HIS SWEETEST REVENGE

FIONA ASHFORD POV

My head throbbed as if someone had driven a rusty nail straight through my temple. I blinked, my vision blurry and unfocused, only to realize I was lying flat on the cold, polished hardwood floor of the gallery.

The air in the room was freezing, heavy with the sharp, chemical stench of fresh paint.

I sat up slowly, pressing the heel of my hand against my forehead. How did I get here? The last thing I remembered was sitting at my desk, working late on the restoration of a priceless Renaissance piece—a ten-million-dollar masterpiece we had just secured for the exhibition. I had taken a sip of the coffee Julian brought me, and then... nothing. Just darkness.

I turned my head toward the main display easel, and my breath caught in my throat.

"No," I whispered, my voice cracking as I scrambled to my feet.

The masterpiece was ruined. The beautiful, delicate canvas was slashed violently from corner to corner. Bright, aggressive red oil paint had been smeared all over the face of the portrait. And right there, painted in sloppy, mocking cursive at the very bottom, was my own name: Fiona Ashford.

Before my brain could even process the horror of what I was looking at, the heavy oak doors of the gallery clicked open.

Bright, blinding lights instantly flooded the room. Camera flashes popped in rapid succession, reflecting off the glass frames on the walls and stinging my eyes.

"There she is!" a voice shouted from the crowd.

Through the sea of reporters and flashing lenses, Julian walked in. My fiancé. My boss. The man I had loved and trusted for the last three years. But he didn't rush to my side to ask if I was okay. He stood there, flanked by three police officers, looking at me with a perfectly rehearsed expression of utter devastation.

"Fiona," Julian said, his voice dripping with theatrical disappointment. He clutched his chest, looking from me to the ruined canvas. "How could you do this? I knew you were stressed about the upcoming exhibition, but to destroy the gallery's crown jewel? Out of spite because we had an argument?"

"Julian, what are you talking about?" My voice shook violently as I took a step back. "I didn't do this. I fell asleep... I think someone put something in my drink. You have to believe me."

I reached out to him, desperate for his hand, but he stepped back, letting the officers move between us. As he did, the harsh gallery lights caught the side of his neck. Right there, on the crisp white collar of his designer shirt, was a faint smudge of crimson lipstick.

It wasn't my shade. It was the exact, expensive plum color worn by his ambitious assistant, Charlotte.

The pieces clicked together with agonizing clarity. The missing gallery funds Julian had been secretly panicking about for weeks, the late-night "meetings" he claimed he couldn't avoid, and now this. He didn't just ruin a masterpiece. He used me as his scapegoat to cover up his own financial crimes and run off with his mistress.

"The evidence is right here, Ms. Ashford," one of the officers said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Your signature is literally on the vandalized art, and the security system shows your personal passcode was used to turn off the cameras at midnight."

Julian looked at me. For a split second, the heartbreak on his face vanished, replaced by a tiny, sickening smirk. "I'm sorry, Fiona," he murmured, loud enough for the reporters to hear. "I can't protect you from yourself anymore."

Knowing I stood no chance in a room full of his paid-off witnesses, I didn't think. I just ran. I bolted toward the back of the gallery, pushing past a startled photographer, and threw myself through the fire exit into the freezing, dark alleyway.

An hour later, the true weight of my ruin settled over me.

I stood in front of my apartment building, completely drenched to the bone by a sudden downpour. The lobby doors were locked, and the building manager had already stopped me at the gate. Julian's name was on the lease, and he had called ahead to bar me from the property, claiming I was "unstable" and a threat to the building.

I had no home. No job. No career left to salvage.

I sat down on the wet curb under a flickering streetlamp, my clothes clinging to my shivering body. My phone buzzed in my pocket. When I pulled it out, my screen was flooded with hateful notifications and news articles. My face was already plastered online, labeled as a jealous, unstable artist who destroyed a piece of history. I opened my banking app with trembling fingers.

Balance: $0.00.

Julian had cleared out our joint savings account hours before the police even arrived.

I was entirely, utterly ruined.

There was only one place left to go. One man who held more power than the gallery's board of directors, the police, and Julian combined.

Gideon Mercer. Julian’s uncle.

He was the silent, terrifying patriarch of the Mercer family, and the actual owner of the gallery. Julian feared him more than death itself. If there was anyone who could expose the truth, it was the man who controlled the entire Mercer empire.

I dragged my freezing, exhausted body across the city, eventually reaching the massive, imposing iron gates of the Mercer estate. The mansion sat at the end of a long, winding driveway, its dark stone walls glowing like a fortress against the stormy night sky.

I clung to the cold iron bars of the gate, my knees buckling. Rain poured over my face, blurring my vision as I tried to catch my breath.

Suddenly, a pair of blinding headlights cut through the darkness.

A sleek, black Maybach slowly rolled down the driveway, the tires crunching against the wet gravel. The vehicle stopped just feet away from where I stood shivering. The tinted back window rolled down a fraction, revealing a pair of sharp, calculating grey eyes staring directly at me.

The heavy iron gate began to creak open.