Chapter 1 - The Shattered Glass and the Crimson Crown
Hook: She thought she kicked a helpless beggar out of a wheelchair—until the man who controls the city’s economy dropped to his knees before the "trash."
The silence that blanketed the Grand Imperial Hotel’s lobby was heavy, suffocating, and absolute. The deafening roar of the black sedan’s engine had died down, leaving only the ticking of the grandfather clock and the dripping of gasoline onto the shattered remains of the 20-foot glass doors.
Victoria Sterling, the woman in the white silk gown, stood frozen. The glass flute of champagne she had been holding slipped from her manicured fingers, shattering on the polished marble. The liquid seeped into the fabric of her designer gown, but she didn’t care. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the man who had just burst from the vehicle.
It wasn't just any driver. The man in the black leather gloves was Marcus Vance—the ruthless CEO of Vance Global, a man who answered to no one, a man whose family practically owned the city’s shipping docks and political inner circles. Victoria’s husband, a mid-level real estate developer, had spent three years begging for a five-minute meeting with Marcus.
And now, Marcus Vance was on his knees. Not in front of Victoria. Not in front of the hotel manager.
He was kneeling in the shattered glass, his hands trembling as he reached out toward the fragile girl Victoria had just kicked out of her wheelchair.
"Miss Permone..." Marcus’s voice cracked, a sound of sheer, unadulterated terror echoing through the cavernous lobby. "Please forgive our late arrival. The security perimeter was breached. We... we came as fast as we could."
The girl on the floor, whose name was Seraphina Permone, didn't move immediately. Her long, dark hair obscured her face, tangled with dust and shards of glass. She looked so small, dressed in an oversized, faded gray hoodie and worn-out sweatpants—the very outfit that had triggered Victoria’s elitist rage.
"M-Marcus?" Victoria’s voice was a high-pitched squeak. She took a hesitant step forward, trying to force a smile onto her trembling lips. "Marcus, darling, what is the meaning of this? Why are you kneeling before this filth? She’s a vagrant! She snuck into my private charity gala and contaminated the atmosphere! I was simply having security handle the... the nuisance."
Marcus didn't look up at Victoria. He didn't even acknowledge her existence. Instead, he carefully placed his hands under Seraphina’s arms, gently lifting her away from the jagged glass.
"Get your hands off her," a voice whispered.
It was quiet. Barely audible. But it made Marcus freeze instantly.
Seraphina slowly lifted her head. Her face was pale, a small cut bleeding on her cheekbone where she had hit the marble. But it wasn't her injury that made the room grow ten degrees colder—it was her eyes. They were a piercing, luminescent violet. The legendary, unmistakable trait of the Permone Bloodline. The shadow rulers of the global banking system. The family that legally owned the very land the Grand Imperial Hotel was built upon.
"Miss Permone," Marcus choked out, withdrawing his hands instantly and bowing his head until his forehead touched the bloody floor. "I am sorry. I failed to protect you."
Seraphina used the armrest of her overturned, dented wheelchair to pull herself up. She didn't use her legs; they remained limp, a reminder of the tragic accident three years ago that the world believed had claimed her life. The world thought the Permone empire had passed to her corrupt uncle. They were wrong.
She looked at Victoria. There was no pain in Seraphina's eyes. No fear. Only a deep, terrifying emptiness.
"You said I was polluting your hotel, Victoria," Seraphina said, her voice smooth as velvet and sharp as a razor.
Victoria’s breath hitched. "How... how do you know my name?"
"Because," Seraphina sighed, brushing a piece of glass from her shoulder, "I signed the deed of sale for your husband’s company yesterday morning. And I bought this hotel twenty minutes ago."
Before Victoria could process the words, the elevator doors at the back of the lobby chimed. A flood of men in tailored black suits poured out, led by a panicked, sweating middle-aged man. It was Richard Sterling—Victoria’s husband.
"Victoria! Thank God you're safe!" Richard yelled, rushing into the lobby. "I heard a car crashed into—"
Richard stopped dead in his tracks. He saw Marcus Vance kneeling on the floor. He saw the shattered wheelchair. And then, he saw Seraphina.
May you like
Richard’s face drained of color so fast he looked like a corpse. His knees buckled, and he collapsed right next to Marcus, his hands shaking violently as he looked at his wife.
"Victoria..." Richard whispered, his voice filled with despair. "What did you do? Tell me you didn't touch her. Please, God, tell me you didn't touch the Sovereign."
