Chapter 1

Slap.

The force of the blow sent my head snapping to the side. My cheek burned instantly.

I stared at the woman standing in front of me. Tessa Monroe. The pitiful "foster sister" my fiancé, Grant, had taken in three years ago.

"Who do you think you are, touching my dress?" Tessa shrieked, her eyes wild with manufactured outrage. "This gown costs more than you'll make in a lifetime, you pathetic stalker!"

I almost laughed. I was the lifetime she was talking about.

I had just returned to Manhattan after three years of expanding our family's empire in Europe. I came back for my Wedding of the Century.

Instead, I found Tessa claiming my custom Atelier Versace gown—a three-million-dollar masterpiece encrusted with three thousand hand-set diamonds.

Before I could speak, the boutique manager rushed over. He didn't even look at me. He kicked the back of my knees, forcing me onto the cold marble floor.

"Apologize to Miss Monroe! She's the future Mrs. Mercer!"

Mrs. Mercer. The rumors I'd heard in London were true. She wasn't his foster sister. She was the mistress he'd moved into my bedroom.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Grant on speaker. Ten years of history, down to one last chance.

"Cecilia, stop the drama," Grant's cold voice echoed through the store. "It's just a dress. You're about to be part of my family; can't you show a little grace?"

My blood turned to ice. My family’s money had built him, and this was his repayment.

I didn't argue. I reached up, grabbed the hem of the three-million-dollar gown, and ripped.

Lace shredded. Diamonds scattered across the floor like rain.

Tessa screamed, demanding the police. I dialed 911 myself.

When the officers arrived, Tessa played the sobbing victim. But I just tapped my platinum smart-bracelet against the dress's lining.

"Scan the RFID chip," I told the officer. "It contains the payment ledger and my biometric ID."

The officer's tablet lit up. Owner: Cecilia Rothwell.

Tessa's face went white. The manager's jaw dropped. I was about to have them both arrested when the boutique doors swung open.

Naomi Price, Grant's Chief of Staff, walked in. She handed a signed document to the lead officer.

"Gentlemen, the Police Commissioner sends his regards," Naomi said smoothly. "Mr. Mercer has just bought this boutique and signed a private settlement. This is a family dispute. You are dismissed."

The officers exchanged a look, nodded, and walked out. Just like that.

"Naomi? Tell them this is my dress!" I demanded.

Naomi didn't meet my eyes.

"I'm sorry, Miss Rothwell. Your driver is out cold in the alley. Your personal staff is fired. You're coming with us."

Behind her, two massive security guards stepped forward, blocking my only exit.