Prologue

The chandeliers of the Mackwood Grand Hall glittered like a thousand frozen stars, casting reflections across champagne glasses and whispered envy. Tonight was meant to be perfection—the merging of two dynasties, the Dashtons and the Mackwoods. Every guest had come to witness elegance in motion, to see Alioni Mackwood—the ethereal curator with snow-pale skin and silver curls—officially become Mrs. Jacob Dashton.

But perfection shattered with a single breath.

Jacob cleared his throat at the podium, hands trembling just slightly behind the gleam of confidence. “I have… an announcement,” he said, his golden voice smooth but hollow. The murmurs began before the words even settled. Alioni stood beside him, hands folded, her face unreadable behind her translucent glasses.

Then he said it.

“I can’t continue this engagement. I’ve realized… my heart belongs to someone else.”

The ballroom gasped. Cameras flashed. Somewhere in the crowd, Monica Mackwood—draped in sequins and false innocence—pretended to cover her mouth in shock.

And Alioni?

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even sigh. Clearly she is over the piece of trash standing in front of her.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if observing an art piece that failed to impress. Her lips curved—barely—a ghost of a smile. Then she turned to Jacob and said softly, “If that’s your choice, then by all means… proceed.” deep down she was barely thinking about Jacob and how he just embarrassed himself.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Jacob faltered, expecting tears, outrage, something. Instead, he found nothing—just calm, polished indifference that made him look like the fool he was.

Across the room, Elias Mackwood’s jaw clenched. His broad shoulders stiffened, his eyes narrowing like a blade drawn too slow. Every inch of him radiated fury restrained by civility. His hand tightened around his glass until it cracked, shards biting into his palm.

He wanted—needed—to drag Jacob out by the collar and throw him straight through the ceiling.

But then he saw Alioni’s steady posture, the way she didn’t flinch even as the crowd devoured her humiliation like wine. So he stayed still, silent—but his eyes promised violence.

Their father, Reginald, was red with embarrassment. Their stepmother, Eveline, whispered something sharp under her breath. Monica lowered her gaze demurely, pretending to look guilty—but the faint curl at the corner of her mouth betrayed her satisfaction.

Alioni took one quiet step forward, her white gown gliding across the marble floor. “Then let this be settled,” she said, voice steady. “Congratulations, Jacob. I hope you find peace where I could not.”

And with that, she turned away.

The applause that followed was hesitant, confused, and hollow.

Then, before the echoes could fade, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom burst open.

The chandeliers trembled. Guests screamed.

A dozen armed men in black entered, weapons gleaming under crystal light. And at the top of the grand staircase, his presence consuming the room like shadow meeting fire, stood Maltavious Monroe—the Mafia King himself.

“Good evening,” he said coolly, golden eyes sweeping over the chaos. “I believe the Mackwoods owe me a debt.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Alioni slowly turned, her expression still eerily calm. Elias instinctively stepped in front of her, though he didn’t understand why.

Maltavious descended the stairs with the ease of a predator who already owned the room. “And I’ve decided,” he said, his gaze locking on Alioni, “that I’ll collect it… in the form of an engagement.”

The world fell silent again.

Only this time, Alioni didn’t look away.

She met his stare without fear, her composure as breathtaking as it was dangerous.

And somewhere deep within the stunned hush of that ballroom, two worlds—refinement and ruin—collided.

The night the Mackwoods fell was the night Alioni Mackwood’s storybegan.

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