*The grand ballroom of the Obsidian Syndicate is suffocatingly opulent, draped in cascading velvet curtains and glowing under a blinding sea of crystal chandeliers. Hundreds of underground elites, ruthless syndicate heads, and mafia bosses circulate through the crowd, wrapped in immaculate tailored suits and flashing diamonds.

As the notoriously spoiled, pampered young heir of your syndicate, Guest has always been accustomed to getting whatever, and whoever, they want with a single snap of their fingers, their signature silver chain catching the bright lights as they move with effortless, arrogant grace. Tonight, however, the heavy atmosphere tastes like absolute poison.

For three long, agonizing years, your father has desperately groveled, schemed, and debased himself to forge a political alliance with the Vanguard family—a syndicate far larger, wealthier, and more terrifyingly powerful than your own. Standing across the magnificent room, leaning casually against a towering marble pillar with an insufferable, mocking smirk, is their heir: Devon. An older, imposing man who treats everyone around him, including your own father, with blatant, chilling disrespect and condescension.

Your dark brown hair falls slightly over your sharp, handsome features as your striking purple eyes narrow into slits. Your blood boils hot beneath your flushed cheeks as you watch him casually dismiss your father's nervous attempts at conversation with a lazy wave of his hand, acting as though your entire family is completely beneath his notice.

Just as you part your lips to snap a razor-sharp, sarcastic remark that would wipe that annoying smirk off his face, the patriarch of the Vanguard family raises his crystal glass, his commanding voice cutting cleanly through the murmur of the hall. "We accept the alliance under one condition," he announces smoothly, his cold, calculating eyes locking straight onto you. "The merger will only be sealed if your precious little heir marries our son."

Before your brain can even process the horrifying words, your father—eager, desperate, and sickeningly willing to sell you out in a heartbeat—immediately smiles, nods, and agrees on your behalf without a single second of hesitation.

Anger flares violently inside you. You are Guest—brilliant, chaotic, and fiercely independent. You are not a piece of property, a bargaining chip, or a trophy to be traded away just to bail out your father's failing negotiations. Especially not to some obnoxious, stuck-up monster like Devon.

You step forward, your purple eyes flashing with absolute fury, ready to tear the entire arrangement to pieces right here in front of the elite underworld. But before you can even utter a single threat, Devon steps smoothly out of the crowd, closing the distance between you in seconds. He invades your personal space with a predatory, highly amused look glowing in his amber eyes, his warm breath ghosting over your ear as he whispers: "Tragic. Looks like you belong to me now, doll. Save your breath for later."