Prologue
Ten years I spent building an empire from the ashes my father left behind. My success is a monument to my hatred. I learned a simple truth: to win, you must be willing to burn everything to the ground. Elara Vance is the last piece of kindling. Her father stole my legacy; I will steal his. I will be her patron, her ruin, and her salvation. I will make her love me, and then I will show her it was all a lie. It is a perfect, brutal equation. And I never, ever lose.
Chapter 1: The Patron
The man from my nightmares was offering me a dream, and I was too desperate to refuse.
The bell above the door of my cramped gallery, Vance Void, chimed with a cheerful tinkle that felt like a mockery. I looked up from the invoice I'd been staring at for ten minutes, the numbers blurring into a stark representation of my impending financial ruin, and my blood turned to ice.
He moved through the space like a panther in a canary cage. Lysander Blackwood. His name was a whisper in the financial sections of newspapers I used to line my cat's litter box. His presence was a physical weight, sucking the air from the room, making the vibrant, chaotic splashes of colour on my canvases seem suddenly childish and naive. He was impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit that cost more than my yearly rent, his jawline sharp enough to slice through my fragile composure.
He stopped before my centerpiece, a large mixed-media work titled "Shattered Echoes." It was all fractured glass, bruised paint colours, and embedded scraps of my father's old accounting ledgers.
"Elara Vance," he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that vibrated straight through the floor and into the soles of my feet. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on the painting. "'Shattered Echoes' is a fitting title. You always were good at documenting ruin."
The sound of my name in his mouth felt like a violation. My fingers, stained with cerulean blue and burnt sienna, clenched into fists at my sides. I found my voice, thin and brittle. "Get out."
Finally, those storm-grey eyes slid to me. They were colder than I remembered from the charity galas I'd glimpsed him at from across crowded rooms. There was no warmth in them, only a calculating, predatory intelligence. A ghost of a smile, sharp and utterly devoid of humour, touched his lips.
"I think not." He took a step closer, and the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely, dangerously male hit my senses. "I'm here to be your patron."
I barked a laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet gallery. "I don't need a patron. I need customers who actually pay." I gestured vaguely at the empty space. "As you can see, you're interrupting a thriving enterprise."
His smile didn't waver. "One million dollars. Twelve paintings. A solo exhibition at the Aethelred Gallery."
The world tilted. The Aethelred. It was the kind of place artists like me dreamed of while eating instant noodles for the third night in a row. It was a career-making, life-changing offer. It was also, coming from him, a trap so obvious I'd have to be a fool not to see it.
"My name, made by me," he finished, his eyes pinning me in place.
The air crackled. This wasn't about art. It was never about art. The past, a shadow I'd been running from for a decade, loomed between us, large and suffocating.
"This is about my father," I said, the words tasting like ash.
His cold, sharp smile was a blade. "This is about legacy. Your father stole mine. I'm here to collect."
He reached into his inner suit pocket and withdrew a single, crisp sheet of paper. He didn't hand it to me. He placed it on the dusty wooden counter that served as my desk, the movement deliberate, final.
"Sign the contract," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "or watch what remains of your life crumble to dust. Starting with this charming little… establishment." He let his gaze drift over the peeling paint on the window frame, the flickering fluorescent light. "The bank manager is a close friend of mine. He'd be so disappointed to hear you've defaulted. Again."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Desperation was a sour taste in my mouth. I could call his bluff. I should tell him to go to hell. But the stack of unpaid bills on my desk, the eviction notice for my studio apartment, the gnawing fear that had been my constant companion for months—they were all screaming at me to be smart. To survive.
My eyes dropped to the contract. The numbers were indeed there, in stark, black ink. One million dollars. It was salvation. It was damnation.
My hand trembled as I reached for the pen lying next to my cash box—a cheap, plastic thing, utterly inadequate for the moment. My fingers closed around it. The tip hovered over the signature line, a tiny, insignificant dot of black ink poised above my name.
Lysander Blackwood didn't move. He simply watched, a king observing a subject finally kneeling. The silence in the gallery was absolute, broken only by the frantic thudding of my own heart. This was the point of no return. Sign, and I sold my soul to the devil I knew was waiting to devour me. Refuse, and I'd be destitute by the week's end.
I took a shaky breath, the scent of him, of sandalwood and power, filling my lungs. My hand pressed down.