Sloane Montgomery had been raised to handle pressure. She had smiled through backstabbing business negotiations, charmed billionaires into signing deals, and walked into boardrooms filled with men twice her age who thought she didn't belong, only to leave with everything they thought they could deny her.
But this? This was something else entirely.
The moment she left the ballroom, champagne flute still in hand, she could feel the eyes on her. A whisper of her name here, a stolen glance there, the sharks had scented blood.
"Did you hear? She's marrying Saint-Clair."
"The fashion queen and the real estate king? That's either a perfect match or the start of World War III."
"I give it six months before they kill each other."
She ignored them all. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she walked with the same effortless confidence she always carried, but inside, her thoughts were a hurricane of fury and disbelief.
Married. To him.
She needed air.
The Saint-Laurent Hotel had an exclusive rooftop terrace overlooking the Monaco skyline, a space reserved for VIPs and billionaires who needed a moment of silence away from the glittering chaos of the world below. It was exactly what she needed now.
Sloane pushed open the terrace doors and stepped into the cool night air. The city glittered beneath her, lights bouncing off the Mediterranean like scattered diamonds. It should have been calming. It wasn't.
She had just been sold off like a business acquisition, and the worst part? Vincent Saint-Clair hadn't even blinked.
She exhaled sharply, taking a sip of her champagne, already calculating her next move. There had to be a way out of this.
"Running away already?"
The deep, unmistakable voice sent a shiver down her spine, though she refused to let it show.
Vincent.
She turned slowly, already preparing for battle, and found him standing a few feet away, the soft glow of city lights reflecting off his sharp cheekbones and the ruthless confidence in his expression.
"Not running," she said smoothly, raising her glass to her lips. "Just plotting."
His mouth curved slightly. "Should I be worried?"
She let out a soft, almost cruel laugh. "If you were smarter, you would be."
Vincent took a slow step closer, his movements precise and deliberate, like a predator who had no doubt he was at the top of the food chain. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?"
"Oh?" She arched a brow. "Do tell."
"You don't want this. I don't want this." He spoke casually, but his gaze never wavered from hers, never let her breathe too easily. "But walking away isn't an option."
Sloane set her champagne flute on the ledge beside her, crossing her arms. "And why is that, Saint-Clair?"
"Because this isn't just about us." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something dark beneath the surface. "This is about legacy. Control. Power. Our families made this deal because it benefits them. And because, like it or not, it benefits us, too."
She scoffed. "Oh, please. Spare me the speech. If you think I'm going to play the part of your perfect billionaire bride, smiling at press events and draping myself on your arm like a well-dressed accessory, you're more delusional than I thought."
Vincent tilted his head slightly, his eyes flickering with something she couldn't quite read. "And yet, you didn't refuse."
Sloane's lips parted slightly, but she caught herself before the words slipped out.
No, she hadn't refused. Because she knew exactly how dangerous refusing would be.
She had spent years building her empire, clawing her way to the top of an industry that had tried to reduce her to just another heiress with a pretty face. One wrong move, and everything she had worked for could be threatened. Her company, her reputation, her control over her own life.
Vincent saw the truth in her silence.
"Exactly," he murmured, stepping closer.
Sloane held her ground, refusing to let him think he had any power over her, but the air between them was suddenly too charged, too dangerous.
"You think you have everything figured out, don't you?" she asked, her voice quieter now, almost a challenge.
Vincent's smirk was slow, deliberate. "I make it a habit."
Her gaze dropped to the glass of whiskey in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the crystal as if he wasn't the least bit affected by this situation. Meanwhile, Sloane was seething, barely keeping her composure.
She needed to regain control.
"I don't do submissive," she warned, stepping even closer until she could feel the warmth of his body despite the coldness in his stare.
"And I don't do emotional," Vincent countered, voice just as low, just as lethal. "So that works out perfectly, doesn't it?"
Sloane hated how her pulse reacted, how the air between them had shifted from cold resentment to something else entirely, something sharper, more dangerous, more intoxicating.
But she wouldn't let him win.
She leaned in just enough for her breath to brush against his jaw, her lips curling. "Then let's make one thing clear, Saint-Clair."
Vincent didn't move, didn't flinch, just waited.
"This marriage may be unavoidable," she whispered, "but that doesn't mean you own me."
His fingers tightened around his glass for a fraction of a second. The only tell, the only reaction.
Then he smiled. Slow. Dark. Unshaken.
"Oh, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice like smoke and silk. "I never said I wanted to."
Liar.
Because even though they both swore they would never fall, Sloane could already see it. The cracks in the ice, the slow, inevitable descent into a war neither of them would win.
And she wasn't sure whether she wanted to destroy him… or let him destroy her first.