The room smelled of old money and expensive deception. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, reflecting golden light over the sea of power players dressed in custom-tailored suits and designer gowns.
The Saint-Laurent Hotel in Monaco was no stranger to high-profile deals, but tonight, the real negotiations weren't happening in the boardrooms upstairs. They were unfolding in whispers, behind champagne glasses and diamond-studded smiles.
Sloane Montgomery walked into the gala like she owned it. Technically, she didn't—but give her a few months, and she'd have the Montgomery Atelier flagship store planted right in the heart of this place. The real estate deal wasn't finalized yet, but she could already picture it: an exclusive, members-only luxury boutique draped in velvet and gold, where only the world's elite could shop.
Her emerald-green gown clung to her figure like it had been painted on, the thigh-high slit revealing long, tanned legs that made men stop mid-conversation. But she wasn't here for them. She was here to claim what was hers.
She spotted her father, Charles Montgomery III, at the far end of the ballroom, locked in conversation with him.
Vincent Saint-Clair.
The man was carved from ice and arrogance. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a custom black Tom Ford suit that probably cost more than most people's yearly salaries. He held a glass of whiskey between his fingers, but he wasn't drinking—just watching, calculating. He was always calculating.
Sloane had never met Vincent in person, but she knew his type. The untouchable billionaire, the kind of man who didn't just own buildings—he owned people. She had spent her career dodging men like him.
Which made it all the more infuriating when her father waved her over.
"Sloane, there you are," Charles said smoothly. "I was just telling Vincent about your plans for our expansion in Monaco."
Vincent's gaze met hers, a sharp, assessing glance that sent a flicker of something unrecognizable down her spine. His blue eyes were cold, his expression unreadable.
"Miss Montgomery," he said in a voice as smooth as the whiskey he wasn't drinking.
"Saint-Clair," she returned, just as coolly.
His lips quirked at her tone. The slightest, almost imperceptible smirk.
Charles, oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere, continued speaking. "We were just discussing the Saint-Laurent Hotel deal."
Sloane's spine stiffened. Her deal.
"I didn't realize you were involved," she said, forcing an easy smile, though her blood was already simmering.
Vincent took a slow sip of his whiskey, finally indulging in the drink, before lowering the glass. "Saint-Clair Holdings recently acquired the property," he said simply.
Her grip tightened on the stem of her champagne flute. "That's funny, because Montgomery Atelier was in talks to secure that space for our flagship store."
Vincent didn't blink. "Not anymore."
Her nails dug into her palm, but she refused to let the irritation show on her face. Instead, she stepped closer, dropping her voice just enough to ensure only he could hear.
"I don't take kindly to people standing in my way."
Vincent tilted his head slightly, studying her with something that might have been amusement. Or maybe it was just another layer of his calculated indifference.
"Then it's a good thing I don't stand in anyone's way, Miss Montgomery," he murmured. "I simply own the path they walk on."
A slow burn of anger—and something far more dangerous—coiled inside her.
He thought he had already won.
She was about to correct that assumption when her father cleared his throat. "Actually, that's what I wanted to speak to both of you about."
Sloane turned to her father, sensing something off in his tone. She had grown up around powerful men, learned early how to read between the lines. And right now, there was something about the way Charles and Vincent stood together that made her stomach tighten.
"Your mother and I have been in discussions with the Saint-Clairs," her father continued, his gaze far too neutral. "And we've decided that this would be the perfect opportunity to merge our legacies."
Sloane's breath stalled.
"What exactly are you saying?"
Her father exhaled like this was a simple matter. "You and Vincent will be married."
The words hit her like a thunderclap.
For the first time in years, Sloane had no immediate response.
Married? To him?
She turned to Vincent, expecting shock, resistance—anything. Instead, he simply watched her with those glacier-blue eyes, as if waiting for her to catch up to his level of control.
She let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "You can't be serious."
"Dead serious." Her father's voice left no room for argument. "This is bigger than either of you."
Sloane's pulse hammered in her ears. She had built her empire on her own terms, fought tooth and nail to be more than just a rich man's daughter. And now, she was being handed over like some corporate bargaining chip?
She turned back to Vincent, her fury rising. "And what do you think about this? Going to pretend this was your idea all along?"
His lips twitched—something dark, unreadable, infuriatingly amused. "No need to pretend."
Her breath caught.
Oh.
Oh, he was going to be a problem.
Her father placed a firm hand on her shoulder. "This deal is non-negotiable, Sloane. The engagement will be announced publicly next week."
Every part of her screamed to walk away, to tell them all to go to hell. But she wasn't stupid. She knew what was at stake.
Power. Reputation. Control.
She forced a slow breath, then lifted her chin. "Fine."
Vincent's gaze flickered with the slightest hint of interest, as if he hadn't expected her to surrender so easily.
She smiled, sharp and venomous. "But if you think for one second that this means you own me, Saint-Clair, you're in for a very rude awakening."
For the first time that evening, Vincent truly smiled. Dark, slow, and utterly lethal.
"I wouldn't dream of it," he murmured.
Liar.
Sloane knew, right then and there, that this was going to be war.
And she was going to win.