Chapter 9
"Are you prepared to remove the ring from your finger, Celine, or must I cut it from your hand?" Nathaniel asked, his deep voice carrying a measured, lethal calm.
Celine flinched violently at the threat. She dropped her hands, her fair skin streaked with ruined makeup. She knew the stories of what Nathaniel Ashford did to traitors within his syndicate.
"You can't do this!" Celine choked out, the venom returning as self-preservation took over. "My father is Victor Mercer! He commands the entire southern seaboard! He will burn your empire to the ground if you humiliate me like this!"
"Is your father a man who fights battles for foolish, sadistic daughters?" Nathaniel asked quietly.
"He will kill you!" Celine pleaded, reaching out to grasp the edge of a velvet sofa. "I am going to be your wife, Nathaniel! We signed the contracts! You cannot back out now without causing a massive war!"
"Do you expect me to harbor a monster under my roof to appease a shipping magnate?" Nathaniel asked.
He didn't wait for her to answer. He reached into his tailored jacket and retrieved a sleek, encrypted smartphone. He dialed a single digit and pressed the phone to his ear. The small artistic tattoo above his collar shifted seamlessly with the movement.
"Vincent," Nathaniel said into the receiver, his eyes locked on his former fiancée. "Will you come to the salon and escort Miss Mercer to the holding cells beneath the east wing immediately?"
He lowered the phone and looked at the broken socialite one last time.
"Have you finally realized the price of your ambition, Celine?" Nathaniel asked softly, as the heavy mahogany doors of the salon burst open.
Vincent and another massive security guard in dark suits entered the room. They marched forward without a word, hauling Celine roughly to her feet. She shrieked, thrashing wildly against their iron grip, but they were unyielding.
"You will regret this, Nathaniel!" she screamed as they dragged her backward toward the doors. "You will all burn for this!"
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"Will you convey my deepest regards to your father when I send him the pieces of his syndicate?" Nathaniel asked quietly, watching the doors slam shut.
The profound, ringing silence of the grand salon settled heavily over the remaining figures. The cascading crystal chandeliers continued to cast their warm golden light over the abandoned shoebox and the towering Christmas tree. The opulent space, designed for celebration, now felt entirely different—it was a war room.
