The heiress her father is about to sell to the “right bidder.”
The thought makes my mouth curve into something dark.
I turn to Sylvester. “Make the calls.”
His brows lift. “To whom?”
“To Laurent’s lawyers. To the shell companies handling their quiet sell-off. To the social circles that whisper gossip into the ears of the men who think they run Europe.”
My voice is low, precise. Danger tightened into syllables.
Sylvester waits, expression unreadable.
“The marriage alliance,” I continue, tapping the file, “will go through channels I own. Not theirs.”
Sylvester’s jaw tightens slightly. “You intend to place a bid.”
“No.” I stand, fastening my cufflinks with deliberate calm. “I intend to win the bid.”
He stares at me for a beat too long. Realization settling. Understanding sharpening.
“By the end of the week,” I say, voice dipping into a cold certainty that tastes like victory, “the highest bidder for the Laurent heiress…will be me.”
“Oh.”
“Weak men hide their problems,” I murmur. “Henri Laurent will gift me his.”
Sylvester inclines his head, but something flickers across his face—hesitation, maybe even disbelief.
“Are you sure?” he asks quietly. “You’re…you’re talking about marriage?”
I grin. Sharp. Predatory. Amused. “Why do you look so shocked?”
He blinks. “It’s marriage, Dimitri.”
“Marriage is good,” I answer, shrugging into my chair. “All my brothers are married, aren’t they? And they’re happy.”
Sylvester doesn’t smile. He never indulges my wicked humor.
“Because they all married women they love,” he reminds me, stepping closer to the desk. His voice drops. “Is this business or personal?”
I hold his gaze for a long moment. Then I smile, cold and without warmth.
“It’s revenge,” I say softly. “Personal is the point.”
Sylvester exhales once, steady and resigned, and nods. “I’ll make the calls.”
He leaves the room with a purposeful stride, the door shutting behind him with a soft click.
Silence settles.
I pull the file closer, flipping it open one more time.
Her picture stares back at me—Vivian Laurent, the girl who came apart in my hands like she’d been waiting her whole life to be touched like that.
The corner of my mouth lifts. I run a thumb over her photograph, tracing the soft line of her jaw.
“Oh, Princess,” I murmur. “You have no idea who you’re about to marry.”
