Chapter 3

I arrived at the Millennium Tech Center fifteen minutes early, smoothing down my tailored navy suit. The receptionist directed me to Conference Room A, where Ryan's startup pitch was scheduled. Thanks to Alexander's connections, I'd learned about this acquisition meeting weeks ago—plenty of time to prepare my counterattack.

Slipping into a seat at the back of the room, I watched Ryan pace nervously at the front, straightening his tie repeatedly. He hadn't noticed me yet. Perfect. Isabella was nowhere to be seen—probably not 'professional' enough for his important business meeting. The irony wasn't lost on me.

The potential investors filed in, serious men and women in expensive suits clutching leather portfolios. Ryan's face lit up with that boyish enthusiasm I once found charming. Now I recognized it as part of his calculated performance.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice steady with practiced confidence. "RH Innovations is poised to revolutionize the financial technology sector..."

I let him finish his pitch. Let him see the approving nods, the interested murmurs. Let him taste success before I snatched it away.

When the lead investor announced they were prepared to offer eighteen million, Ryan's eyes gleamed with triumph. That's when I stood.

"Twenty-five million," I said clearly, my voice cutting through the sudden silence.

Ryan's head snapped toward me, his face draining of color as our eyes locked. "Sophia?"

I approached the front of the room, extending my business card to the lead investor. "Sophia Mitchell-Sterling. Sterling Industries is prepared to outbid your offer by a considerable margin."

The investors exchanged glances. One whispered to another. Money talked, and mine was shouting.

"This is—you can't—" Ryan sputtered, his composure cracking.

I turned to him, allowing myself a small, cold smile. "Business, Ryan. Just business. Isn't that what you always said?"

The lead investor cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately, Ms. Mitchell-Sterling?"

"Of course." I nodded, then glanced back at Ryan. His face had gone from white to gray, his fingers clutching his presentation folder so tightly the knuckles shone. "Oh, and Ryan? I believe congratulations are in order on your engagement. Isabella must be thrilled."

I walked out without waiting for his response, the sweet taste of revenge lingering on my tongue like expensive champagne.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking?" Alexander's voice boomed through the penthouse as I kicked off my heels.

I looked up to find him standing in the doorway of the lounge, his tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled. Despite his anger, he looked infuriatingly handsome.

"I was thinking," I replied coolly, "that Ryan's startup needed to fail spectacularly."

"By spending twenty-five million dollars of Sterling money?" He strode toward me, eyes flashing. "Money we'll never see again on a tech concept that's mediocre at best?"

I shrugged, pouring myself a glass of wine from the decanter on the side table. "You said I could use your resources. Those were your exact words."

"For reasonable revenge, Sophia. Not corporate sabotage." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "There are people who work for that company. Innocent people who will lose their jobs."

Something in his tone made me pause. This wasn't just about the money. Alexander Sterling, notorious playboy and ruthless businessman, was concerned about collateral damage?

"Since when do you care about the little people?" I asked, genuinely curious.

He sighed, the anger seeming to drain from him. He crossed the room and knelt beside my chair, his eyes level with mine. "There are better ways to destroy Ryan without destroying others in the process."

I was suddenly acutely aware of how close he was. I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that made my pulse quicken despite myself. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and there was something in his eyes I couldn't quite name. Concern? For me?

"I—" I began, then stopped, unsure what to say. This wasn't the cold, calculating Alexander I thought I knew.

"Promise me you'll consult me before your next move," he said quietly, his hand unexpectedly covering mine. The warmth of his touch sent an unwelcome shiver up my arm.

"Fine," I managed, withdrawing my hand. "But I'm not stopping until he loses everything."

Alexander studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Just remember, revenge has a cost. Make sure you're not the one paying it in the end."

* * *

I couldn't sleep. The penthouse was silent except for the faint hum of the city below. At three in the morning, I gave up and padded to the kitchen, pulling out the stack of antique book catalogs I'd been browsing earlier.

Restoring old books had been my passion before—before everything. Before Ryan. Before revenge became my only focus. I traced my fingers over the glossy pages, feeling a faint echo of my former self.

"Insomnia?" Alexander's voice startled me.

He stood in the doorway wearing only pajama bottoms, his chest bare in the dim light of the kitchen. I forced myself to look away.

"Just looking for a first-edition Austen," I said, gesturing to the catalogs. "I've been trying to complete my collection."

To my surprise, he pulled out a chair and sat beside me. "Show me."

For the next hour, we paged through catalogs together, his knowledge of rare books surprising me. When we both reached for the same volume, our hands brushed. The contact sent an electric current up my arm.

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine, something shifting in their depths. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze dropping to my lips. My breath caught in my throat as he moved closer, the space between us charged with unexpected tension.

Just as his lips were about to touch mine, my phone vibrated loudly on the table. The screen lit up with a text notification:

*Princess: When are you coming home? I miss you...*

Reality crashed back. I jerked away, the moment shattered. Of course. His mysterious girlfriend, the one he called "Princess."

"Sophia—" Alexander began, but I was already standing, gathering the catalogs with trembling hands.

"It's late," I said curtly. "This was a mistake."

I stormed out of the kitchen, my heart pounding with anger—at him for almost making me forget our arrangement was fake, and at myself for almost wanting it to be real.