delacroix family to fix it."

My father flinched, looking away at the frosted windowpane. "It wasn't a gamble. It was a betrayal. The board,”

 "The board took advantage of your trust," I interrupted, taking a slow step toward him. "I know the story, Dad. I've read every line of the foreclosure notices. I've seen the red ink drowning our family name. You don't have to defend it to me anymore. I'm standing here in this dress, aren't I?"

He swallowed hard, the muscles in his jaw working overtime. "Esmond is a good young man, Aveline. He's charming. He's gentle. He isn't... he isn't like his father. Henri-Pierre is a tyrant, yes, but Esmond genuinely cares for you. This marriage... it gives you safety. It buys back our stock. It saves three thousand employees from losing their livelihoods before the month is out."

Safety. The word tasted bitter on my tongue.

I had known Esmond Delacroix for two years. He was handsome, charismatic, and possessed the kind of golden-boy charm that made high-society tabloids adore him. He brought me rare botanical specimens from his travels and laughed easily at my sharp wit. But beneath that polished surface, I had always felt a faint, unsettling flicker of instability a boy constantly trying to step out from the massive, suffocating shadow of his family. I didn't love him. I liked him well enough to convince myself I could build a life with him, but love was a luxury for people whose bank accounts weren't in freefall.

"I am doing this for the company, Dad," I said, looking straight into his eyes. "And for you. But do not ask me to pretend this is a fairy tale or ask me to act like I'm fine; I'm not fine, I just don't have other options.

He stared at me for a long moment, nodding slowly, humbled by my honesty. "Ten minutes, my dear. The guests are taking their seats in the grand conservatory."

He turned and walked out, leaving the door slightly open.

Left alone again, I walked to the window and placed my palm against the cool glass. Below, luxury town cars and tinted limousines were lining up along the stone driveway, delivering Montreal and Quebec’s elite to the Delacroix winter estate. Reporters braved the freezing wind at the outer gates, their camera lenses flashing like dying stars against the grey afternoon.

This was my life now. A public spectacle. A sacrificial offering disguised as high-society romance.

A quiet knock on the doorframe broke the silence.

"I told you, Dad, I need a minute"

"I am not your father, Aveline."

The voice was low, deep, and smooth like aged cognac a timbre that seemed to physically vibrate through the floorboards and settle in the pit of my stomach.

My breath caught. I turned slowly.

Standing in the doorway, framed by the warm glow of the hallway chandeliers, was a man who belonged in neither a romance nor a fairytale, but in a nightmare forged from stone and steel.

Zephyrin Delacroix.

Esmond’s older brother. The thirty-nine-year-old founder of Delacroix Tech, a self-made billionaire who had walked away from his father's empire years ago to build a ruthless, global machine of his own. He was the man the Canadian press called The Slate King cold, unyielding, and entirely devoid of sentiment.

He wore a tailored charcoal tuxedo that broadened his already imposing shoulders. Silver threads glinted at his temples within his neatly styled, slate-dark hair. His structured jaw was set in its usual stoic line, dusted with a faint, dark stubble. But it was his eyes that stopped the air in my lungs piercing, ice-gray, and assessing me with a clinical, unreadable intensity that made me feel entirely exposed.

He was six-foot-three of pure, intimidating authority. In the five years I had known of the Delacroix family, Zephyrin had never spoken more than ten words to me. He rarely attended family gatherings, and when he did, he remained in the background like a dark cloud hovering over his father's flashy display of wealth.

"Zephyrin," I said, my voice remarkably steady despite the sudden spike in my pulse. "You're in the wrong room. The groomsmen are in the east wing."

He didn't move. He didn't smile. He simply stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him with a quiet, frightening click.

"I know where the groomsmen are," he said, his eyes trailing down the length of my silk gown before locking back onto mine. "And I know where my brother is supposed to be."

A strange, cold prickle of apprehension washed over my skin. "What are you talking about?"

Zephyrin reached into his inner breast pocket, withdrawing a thin, folded piece of heavy cardstock. He held it out to me.

My heart gave a sickening, heavy thud against my ribs. I hesitated for a second before stepping forward, the heavy train of my dress dragging behind me. I reached out and took the paper from his gloved hand. My fingers brushed against his thumb even through the leather; a sudden, unwanted shock of heat zapped through my skin.

I unfolded the paper. Written in Esmond’s hurried, unstable handwriting. There were four short sentences:

“I can't do this. I'm sorry, Aveline. I can't let my father use you, and I can't pay the price he wants from me. Don't look for me.”

The words blurred before my eyes.

"What is this?" I whispered, my voice cracking as the reality crashed down on me. "Where is he?"

"Gone," Zephyrin answered plainly, his tone completely flat, completely devoid of pity. "He boarded a private charter out of Jean Lesage International twenty minutes ago. His phone is disconnected. His residence is cleared."

"No... no, this is a joke," I breathed, taking a frantic step back, the paper trembling in my hands. "The ceremony is in five minutes! The press is outside! My father's company if this merger fails today, the bank forecloses tomorrow morning! He knew that! Esmond knew that!"

"He knew," Zephyrin agreed quietly. "And he ran anyway."

Panic, hot and blinding, surged through my veins. The room seemed to tilt. Everything I had sacrificed my autonomy, my future, my self-respect was crumbling into dust because a boy got cold feet. My father would be ruined. Three thousand families would lose their income. My family name would become a punchline in every business journal across North America.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest heaving as I struggled to pull air into my lungs against the tight lacing of the corset. I felt a sudden, looming warmth in front of me, and when I opened my eyes, Zephyrin was standing barely a foot away.

He didn't touch me, but his sheer presence seemed to anchor the collapsing room.

"Look at me, Aveline," he commanded softly.

I looked up, trapped in the icy steel of his gaze.

"Your father's firm will not survive the hour if you walk out there alone," Zephyrin said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark register. "The press will tear your family apart by nightfall. My father will seize your remaining assets out of spite before the market opens tomorrow."

"I know," I choked out, a single, bitter tear threatening to break free. "I know."

Zephyrin reached out, his long, leather-clad fingers gently catching the edge of my chin. His touch was firm, cold, and electric, tilting my head back just enough to force me to look at him.

"There's only one way to silence these reporters and everyone else,

"What way is that?" I asked, my voice barely audible above the howling wind outside.

Zephyrin’s grey eyes locked onto mine with a terrifying, unyielding finality.

"The Delacroix name is already on the marriage license," he said coldly. "And the priest is waiting downstairs. You are going to walk down that aisle, Aveline... but you aren't marrying Esmond."

My heart stopped dead in my chest. "What?"