LOGINMary was sold by her father to the ruthless Silas Vance. But on their wedding night, before he could claim her, Silas collapsed into a cold, silent coma. Mary thinks she’s escaped a nightmare, until Julian Vance arrives. He is the estranged heir, a man fueled by shadows and a bitter hatred for his father. To Julian, Mary is a gold-digging "stepmother" who seduced an old man for a crown of blood money. He vows to break her, turning the Vance estate into her gilded prison. But in the dark corners of the mansion, his loathing turns into a lethal, forbidden obsession. Every touch is an act of war; every look is a sin. He wants to ruin her—but more than that, he wants to possess the only thing his father couldn't. And God help them both, he’s going to take what belongs to his father.
View MoreThe finality in his voice was crushing.Julian let go of her chin, but he didn’t step back. He stayed exactly where he was, close enough that Mary could feel the heat radiating from his body, close enough that there was no air left between them. The space he occupied felt deliberate, calculated an invisible cage built from proximity alone.Her throat burned from holding back sobs. Her legs trembled, though she forced herself to stay upright, to not fold in front of him. He watched her closely, his gaze cold and analytical, as if he were cataloging her weaknesses for later use."Starting tonight," Julian said, his eyes scanning her pale face with clinical indifference, "you move out of the master suite."Mary’s breath hitched."You will sleep in the small room at the end of the north wing," he continued. "The servant’s wing. You will eat when I tell you. You will speak when I tell you."Each sentence landed like a sentence passed in court.Mary shook her head, tears finally spilling ov
The isolation was a breeding ground for rumors.In a house as large as the Sterling estate, the walls had ears, and the servants had long tongues. Sound traveled in strange ways through the mansion. Silence didn’t erase gossip here. It fed it.Mary learned quickly where the house spoke the loudest.If she pressed her ear to the narrow air vent in her bathroom, the cool metal biting into her skin, she could hear the echoes from the service stairs below. The servants thought she was out of reach, locked away in her wing like an unpleasant memory. They didn’t lower their voices enough. Their words carried easily, weighted with certainty."Did you see the marks on her?" one maid whispered.Mary’s breath stuttered. She held still, afraid even the sound of breathing might carry back through the vent."The guards said she fought him. They say she pushed him into the nightstand. That’s what caused the stroke."Another voice answered, sharper, accompanied by the harsh, rhythmic sound of a poli
The Sterling Mansion had always been a fortress, but with the arrival of the son, it felt like a tomb being sealed from the inside.Mary stood behind the heavy velvet curtains of her bedroom, barely daring to breathe. The fabric was thick beneath her fingers, soft and expensive, yet it did nothing to steady the violent hammering of her heart against her ribs. Outside, on the stark white gravel of the circular drive, a black motorcycle rested like a predatory insect—low, sleek, and lethal. It did not belong among the polished luxury cars that usually lined the estate. It looked like it had come for blood.She had heard it before she saw it.The roar of the engine had sliced through the quiet of the house, sharp and aggressive, sending a ripple of panic through the servants. It had not slowed as it approached the gates. It had demanded entry, and the gates had obeyed.The man who had arrived didn’t walk into the house.He took it over.Even from the second floor, Mary felt the shift. Th
The night dissolved into a chaotic blur of blue and red lights, the smell of ozone from the defibrillator, and the heavy, accusing silence of the household staff. Mary sat on a hard velvet bench in the hallway, wrapped in a thick wool blanket that someone—perhaps a maid with a shred of pity—had thrown over her shoulders. Beneath the wool, she was still wearing the lace slip she was meant to bleed in.Doctors in white coats moved with frantic urgency in and out of the master suite. The bodyguards, men with faces like granite, stood at the ends of the hallway, their eyes never leaving her. They didn't see a grieving bride; they saw a girl who had broken their master."Miss—I mean, Mrs. Sterling?"Mary looked up. A police detective stood over her. He was a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a notebook that looked like it had seen too much of the city’s darkness."I need to know exactly what happened," he said. His voice wasn't unkind, but it was firm.Mary’s teeth chattered. "He... he w
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