Chapter 2

Three months in Monaco had been a sanctuary of sorts, though sanctuary felt too generous a word for my self-imposed exile. The Mediterranean sun had given my skin a golden glow that magazines would have called radiant, but I knew better. It was the tan of someone who spent too many hours walking empty beaches, trying to outpace the memories that followed me like shadows.

I was arranging white orchids in my rented villa's living room when Clara, my temporary assistant, approached with an envelope that made my breath catch. The paper was heavy, cream-colored, with an embossed seal that screamed exclusivity.

"This arrived by private courier, Miss Vance," she said, her British accent making even the most mundane announcements sound important.

I set down the flowers and took the invitation, my fingers tracing the elegant script. *The Monte Carlo Casino requests the honor of your presence at an exclusive masquerade ball.* The date was tomorrow night. No RSVP required—apparently, they already knew I would come.

"How did they even know I was here?" I murmured, more to myself than to Clara.

"Perhaps word travels faster than we'd like in certain circles," she replied diplomatically.

I stared at the invitation until the words blurred. Three months of hiding, and now this—my first real invitation back into society. The thought both terrified and thrilled me. I had been Bridgette Vance, the perfect daughter. Then I had been Bridgette Mills, the betrayed wife. Now I was just... nothing. A woman without a title, without a role, without a purpose.

But maybe that was exactly what I needed to be.

The next evening, I stood before my bedroom mirror, adjusting the intricate silver mask that covered half my face. The midnight blue gown I'd chosen hugged my curves in all the right places, its fabric shimmering like starlight. For the first time in months, I felt like myself again—or perhaps like someone entirely new.

The Monte Carlo Casino at night was a cathedral of excess. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors, while masked figures drifted through the opulent rooms like beautiful ghosts. I accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tried to ignore how my hand trembled slightly.

"Nervous?"

The voice came from behind me, low and accented with something I couldn't quite place. I turned to find a man in an elegant black mask, his golden hair catching the light. Something about him made my pulse quicken—not with fear, but with recognition I couldn't name.

"Should I be?" I replied, lifting my chin in a gesture of defiance I'd perfected over the past three months.

His smile was enigmatic, visible only in the curve of his lips below the mask. "That depends entirely on what you're here for, Miss Vance."

The use of my name sent ice through my veins. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

"We've met," he said simply. "Though you were rather... distressed at the time."

Memory hit me like a physical blow. The bar in Monaco. The golden-haired stranger who had appeared like salvation when I was drowning in champagne and self-pity. The night that had felt like a dream, hazy with alcohol and desperation.

"You," I breathed.

"Me," he confirmed, extending his arm. "Shall we take a walk? I believe we have much to discuss."

Against every instinct screaming at me to run, I took his arm. He led me through the casino's glittering maze, past roulette tables and card games where fortunes changed hands with each turn of a wheel or flip of a card. We stopped at a private elevator, and he produced a key card with the casual confidence of someone who owned the place.

"The penthouse suite," he explained as the elevator began its ascent. "More private for the conversation we're about to have."

"What conversation?" I asked, though part of me already knew this wasn't a coincidence. Nothing in my life had been coincidental lately.

The elevator opened onto a room that redefined luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of Monaco's harbor, where yachts floated like jewels on black water. He moved to a bar cart and poured two glasses of what looked like very expensive whiskey.

"To begin with," he said, handing me a glass, "my name is Thiago Bermudez. And I know everything about you, Bridgette Vance."

The whiskey burned my throat, but not as much as his words burned my pride. "Everything?"

"Your father's business practices. Your husband's infidelities. Your stepsister's jealousy. The scandal that drove you into exile." He removed his mask, and I was struck again by those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see straight through me. "I also know that you want revenge."

I set down my glass with more force than necessary. "What is this? Some kind of game?"

"The opposite of a game," he replied, his voice deadly serious. "This is business. I have a proposition for you, one that could give you everything you've lost and more."

"I'm listening."

He moved to the window, his silhouette dark against the glittering harbor. "Marry me."

I laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed in the opulent room. "Excuse me?"

"A marriage contract. One year. You play the role of my devoted wife, and I give you the resources and power to destroy everyone who betrayed you." He turned back to me, his expression unreadable. "Your father, your ex-husband, your stepsister—they'll all pay for what they did to you."

"Why?" The question came out as barely a whisper. "Why would you want to help me?"

"Because, my dear Bridgette, we have more in common than you know. We've both been betrayed by people we trusted. We've both lost everything. And we both want justice."

He moved to an antique desk and withdrew a thick document. "My lawyer has prepared the contract. Everything is outlined clearly—your obligations, my obligations, and the considerable benefits you'll receive."

I stared at the papers as if they were a snake that might strike. "This is insane."

"Is it? Or is it the first sane thing that's happened to you in months?" He leaned against the desk, his eyes never leaving my face. "Take the night to think about it. But know this—this offer won't come again. And neither will an opportunity like this."

I spent the night pacing my villa's terrace, the contract spread across my dining table like a map to a foreign country. By dawn, I had read every clause, every stipulation, every carefully worded phrase that would bind me to this stranger for a year.

When Clara arrived with coffee, she found me dressed and ready.

"Call Thiago Bermudez," I told her. "Tell him I'll sign."

Two hours later, I sat across from an elderly man with sharp eyes and an expensive suit. Elias Thorne, Thiago's lawyer, watched me sign my name with the solemnity of a priest conducting a funeral.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Bermudez," he said as I set down the pen.

Mrs. Bermudez. The name felt foreign on my tongue, but not unpleasant. It was armor, I realized. Protection. Power.

Thiago appeared in the doorway as if summoned by the completion of the contract. "There's one more thing you should know," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

Something in his tone made my blood run cold. "What?"

"Isabella Mills—your ex-husband's mother—was my wife. Derick was my stepson." His smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Our meeting wasn't coincidence, Bridgette. It was destiny."

The room spun around me as the full scope of what I'd just agreed to became clear. This wasn't just about revenge. This was about a web of betrayal that stretched back years, and I had just placed myself at its center.

I had married my ex-husband's former stepfather.

And I had no idea what that made me—his ally, his weapon, or his next victim.