PROLOGUE
London had never looked so cruel under the drizzle.
The rain slid down the black glass of the cathedral like tears that refused to fall, whispering secrets to the city that thrived on power, lies, and old money.
Elanor Vance stood before the altar, his posture rigid, his jaw carved from restraint. The flash from a dozen cameras painted his expression cold, unreadable, beautiful. The crowd did not see the man beneath the tailored suit; they saw a legend reborn, the heir who had returned to reclaim everything taken from him.
Beside him, Isabella Moreau gripped the bouquet of white lilies until her knuckles turned pale. The fragrance made her dizzy; perhaps it wasn't the flowers but the irony of it all marrying the man whose name once destroyed her family.
The priest's voice echoed through the vast marble hall.
"Do you, Elanor Vance, take Isabella Moreau to be your lawfully wedded wife"
"I do."
Two words. Sharp. Final.
Like the trigger of a gun.
He didn't even glance at her.
When her turn came, her lips trembled. The entire audience leaned forward, waiting for the tragic beauty to whisper her surrender.
"I… do."
Applause burst through the cathedral like thunder. Champagne would be poured, articles would be written, and the headlines would crown them: The Marriage of the Century.
Only they knew it was a deal with the devil.
Three months ago, Isabella had walked into Vance Corporation to beg for a contract that would save her family's crumbling company. Instead, she had walked into a trap.
Elanor Vance London's youngest tycoon, the man every investor feared and every woman desired had watched her with the calm of a predator.
"I don't give second chances, Miss Moreau," he'd said, his tone quiet but lethal. "But I might consider a trade."
"A trade?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
His eyes found hers, sharp and glacial. "Marry me."
The silence between them had stretched, heavy with disbelief.
"You can't be serious."
"Oh, I am. Entirely."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "Your father stole what was mine. Your family ruined my name. You'll spend the rest of your life restoring it. Starting with my last name."
She had stood frozen, pulse hammering.
"You want revenge."
"No," he said. "I want balance."
But balance in his world meant obedience.
Now, beneath the chandelier light of the reception, Isabella's reflection in the mirror trembled. The lace gown felt like a cage; the diamonds around her neck, like chains. She had promised herself not to cry—not in front of him, not ever again.
Behind her, his reflection appeared—tall, controlled, with the faint scent of vetiver and winter rain.
"Wipe your tears, Mrs. Vance," he murmured. "You wanted to save your family. You have the deal you begged for."
She met his eyes through the mirror, her voice brittle. "And what do you have, Mr. Vance?"
He smiled faintly, cruelly. "My pound of flesh."
London's skyline glittered beyond the glass walls of their penthouse that night. From up here, the city looked almost peaceful tiny, quiet, harmless.
She stood by the window, the veil discarded, her heart numb.
Elanor loosened his tie, stepping closer.
"I can be generous, Isabella. But never mistake that for mercy."
"I never asked for mercy," she said, voice steady though her hands trembled.
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes an echo of the man he used to be, before vengeance hollowed him out. But it was gone before she could name it.
"You'll learn to play your part," he said.
"And what part is that?"
"The dutiful wife of a man you hate."
Outside, the rain began again soft at first, then harder, like applause from the sky. Isabella turned her face toward the sound.
In another life, she might have loved him.
In this one, she would ruin him.
Weeks turned into months. The press adored them.
The Power Couple of London.
She smiled for cameras, held his arm, and stood beside him at every charity gala. The world believed in their love story; they had to. Because the truth was poison.
Behind closed doors, their marriage was a war of silence. Every glance was a blade, every word a challenge.
Yet, somewhere between the cold breakfasts and the fake kisses, the lines began to blur.
He would find her sketching by the window late at night, her hair untamed, her eyes lost in some memory.
"You still paint," he said once.
"It's the only thing that's still mine," she replied.
He said nothing after that. But the next morning, a new set of brushes appeared on her desk.
One evening, at a charity gala, she overheard his business rival mutter something cruel about her father's death. Before she could react, Elanor's hand gripped the man's collar.
"Say that again," his voice thundered. "And you'll be out of every deal in this city."
She stared at him shocked, confused, undone.
That night, for the first time, she realized vengeance wasn't the only thing binding them. There was something else beneath the ashes. Something dangerous.
But love born from hate is the most fragile kind.
It demands payment in blood.
Because one secret still slept beneath the ruins of their families the real reason Elanor's life had been destroyed, and the truth Isabella's father had died to protect.
And when that truth awakens, one of them must fall.
On their hundredth day of marriage, she found the letter.
Hidden inside the piano, sealed with the crest of House Vance.
A confession. A crime. A name she was never meant to read.
Her vision blurred. Her hands shook.
And in that moment, Isabella Moreau stopped being a pawn.
London, once again, was drowning in rain.
Elanor stood on the balcony, unaware of what she'd found.
Below, the city lights flickered like dying stars.
She stepped behind him, her voice soft but cutting.
"Tell me, Elanor… was my father's death your balance too?"
He turned. The look in his eyes shock, regret, sorrow was all the answer she needed.
The thunder broke above them, fierce and final.
And between love and vengeance, only one would survive.
Lightning split the sky open, its glow washing over their faces the wife with trembling hands and the husband whose silence was heavier than guilt itself. In that brief flash, Isabella saw not the man who ruined her, but the boy who once stood alone in the rain, betrayed by everyone he trusted.
The storm outside howled, as if echoing the war within them. Between them lay a truth too heavy to bear and a love too dangerous to name. Yet beneath all the hatred and wreckage, something still flickered a fragile heartbeat neither of them could silence.
And as the night closed around them, London watched in silence the city of sinners, lovers, and liars. Somewhere in that storm, a vow was reborn not of love, but of vengeance wrapped in longing.