Chapter 1 - The Woman in Crimson
Julian Vance stood at the center of the grand salon, a crystal flute of Dom Pérignon in hand, projecting the aura of a conqueror. Beside him, Genevieve was a vision in custom Vera Wang lace, her smile a perfectly calibrated weapon of charm. They were the king and queen of the metropolis, accepting the worship of their court.
The heavy mahogany doors at the entrance of the salon did not open with a polite click. They were thrown open with a violent, resounding crash.
The Bach sonata screeched to a halt as the string trio’s bows faltered. Five hundred heads turned toward the entrance.
Standing in the doorway was a woman wearing a silk gown the exact shade of the Mediterranean crimson roses lining the walls. Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder, and the diamonds around her neck caught the light of the Baccarat chandeliers. But it wasn't her beauty that made the blood drain from Julian Vance’s face. It was the fact that she was supposed to be dead.
"Isabel," Julian whispered, the crystal flute shattering on the dark walnut floor.
It was his first wife. The original heiress to the maritime shipping routes that Julian now claimed as his own. She had supposedly drowned in a tragic yachting accident off the coast of Capri three years ago.
Isabel walked into the room, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floor. She ignored the gasps of the senators and the pharmaceutical barons. She stopped ten feet from the bride and groom.
"Julian," Isabel said, her voice carrying an icy, lethal calm that echoed in the silent room. "You threw a rather lavish party for a man who funded his empire with his dead wife’s life insurance."
Genevieve did not gasp or faint. Her fierce, calculating eyes darted from Isabel to the terrified face of her new husband.
Julian recovered his mask, forcing a look of sorrow. "Isabel... my god. You're alive? Security! My wife has suffered a psychotic break. She needs medical attention!"
"Don't touch me," Isabel commanded as guards rushed forward. She raised her hand, holding a sleek, silver dictaphone. She pressed play.
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Julian’s voice, recorded three years ago, echoed through the ballroom: “Cut the anchor line. When the storm hits, make sure she’s locked in the lower cabin. I want the fleet, and I want her gone.”
The ballroom erupted into absolute chaos.
