Beatrice has never experienced what it's like to be truly wanted and desired, believing she'd have to settle into some boring marriage and grow old in the most ordinary way. Yet one night, one gala changed everything.
 
She catches the eyes of two men. One is the heir to the conglomerate families dominating Western economics. The other is the patriarch of the richest Swiss banking dynasty. Both are rivals — personally and professionally.
 
Theodore clears his intentions on their very first bus ride. He doesn't hide, he doesn't manipulate. But Beatrice can't trust him, knowing he must be trying to use her to get information about the man she works for. Yet he remains persistent and adamant — and what first started as part of a plan, Theodore finds himself falling in love, something he swore he never would.
 
On the other hand, Adrien is like the sweetest venom stuck in her throat. He is cold and ruthless but carries scars on his soul that only she is allowed to see. He doesn't know how to do anything halfway, and since day one, he wanted her — wanted to possess her, own her, worship her. But the misunderstanding between them is strong, and the difference in social status is inevitable.
 
Once peaceful and boring, Beatrice's life suddenly becomes a whirlwind of passion, possession, power, hunger, betrayal, ache, and need. Love that breaks her into too many pieces, yet she keeps reaching for it. She finds herself in the web of history of five great families, each one hiding worse secrets than the last.
 
Not a Cinderella story where she gets saved. Not a Cinderella where Prince Charming comes on a white horse. They bleed, they break, they plead, they yearn. And eventually —
 
The story ends with her choosing one

I am certain I was shot. I am certain it was Beatrice. I am certain I fainted in a corridor inside Laurent Corporation with Adrien's hand pressing down on my chest and the taste of blood in my mouth.


My bedroom. The same king-sized bed. But the pillows are different — more of them, softer, in pastel cases I did not buy. The walls have been repainted a shade warmer than the grey I chose. A walk-in closet I remember having only my suits in is now filled with a woman's clothes — designer pieces, scarves, handbags arranged with the particular order of someone who cares about her things and wants them treated with respect.


A vanity table faces the morning light. Skincare. Makeup. A hairbrush with dark strands caught in the bristles.


My skin feels warm. There is no pain in my chest. No bullet. No wound. A calm so complete it feels counterfeit.


Chapter 46 - CHAPTER 46- Dream? Maybe no