Chapter 1 - The Ruined Lace
Rain hammered the cathedral steps while Vivien Mercer sat in her ruined wedding gown, mascara bleeding down her face like war paint.
Three hours ago, she had been expected to marry Miami’s golden boy.
Now her fiancé was inside the cathedral with her sister, and both families still expected Vivien to smile for the cameras.
The rain did not care that her life had detonated.
It came down in cold, hard sheets, bouncing off the marble steps of Saint Aurelia’s Cathedral and soaking through fifteen thousand dollars of Italian lace. Water slid beneath her bodice, down her spine, into the satin lining of a dress that had taken six fittings, two flights to Milan, and one mother’s endless criticism to approve.
Her veil lay crumpled beside her like a dead white bird.
One of her shoes had gone missing somewhere between the bridal suite and the side exit, and her bare left foot was numb against the stone.
Vivien Mercer sat there anyway.
Motionless.
Knees pulled to her chest. Engagement ring catching broken reflections from the wet street below. Mascara streaking her cheeks in black rivers. Hairpins digging into her scalp. Lipstick bitten raw from the inside.
Behind her, the cathedral glowed with chandeliers, orchids, violin music, and the low, embarrassed murmur of people trying to decide whether scandal was worse than rain.
The wedding guests were still inside. Her parents were still inside. Damian Torres, the man she was supposed to marry, was still inside. So was Cassidy—her younger sister, her maid of honor, the same sister Vivien had found in the coatroom with Damian’s hands buried in her hair and his mouth pressed to her neck.
The image returned every time Vivien blinked, merciless and bright: Cassidy’s champagne-colored bridesmaid dress shoved up at one thigh, Damian’s jacket open, his wedding boutonniere crushed between their bodies, her sister’s eyes widening in horror only after she realized the door had opened.
Damian had not even looked ashamed. He had stepped back, adjusted his cuffs, and smiled at Vivien with the irritated patience of a man whose schedule had been interrupted.
“Don’t be dramatic, Viv,” he had said. “We’ll talk after the ceremony.”
Vivien had waited for someone to follow her when she ran. Her mother. Her father. One of the bridesmaids. Even Cassidy. No one came.
The cathedral doors had opened once, but only for her father. Richard Mercer stood beneath the archway in his black tuxedo, rain dotting his silver hair, his face tight not with concern but calculation.
“Vivien,” he had said. “Get up. You need to come back inside. People are asking questions.”
“When is the time, Dad?” Her voice had come out hoarse. “Before or after I marry the man who’s sleeping with my sister?”
Richard looked toward the street. “Damian made a mistake.”
Vivien laughed—broken, sharp. “A mistake?”
“Lower your voice.”
“He was touching Cassidy in the coatroom.”
“I know.”
The words silenced her more effectively than a slap.
“You know?” Vivien whispered, the rain freezing on her lips.
“The Torres merger secures our shipping lanes for the next decade,” Richard said, his tone flat, businesslike, devoid of paternal warmth. “Damian is young, wealthy, and powerful. Men like him have appetites. You smile, you take the vow, and you handle family matters behind closed doors. Now get up.”
“No,” Vivien breathed.
“Vivien, do not force my hand.”
“I said no.”
Richard stared at her with cold disappointment before turning back into the warm, glowing cathedral, leaving her alone on the freezing steps.
A long, sleek Maybach glided to a silent stop at the curb below.
The rear door opened. A broad-shouldered man in a dark tailored coat stepped out into the rain, holding a black umbrella. He did not look like a wedding guest. He moved with an effortless, predatory grace that commanded the street.
Lucian Reyes—the head of the Reyes Syndicate, Miami’s most ruthless crime boss, and Damian Torres’s bitterest rival.
May you like
Lucian walked slowly up the marble steps, stopping two paces above Vivien. He tilted his umbrella, letting the shadow fall over her soaked, shivering form. His dark eyes, sharp as winter glass, swept over her ruined lace, her bare foot, and the diamond ring glittering on her wet hand.
“It seems,” Lucian said, his voice a low, smooth purr that cut through the thunder, “that Damian Torres has exceptionally poor taste.”
