Se connecterThey took everything from me before I was old enough to remember: my name, my family, my life. Raised as the Ashfords’ scapegoat daughter, blamed, beaten, humiliated while my perfect sister shone, I thought I was worthless. Until a masked stranger broke into my father’s study and called me by a name I had forgotten: Celeste. Vincent Torres is everything the Ashfords pretend to be: powerful, untouchable. He says my life with them is a lie. That I was never meant to be theirs. That he can help me take back my name, my inheritance, my future. All I have to do is marry him. A contract. Nothing more. I’ll become the wife my sister always wanted to be. I’ll infiltrate the world that should have been mine. And together, we’ll destroy the family that destroyed me. But somewhere between the contract and the vows, between the lies and the truth, I forgot the most important rule: Never fall for your weapon. Especially when he might be just as broken as I am.
Voir plusThe stylist Vincent sends is a whirlwind of efficiency and impeccable taste. She arrives at exactly eight AM with three assistants, racks of designer clothes, and enough makeup to open a cosmetics counter. They transform my room into a makeshift salon, and for the next several hours, I’m poked, prodded, painted, and perfected. "Mr. Torres is very specific about what he wants," the stylist, Michelle, says as she holds up a stunning red dress. "He says you need to look like you could buy and sell everyone in that room." I stare at the dress. It’s gorgeous. "Try it on," Michelle urges. I slip into it, and wow. The dress hugs every curve like it’s sewn directly onto my body. The neckline is cut perfectly to push my breasts up and out without being trashy, hitting that sweet spot between elegant and seductive. The slit runs all the way up my thigh, showing a scandalous amount of leg with every step. I look in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My hair is styled in soft, glamor
"They were never going to let me claim it," I whisper. "They were going to… what? Kill me?" "Maybe. Or maybe just keep you so beaten down, so convinced you were nothing, that you'd never question who you really were." Vincent steps closer. "But then I found you." I look up at him, tears streaming down my face. "Why do you care about any of this?" His jaw tightens, and for a moment, something flashes across his face. "Because I suspect the Ashfords had a hand in murdering both our parents." The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "What?" "Seven years ago, my father was investigating the disappearance of Celeste Moretti. He suspected the Ashfords were involved, but he died before he could prove it." Vincent's voice goes hard. "Sudden heart attack. Fifty-three years old. Perfectly healthy. The autopsy was rushed, the case closed within days." "On his deathbed, he made me swear I'd finish what he started." Vincent's dark eyes bore into mine. "That I would find you and make
Vincent Torres.The man Vivienne has been thirsting after for years. I've heard her gush about him at dinner parties, seen her try to engineer "accidental" meetings at charity galas. She's thoroughly obsessed with him.And he's standing right in front of me.Vincent Torres. Quiet. Dangerous. The kind of man who doesn't need to raise his voice to command a room. The kind of man who makes billion-dollar deals before breakfast and destroys competitors by lunch.What the hell is he doing breaking into my house? Drugging me? Calling me by a name that isn't mine?"Come in," he says again, stepping aside. I hesitate, every instinct screaming at me to run. But I've already come this far. And I need answers.I step inside.The loft is smaller than I expected. There's a sitting area with sleek leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and a bar in the corner with crystal decanters filled with amber liquid.It's masculine. Expensive. Like him."Sit," he says, gesturing to
Cold water hits my face like a slap.I jolt awake, gasping, choking on water that floods my nose and mouth. My eyes fly open to see Mother standing over my bed, an empty crystal glass in her hand and murder in her eyes. "Wake up, you slug," she hisses.I sit up, coughing, wiping water from my face with shaking hands. My head is pounding, and my mouth tastes like metal and something bitter.And then the memories hit me.The study. The man in black. His voice telling me Richard Ashford isn't my father. The silver flash of a needle. The sharp, burning pain in my neck.Celeste.My hand flies to my throat. There's no wound. No blood. Just smooth, unmarked skin.Was it... was it a dream?"Have you gone completely mad?" Mother's voice cuts through my confusion. She's staring at me like I'm something disgusting she found in the garbage. "You have twenty minutes to get ready."I blink at her, still disoriented. My room is bright with morning sunlight. How long was I asleep?"Get ready for what
I take the servants' stairs because I can't bear to walk past all those people again. Past all those faces that saw me get slapped twice and did nothing. Past those faces who believe I'm the monster in this story.My cheeks are still burning. My throat is tight with rage and humiliation. Of course. The problem is always Anastasia. Infuriating fucking Anastasia.The east wing is silent when I reach it. Dark. This part of the house barely gets used, as it's just storage rooms and my bedroom, tucked away where I can't bother anyone.Where I can't ruin Vivienne's perfect life just by breathing the same air.I slam my bedroom door shut and stand there in the darkness, chest heaving, hands shaking with fury. The injustice of it all crashes over me in waves. Christopher's baby. Vivienne's triumph. Mother's slaps. The whispers. Fuck my life. Ugh.I can't stay here. I can't just sit in this room and let them win.I need water. Or air. Or something to stop me from screaming. I wrench open my d
Anastasia’s POV The slap comes without warning. One second I'm standing in the hallway outside the ballroom, trying to blend into the wallpaper like I always do, and the next my head whips to the side so violently I taste blood on my tongue. "How dare you!" Mother's voice cuts through the classical music and polite laughter spilling from the party. Her face, perfectly made up, not a single blonde hair out of place, is twisted with a rage I know all too well. My cheek burns. My eyes water. But I don't cry. "I didn't—" "She pushed me!" Vivienne's voice rings out from behind Mother, high and trembling with theatrical fear. "Mama, she pushed me down the stairs!" I turn to look past Mother and see my sister at the base of the grand staircase, about ten feet away. One manicured hand presses dramatically to her very pregnant belly. Her rose-gold gown, custom Valentino, because only the best for Vivienne, doesn't have a single wrinkle. Her chocolate-brown hair still sits in perfect c






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