CHAPTER ONE
SUING THE DEVIL
The thing about power is that it makes people think they're untouchable.
I've spent years watching men like Dimitri Vasiliev bend the law, twist it, own it. The kind of men who don't hear the word no because they've paid enough to erase it from existence. And yet, here I am—Elena Munore, 24 years old, fresh out of Harvard Law, about to do what no one else has dared.
I'm suing him.
I stare at my laptop screen, the glow of the case file casting sharp shadows across my apartment. Dimitri Vasiliev. Billionaire. Tech mogul. Ghost, if the lack of personal information about him is anything to go by.
The internet tells me the basics—his empire, his influence, his charitable donations that conveniently wipe away any accusations. But it's the unofficial sources that paint the real picture. The hushed stories on obscure blogs, the whispered warnings in legal circles.
"You don't sue the devil, Munore. You pray he doesn't notice you."
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair as I scroll. There's a black-and-white photograph attached to an article—a rare one of him in court. Sharp suit, sharp jawline, sharper eyes. His lips are curved into the faintest smirk, like he already knows how the verdict will go. Like the entire trial was just a game.
"Dimitri doesn't lose."
It's the same warning I've been given a dozen times in the past week.
My best friend, Naomi, had nearly lost her mind when I told her. "Elena, are you insane? Do you have a death wish? You don't go after men like him. You don't even breathe too close to their business unless you want to disappear."
But that's exactly why I have to do this. Because men like him—men who walk free while others pay the price—need to know that their power isn't absolute.
Even if it means stepping into the fire myself.
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Dimitri leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the glass of whiskey in his hand.
Elena Munore.
He had seen the lawsuit the moment it was filed. His people had briefed him within the hour, voices laced with a mix of concern and amusement. Another desperate attorney trying to make a name for themselves by coming after him. Another case that would end before it even began.
Except this one was different.
Elena. Munore.
A name he hadn't heard in years. A name he wasn't expecting to see on a legal document with his own.
A slow smirk tugs at his lips as he swipes through the file on his phone, taking in the details. Fresh out of Harvard, top of her class. He knew that already. He'd made it a point to know. But this? Coming after him like this?
Bold. Reckless. Stupid.
And yet, he wasn't angry.
If anything, he was intrigued.
Because if there was one thing Dimitri Vasiliev enjoyed more than winn
ing—it was watching people think they had a chance.