CHAPTER 1: The Gilded Cage Wedding
St. Patrick's Cathedral's stained-glass windows fractured the afternoon sun into brilliant prisms that danced across the marble aisles. The deep rumble of the pipe organ shivered the stone floor, yet a strange tension lingered in the air. At the altar, Grayson Cole stood perfectly still. His custom-tailored Armani suit draped over broad shoulders and a narrow waist, platinum cufflinks catching cold glints of light. The face lauded by financial magazines as "Wall Street's sharpest silhouette" was now expressionless as an iceberg.
"Try not to look like you want to strangle me in front of the cameras." He turned his head just enough for Sienna Monroe to see the steel in his voice—a low whisper only she could hear. Though soft, it carried the unmistakable authority of a boardroom edict.
Sienna's eyelids fluttered, hiding the flash of amusement in her hazel eyes. The pearls at the neckline of her Valentino gown revealed the smooth curve of her neck. When she met his gaze, faint shadows fanned out across her lashes. "Then try not to look like you're attending your enemy's funeral, Mr. Cole." Her voice dripped with that languid Upper East Side drawl—easy on the surface, but queenpin sharp at its tip.
Flashbulbs burst like summer hail, immortalizing the century's most sensational union: Empire Group's dashing new CEO wed to a mysterious intern. Yet behind the glittering headlines, the board had orchestrated this entire spectacle. As Grayson slid an arm around Sienna's waist, she felt the taut muscle beneath his jacket—a body perpetually primed for conflict.
"Smile, Ms. Monroe," Grayson murmured, his fingertips pressing gently to remind her of her role. "You're Mrs. Cole now, not a witness on trial."
She lifted her chin, offering a flawless social smile that never reached her eyes. In that moment, her gaze drifted past him toward the ballroom entrance, where her adoptive father, Lawrence Monroe, leaned in to whisper alongside board chairman Edward Thompson. Both men wore sly grins—grins that pricked Sienna's memory like ice picks. Ten years ago, those same two figures had seized control of the Monroe family trust after her parents' plane crash. They had stripped her of her birthright as the heir to the Monroe legacy and sent her off to a Connecticut boarding school.
"It seems your adoptive father is pleased with the union," Grayson drawled, his tone frosty. "After all, he just offloaded his liability onto Empire Group."
Sienna's lashes fluttered again as she turned to face him. "Right back at you, Mr. Cole. At least Lawrence didn't pretend I was a business prodigy and thrust me into a CEO's seat." She made a show of stressing "pretend," watching carefully for any flicker of reaction in his ice-blue eyes.
The organ's final chords of the wedding march echoed through the nave as Grayson slipped his arm more securely around her waist—an embrace practiced a thousand times over. Side by side, they descended the aisle. As they passed under the vault, Sienna caught a whiff of his crisp cedar-cologne blend, laced with a faint metallic edge—a fragrance she recognized from her father's old study, the same scent secret agents wore. Her pulse stuttered, but her lips stayed curved in a serene, public-facing smile.
The reception awaited at The Pierre, its grand ballroom perched beside Central Park. Crystal chandeliers cascaded like stars, and servers weaved between guests, balancing champagne towers. Grayson had barely lifted the first glove from Sienna's hand when a ring of executives in impeccable suits converged around them.
"Grayson—congratulations on bagging a beauty," Mark Thompson, the marketing director, boomed, clapping Grayson's back. His eyes, however, were glued to Sienna. "Sienna, right? Just as stunning as the rumors claimed."
Sienna felt bile rise at the leer in Mark's gaze but maintained her practiced smile. She sensed Grayson's aura darken—an invisible frost radiating from him that caused the surrounding executives to exchange knowing glances.
Extending her hand with elegant poise—smooth, manicured nails—she replied, "Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I look forward to working with the marketing department." Her timidity was an act, a gracious performance. From the corner of her eye, she caught Grayson's lips twitch into a nearly imperceptible sneer.
"Naturally," Mark said, lingering a beat too long in her palm. "But Mrs. Cole is now the mistress of Empire Group. I doubt the trenches hold much interest for you anymore."
"Mark." Grayson's tone clipped like a steel blade as he extracted Sienna's hand from Mark's. "My wife's career path does not concern you." His possessive tension was palpable, causing the air to chill around him.
Sienna raised one perfectly arched brow. The contradiction was magnetic: this man guarded her fiercely, yet his eyes were sharp with suspicion. It only deepened her curiosity about his true motives.
"Looks like the groom's jealous," someone teased. Public relations director Sophia Martinez approached, champagne flute in hand, her red mermaid gown sculpting her curves. Yet her eyes, venomous as a viper's, never left Sienna. "Grayson, I've never seen you this tense around any of your past companions."
Grayson accepted the champagne from Sophia with a polite nod. "Sophia, do watch your manners."
Sophia's smile froze momentarily before she turned to Sienna in a saccharine drawl: "Sienna, you're so fortunate. Grayson is New York's most eligible bachelor." Her fingertips skimmed Grayson's cuff as she spoke. "But be careful—his schedule is more complicated than a Wall Street K-chart."
Sienna offered a demure smile that barely masked steel. "Thank you, Ms. Martinez. But I'm confident that even the busiest schedule has openings. Like tonight, for instance?" She tilted her head toward Grayson, mischief flickering in her eyes.
Grayson's fingers tightened around his champagne glass, his gaze stormy. He hadn't expected this seemingly delicate woman to provoke him so openly, or to deliver veiled provocations so naturally.
"It seems Mrs. Cole is looking forward to her wedding night," drawled Edward Thompson from the edge of the crowd, one hand leaning on a carved cane, silver-gray brows raised. "Grayson—don't disappoint your bride."
A ripple of laughter spread through the gathered guests as Grayson's jaw tightened. He set down his glass and tugged Sienna's hand firmly. "Excuse me for a moment."
He almost dragged her onto the terrace, where the evening breeze carried the scent of Central Park's pines and grass, sweeping away the ballroom's hollow festivities. Sienna freed her hand and leaned back against the marble railing, gazing down at the endless stream of headlights on Fifth Avenue.
"Enjoying the show?" Grayson's voice cut into the night air, low and taut with restrained anger.
"Right back at you," Sienna replied, turning so that moonlight rimmed her features in silver. "It's a pity you don't act in films—your protective look was Oscar-worthy."
"Cut your little performance, Sienna," Grayson stepped closer until only inches separated them. He smelled a gentle waft of gardenia from her hair—a fragrance incongruous with the deadly sharpness in her voice. "I don't care what deal you cut with Lawrence. Remember who—and what—you are. You're my contracted wife. Nothing more."
"That's something I never forget." She tipped onto her toes, nose nearly brushing his chin. "Just as I remember that your vendetta is against someone else, not me—but someone very close to you." She lingered on his reaction, waiting for the instant his jaw clenched.
Grayson's glare was a gust of Arctic wind. "You think you know everything?"
"I know just enough." Sienna took a half-step back, withdrew her phone, and swiped open a new email. "But I do know that Lawrence Monroe is about to lose what he values most." She turned the screen to face him. On it, Empire Group's real-time stock chart plummeted in sickening green and red lines.
Grayson's pupils constricted as he ripped the phone from her hand. His face was ashen. This wasn't random market turbulence—it was a calculated, malicious short. The target: Lawrence's shareholding in Empire Group.
"You did this?" he demanded, force twisting her wrist until she winced.
"Me?" Sienna withdrew her hand, rubbing the reddened skin. "I'm just a new intern—hardly capable of orchestrating a market assault. But you," she said, meeting his gaze with the calm confidence of someone who held all the trump cards, "you'd better pray this short has nothing to do with your revenge plan, or else…"
"Or else what?" Grayson closed the scant distance between them, his voice husky. He caught the faint breath of her gardenia-laced hair.
"Or else," Sienna tilted her chin, her breath warming his cheek, "you'll see that the person you're dealing with is far more complex—and stronger—than you ever imagined."
Her words dropped like stones in the still lake of his mind, rippling wide. She wasn't the fragile pawn he'd presumed. She knew about his vendetta and might be the one orchestrating it all from behind the scenes.
"Who are you, really?" Grayson's voice was a growl—tense, raw.
Sienna said nothing. She pushed him back with gentle insistence, smoothing the folds of her gown. "It's late, Mr. Cole. Time to go back and play the loving couple." She turned, her heels clicking sharply on the terrace stone, each step punctuating the start of a ruthless chess match.
Grayson watched her retreat through the golden arch of the ballroom entrance. In his hand, his phone flickered endlessly with news of the crashing stock price. He pulled an encrypted device from his coat pocket and tapped out a message: "Pull all background on Sienna Monroe—focus on any ties to the Monroe Family Trust. Also, uncover who's behind tonight's Empire Group stock dump."
With those orders sent, he straightened his tie and replaced his face of cold authority. Tonight's wedding was only the opening ceremony. The war between him and Sienna was just beginning. What he didn't yet know was that in this vengeance-fueled game, he had already fallen into an even grander scheme—and the mastermind was the very "intern" he believed he controlled.
Back in the ballroom, Sienna was already surrounded by a cluster of socialites chattering about every exquisite detail of the ceremony. She maintained her practiced smile, deflecting compliments with polished poise. Then her gaze locked with Grayson's, and in that shared moment, a spark of defiance danced in her eyes—one he alone could read.
"My bride is quite the celebrity," Grayson announced as he approached, slipping his arm around her waist once more. He nodded courteously to the assembled guests, assuming the role flawlessly.
"Mr. Cole, you finally decided to rejoin us," Sienna said, gazing up at him with a sweetness so genuine it could melt ice. "I was afraid some beautiful woman might have kidnapped you."
Laughter rippled around them. Grayson dipped his head, leaning close enough that his breath brushed her ear. "Don't worry—no one can kidnap me…except my bride." His voice carried an almost magnetic warmth that made her pulse quicken, despite the knowledge that every tender whisper was another calculated move.
She knew it was merely an act—a performance for the world's eyes—yet she couldn't deny the way his intent focus pulled her in, even as she resisted.
"It's late. We should go," Grayson whispered to the guests and, taking her hand, guided her toward the exit.
Outside, a black Bentley idled beneath the hotel's porte-cochère. The driver opened the rear door, and Grayson helped Sienna into the back seat before settling in beside her. The scent of leather and sandalwood enveloped them, insulating them from the city's pandemonium.
"Now can you tell me what game you're truly playing?" Grayson's voice dropped back to its habitual frost the second the door closed.
Sienna leaned against the plush seat, closing her eyes as if fatigued. "I'm tired, Mr. Cole. We can discuss it tomorrow."
Grayson watched moonlight splash across her face, revealing the soft curve of her cheek. He had never seen anyone so full of contradictions—one moment as thorny as a rose, the next as fragile as glass, then as docile as a lamb.
The Bentley rolled onto Central Park West, grand townhouses rising in silent guard on either side. Grayson's phone buzzed again. It was Liam, his assistant: "Found it—Sienna Monroe's trust fund is under Lawrence Monroe's control, but the beneficiary list shows her biological mother is…" The message cut off, but Grayson's expression darkened to midnight. He turned sharply to Sienna, finding her eyes open, watching him with that same inscrutable smirk.
"Well, Mr. Cole, have you discovered something interesting?" Her voice lilted with lazy amusement, but it sent a slash of cold through his veins.
This woman truly concealed a world of secrets. And from the very start, his revenge had been only a single piece in a far larger game.