Chapter 1 - The Silver Spoon and the Shattered GlassThe bass from the string quartet bled into the murmur of the crowd, a gentle hum that did nothing to soothe the violent thrumming of Avery’s pulse. She stood near the floor-to-ceiling French doors, a flute of untouched champagne resting like a cold anchor in her hand. Across the marble expanse
He looked every inch the golden heir. And right now, he looked entirely unreachable.
"You look tense, darling," a voice purred behind her—smooth as chilled silk, sharp as a stiletto.
Avery didn't need to turn around. The scent of vintage Chanel No. 5 and ruthless entitlement was unmistakable. Victoria Sterling materialized at her shoulder, her platinum-blonde hair styled into an immaculate French twist that defied gravity, her eyes scanning Avery with the practiced coldness of an appraiser at a high-end auction house.
"It's just warm in here, Victoria," Avery said evenly, forcing her shoulders to drop an inch. "Too many people."
"Wealth tends to crowd a room," Victoria replied, taking a slow sip of her crystal flute. Her diamond tennis bracelet caught the chandelier light, flashing like a warning signal. "Especially when those in the room aren't entirely accustomed to the oxygen levels at this altitude. I saw you looking at the photographers earlier. Make sure you don't overplay the humble-pie routine, Avery. The press loves a Cinderella story, but after three years? The glass slipper starts to look a bit like a mortgage fraud."
The words were delivered with a smile so bright it could have blinded a pilot. Victoria patted Avery’s bare shoulder, her fingernails—painted a severe, blood-red shade—digging just fractionally into the skin before sliding away.
Before Avery could formulate a reply—before the hot, familiar flash of humiliation could turn into defiance—a sharp chime echoed through the ballroom. The string quartet cut off mid-measure.
In the center of the mezzanine overlooking the ballroom, a towering digital screen flickered to life. The soft pastel pinks and blues of baby Leo’s party banners suddenly vanished, replaced by a blinding, stark white interface.
A low murmur rippled through the sea of billionaires, politicians, and socialites.
Liam frowned, breaking away from the Goldman Sachs partner and scanning the room. "What is this?" he muttered, walking quickly toward Avery’s side. "Did someone hack the AV system?"
On the massive screen, a single, unyielding line of text materialized in bold, crimson font:
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THE STERLING EMPIRE WAS BUILT ON A LIE. LET’S LOOK AT THE FOUNDATION.
Victoria’s champagne flute slipped from her fingers, shattering against the imported Italian marble with a sound like a gunshot.
