All Chapters of ASHES OF HER MERCY : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Crown of GlassSeraphina's POVPower doesn't feel like victory when you first put it on; it feels like heavy armor that pinches the skin and burns the bone.The rain against the forty second floor windows of Mayfair Tower sounded like a thousand tiny needles striking glass. Down below, London was a blurred canvas of grey asphalt, yellow cab lights, and slick red double decker buses drifting through the fog. Inside, the executive suite smelled of fresh white lilies, polished brass, and the bitter tang of the dark espresso Julian had set near my hand an hour ago.I stood before the floor to ceiling window, adjusting the cuffs of my tailored charcoal suit. My knuckles were still tender under my skin, a lingering reminder of the heavy striking bag in the basement but my posture was rigid, smooth, and unforgiving.For three years, I had been the silent, trembling woman sitting in the back of Lucian Vance’s Manhattan penthouse, praying that my compliance would earn me a shred of mercy. Toda

A Circus of KnivesLucian's POVConscience is a quiet, rotting thing when you’ve spent a lifetime pretending you don't have one. It doesn't break down your door; it simply sits in the corner of an empty room, watching you choke on the silence.The estate in Long Island had five hundred acres of manicured lawn, an indoor pool I hadn't stepped into once, and twenty four security guards whose only real job was to make sure I didn't put a bullet through my head or leak another tear to the press. Harrison called it "restful seclusion." I called it what it was: a velvet-lined coffin.I sat in the oversized leather armchair in the library, staring at the amber liquid in my glass. I hadn't touched a drop of scotch in four days. The glass was just an anchor, something heavy to keep my hands from shaking when the rain hit the tall leaded windows.The heavy mahogany double doors snapped open without a knock.Harrison walked in, flanked by two senior board members from Vance Global men who used t

Night Before the StormSeraphina's POVNight in London doesn't fall; it seeps up from the Thames, a dark, heavy ink that fills every alleyway and swallows the gold of the city lights until only ghosts are left walking the wet pavement.I stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass of my hotel suite, thirty floors above the quiet hum of Mayfair, holding a porcelain cup of black tea that had gone stone cold an hour ago. Outside, the rain was a thin, glass-like sheet, blurring the distant silhouette of the London Eye into a pale, glowing ring in the mist.In the dark reflection of the window, I hardly recognized the woman looking back at me.She wore a dark silk robe, her shoulders straight, her collarbones sharp, her face smooth as carved marble. There were no tears in those dark eyes. No lingering terror from the years spent trapped in Lucian Vance’s gilded cage on the Upper East Side. No trembling hands that reached out, pleading for a crumb of warmth or a polite word from a husband who looke

The Ghost in the FlashbulbsLucian's POVA man can only bleed so much before his veins forget how to hold warmth.I sat in the cavernous back seat of the secondary Maybach, staring at the rain crawling down the tinted glass. Outside, the London night was violently illuminated by the erratic, blinding strobe of camera flashes. The ExCeL Center loomed ahead, a fortress of steel and light, surrounded by a screaming mob of international press, financial analysts, and union protesters.Through the glass, they looked like an ocean of open mouths and hungry eyes. They were waiting for blood. They were waiting for the ruined King of Vance Global to step out and offer his neck to the guillotine."Mr. Vance," Miller said softly from the driver’s seat, putting the heavy vehicle into park at the base of the crimson carpet. "We can circle around to the service entrance. You do not have to walk through that.""Unlock the door, Miller," I rasped. My voice sounded like dry leaves crushed underfoot.I

The Sound of ShatteringLucian's POVThe sound of breaking crystal is remarkably loud when the rest of the world has stopped breathing.My fingers simply opened. I did not make a conscious decision to let go of the champagne flute. The muscles in my hand simply went dead, paralyzed by the sheer, suffocating weight of the nightmare unfolding in front of me. The heavy crystal dropped from my grip, plummeting toward the polished marble floor of the grand hall.It hit the stone with a violent, piercing crack.Shards of glass exploded outward, raining across the toes of my leather oxfords, the pale gold champagne hissing as it soaked into the grout.In a ballroom packed with two thousand of the most powerful financial predators on earth, that single shatter echoed like a gunshot.The voice of Evelyn Sterling, the woman who was supposed to have been rotting in a Parisian cemetery for over a decade died on the microphone. The murmurs of the international delegates froze in their throats. Eve