To keep from being buried alive in the fallout of a dying dynasty, I decided to steal a child from a man who supposedly couldn't even stand. To make sure the plan was foolproof, I doubled the dose of "Midnight Silk"—a cocktail of chemistry and desperation designed to make a man forget his own name. That night, the man who came to me was anything but the invalid the rumors described. He was a force of nature, primal and unrelenting, far more savage than any dying billionaire had a right to be. I told myself the drugs were just that good. I let my tears hit the pillow and endured every grueling hour until dawn. When the sun finally crept through the heavy velvet curtains, I pulled on a silk robe, my lower back aching with a dull, throbbing heat. I pushed open the double doors of the suite, ready to secure my future by announcing my "devotion" to the old man. Instead, I found a massacre. The marble floors were slick with it—a river of crimson reflecting the morning light. Bodies lay scattered like discarded dolls. And right in the center of the carnage stood the man I had spent the night with. He was holding a tactical blade that still dripped onto the expensive rug, his boot firmly planted on the throat of the man I was supposed to have seduced. He turned to look at me, his eyes bloodshot and dark with a lingering, predatory satisfaction. "So, Sadie," he rasped, his voice a low, terrifying vibration. "Did you get what you wanted last night?" I was ruined. I hadn't seduced the dying king. I had seduced the man who just murdered him. 1 The biggest mistake of my life wasn't marrying into the Montgomery family. It was believing that a hit of "Midnight Silk" could buy me a way out. In this world, there was a dark, unspoken rule: when the Patriarch falls, the loose ends are cut. No heirs, no protection. And for a trophy wife like me—a girl with no pedigree and even less influence—I wasn't just a loose end. I was a liability meant to be discarded. Harrison Montgomery was dying. He was a shell of a man, barely clinging to life in the east wing of the estate. The vultures were already circling. For someone like me, "discarded" usually meant a one-way trip to a shallow grave or a life-shattering scandal that would leave me on the streets. I wanted to live. So, I burned through my hidden savings to bribe the head of security. I needed him to steer Harrison into my suite for one last "reconciliation." I prepped the room, lit the incense, and doubled the dose of the stimulant. I even downed half a bottle of expensive bourbon myself; if I had to sleep with a man who smelled like mothballs and impending death, I needed to be numb enough not to vomit. But I missed one crucial detail: the coup was scheduled for that very night. I was hiding behind the canopy curtains when I heard the heavy thud of boots and the metallic clatter of gear. My brain was a fog of bourbon and adrenaline. I thought it was Harrison, maybe wearing some kind of experimental medical brace to help him stay upright. The moment the doors swung open, I didn't look at his face. I didn't dare. I lunged. If I got pregnant tonight, it wouldn't matter who sat on the throne tomorrow. A Montgomery heir was a golden ticket. The man froze. He smelled of cold rain, gunpowder, and the metallic tang of fresh blood—the scent of a man who had just finished a harvest. In my drunken haze, I convinced myself it was just a strange, expensive cologne. I didn't just embrace him. I wrapped myself around him like a vine, dragging him toward the bed with a desperation that should have been a warning. His body was like granite. He was still holding something cold and hard in his hand—a weapon, surely—but I didn't give him the chance to use it. I pressed my lips to his, forcing the drugged wine into his mouth. "I’ve been waiting for you, darling," I whispered, reciting the lines of a loyal, grieving wife. I felt the killing intent in him falter for a split second. Then, the drug hit. That suppressed, violent energy was ignited by the chemical fire I’d sparked. He flipped me over, his hands gripping my waist with enough force to bruise. At the time, I only felt a surge of triumph: The rumors were wrong. The old man still has plenty of fight left in him! The night was a blur of survival. I thought I was performing a grim duty, a "calculated transaction." Instead, it was a total eclipse. This man was a predator, ruthless and agonizingly thorough. He didn't move like a man who needed help walking; he moved like a man who destroyed things for a living. Somewhere in the middle of the fever dream, I wondered if the "Midnight Silk" was some kind of fountain of youth. He seemed to be venting years of repressed rage, his movements bordering on destructive, yet he stopped himself from truly hurting me in moments of strange, terrifying restraint. In a moment of sheer, drug-induced stupidity, I actually panted into his ear, "You've been holding out on me, haven't you? You're quite the dark horse. If I'd known you were this... capable... I wouldn't have used the double dose." He stilled for a heartbeat. Then he redoubled his efforts, and I was lost again. I was a small boat in the middle of a hurricane, clinging to my only hope of survival. I don't remember falling asleep. I only remember whispering that I was exhausted, crying into his neck. He let out a low, raspy chuckle—a sound so deep and resonant it couldn't have come from Harrison’s frail chest. But I was too far gone to care about the logic of it. I just knew the seed was planted. My life was safe. Until I woke up the next morning and saw his face. 2 My head was pounding when I drifted back to consciousness. The man was standing by the window, his back to me as he pulled on his tactical shirt. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and a back marked with the red scratches I’d left there during the night. There was no way in hell this was a sixty-year-old man. My eyes drifted to the floor, where a combat blade lay discarded. The blood on the edge hadn't fully dried; dark droplets were still seeping into my cream-colored rug with a rhythmic plink, plink, plink. The hangover vanished instantly, replaced by cold, paralyzing terror. I looked up just as he turned around. It was a face I recognized from the "Avoid at All Costs" briefings: Roman Blackwood. The "Butcher" of the corporate underworld, the mercenary kingpin who had been rumored to be planning a takeover for months. I hadn't slept with the King. I had slept with the man who had just decapitated the kingdom. I scrambled off the bed, not even stopping to find a robe, and dropped to my knees, trembling so hard my teeth chattered. "You're awake," he said. His voice was sandpaper and velvet, a terrifyingly magnetic sound. He didn't kill me immediately. Instead, he took his time tightening his belt, his eyes tracing the line of my bare shoulder with a look that was half-amused, half-starved. "You were quite... enthusiastic last night, Sadie." This was it. The moment I died. My mind raced. If I admitted I mistook him for the old man, I was calling him a substitute. Dead. If I said I intended to sleep with him, I was a traitor and a whore. Dead. If I was going to die anyway, I might as well play the most dangerous hand in the deck. I took a sharp breath, looked up, and let the tears flow on command. I channeled every ounce of "doomed heroine" energy I had. "Roman! I... I've waited so long for this night!" His hand paused on his belt. He arched a dark eyebrow. "Oh?" I had to commit. I had to believe my own lie so hard it became his reality. "You have no idea. I’ve watched you from the sidelines for years. Marrying Harrison... it was a prison sentence. I was a captive in this house, but my heart? My heart has always belonged to you. I’ve been praying for the day you’d finally come and burn this place down." He walked toward me, each step echoing like a heartbeat. He used the bloody tip of his scabbard to tilt my chin up. "You've been pining for me?" He let out a cold, cynical whistle. "Then why did you keep calling out for 'the Master' last night?" My heart skipped. Shit. I had used the formal title I usually used for Harrison. But I, Sadie Moore, have a face made of brass. "Because to me, you are the Master!" I cried, leaning into the blade. "In my heart, you’ve always been the one in charge. Harrison was just a ghost I had to endure until you arrived!" It was treasonous, but to a man who had just successfully staged a coup, it was exactly the kind of ego-stroke he needed. The murderous glint in Roman’s eyes softened—not into kindness, but into a dark, intrigued curiosity. "Pretty words," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "But you're a hell of an actress, Sadie. You should be in Hollywood, not a billionaire's bedroom." "It's not an act!" I reached under the pillow and pulled out a small, silk handkerchief I’d been embroidering. It was supposed to be a floral pattern, but my needlework was so atrocious that the 'M' for Montgomery looked more like a jagged 'B'. I held it up with trembling hands. "Look! I made this for you! 'B' for Blackwood! I’ve been keeping it hidden for months, waiting for the right moment!" Roman took the scrap of silk, staring at the messy, distorted letter. "This is a 'B'?" "It’s... it’s abstract!" I insisted. "It represents my chaotic, wild devotion to you!" Roman was silent. He had likely never encountered a woman this shameless in his entire life. Finally, he let out a low, jagged laugh. It was a terrifying sound, but it wasn't the sound of a man about to kill me. "Since you're so devoted to me..." He tossed the handkerchief back onto the bed and turned toward the door. "Put some clothes on. You're coming with me to watch the board members surrender." I collapsed onto the floor the moment he turned his back, my skin drenched in cold sweat. I was alive. But the road ahead was going to be a hell of a lot harder than dying. 3 The Grand Ballroom smelled like ozone and expensive scotch. The board of directors—the men who had treated me like a decorative houseplant for a year—were now huddled on the floor, terrified. And there I was, standing right at Roman’s side, feeling their stares burning into me like I was some kind of ghost. Harrison—or what was left of him—was seated in a chair in the center of the room, bound and broken. Roman sat on the marble desk, one arm draped possessively, almost bruisingly, around my waist. The intimacy of it made my skin crawl, but I leaned into him, playing the part of the devoted consort. "Harrison, do you recognize her?" Roman asked, his voice dripping with sadistic mockery. The old man looked up. When his eyes landed on me, they nearly bulged out of his head. "Sadie? You... you traitorous little bitch! How could you?" I felt a twinge of guilt, but it was quickly drowned out by self-preservation. If I showed a second of weakness, Roman would toss me to the wolves. I hardened my heart and pointed a finger right at my "husband." "Shut up! I was never yours! I’ve always been Roman’s!" The room went dead silent. Even Roman shifted slightly, surprised by how far I was willing to go. "You useless old fossil," I continued, the words pouring out like venom. "Did you really think I enjoyed our 'quiet evenings'? You couldn't hold a candle to a man like Roman. He’s a god; you’re just a relic." "I was waiting for him! I was keeping myself ready for the man who actually knows how to lead!" The more I talked, the more I channeled all the frustration of the last year. Harrison started shaking, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. He tried to speak, but he just sputtered, a thin line of foam appearing at the corner of his mouth before he slumped over, unconscious from the sheer shock. "A bit fragile, isn't he?" I muttered, turning back to Roman with my best adoring smile. "How was that, darling?" Roman looked at me, his gaze deep and unreadable. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had I overplayed it? Did I look too much like a psychopath? Suddenly, he threw his head back and laughed. "Perfect! A 'devoted' heart indeed!" He pulled me flush against his side, announcing to the room, "From this moment on, Sadie stays with me. She’s my personal assistant, my shadow. She goes where I go." I exhaled, but the relief was short-lived. "Personal assistant"? That meant being under his thumb twenty-four hours a day. This wasn't a reward. This was Roman Blackwood keeping his favorite new toy on a very short leash.
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