At 3:07 in the morning, a loaded gun was pointed straight at me inside the service closet of a Manhattan penthouse.

By Thursday afternoon, the war room of the Mercer household had expanded from the executive study to the private couture salons of Madison Avenue.

Evelyn Ashford’s wedding gown—a custom thirty-thousand-dollar creation of French lace, silk tulle, and hand-stitched pearls from a legendary atelier in Paris—had arrived at the penthouse via armored courier. And because Dominic’s administrative orders were absolute, I was required to accompany Evelyn to her final fitting to inspect the alterations and ensure the bill was charged directly to the Ashford family's secondary holding account.

The private salon at Maison de Rêve smelled of expensive champagne, dry-cleaned silk, and the suffocating perfume of high-society desperation.

Evelyn stood on a raised pedestal in front of a three-way gilded mirror, her arms held stiffly out to the sides while a frantic French tailor named Madame Dubois pinned the tulle hem with lightning-fast fingers.

I sat on a velvet settee near the corner, holding my cream leather binder across my knees, looking completely out of place in my sharp black professional trousers and white blouse.

"Faster, Madame Dubois," Evelyn snapped, glaring at me through the mirror reflection. "Some of us actually have a schedule to keep, unlike certain unwashed help who only learned how to read yesterday."

I didn't blink. I didn't look up from my expense ledger. "The venue setup schedule for Saturday morning requires your final sign-off, Miss Ashford," I said smoothly. "If we do not submit the catering permits to the NYPD precinct by five p.m., the caterer's street-parking clearance will be revoked."

Evelyn spun around on the pedestal, nearly causing the frantic tailor to drop a mouthful of steel pins. "I don't care about parking permits! I care that the lace on my left sleeve is bunching up like a cheap curtain! Tell her to fix it, Madame Dubois!"

"Mademoiselle, please do not move," the tailor pleaded in broken English, sweat beading on her forehead. "The silk—she is very delicate!"

Evelyn ignored the tailor, stepping down off the pedestal with dangerous, dramatic grace, marching right across the Persian rug until she stood towering over my velvet settee.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Evelyn hissed, leaning down so her face was inches from mine. "You think because Dominic gave you some ridiculous administrative title that you actually matter in this house? He's marrying me, Grace. In forty-eight hours, I will be Mrs. Dominic Mercer, and the very first thing I'm going to do on my honeymoon is throw you out onto the street with zero severance."

I slowly closed my leather binder, stood up to my full height, and looked down at her with calm, absolute serenity.

"If you throw me out on Sunday, Miss Ashford, you'll miss the reading of the revised prenuptial agreement," I whispered sweetly. "The one where your father signed away your fifty percent voting equity clause in exchange for municipal zoning permits."

Evelyn’s face turned the color of raw beef. She raised her hand, her fingers curling into a claw, intending to settle the score once and for all.

Before her hand could complete its arc toward my face, the heavy double doors of the private salon were pushed open with a sharp, heavy thud.

Dominic Mercer walked in.

He wore his dark wool overcoat, unbuttoned, his silver-threaded tie slightly loosened, looking like a man who had just dismantled a hostile takeover before lunch. He stopped dead two feet from the settee, his slate-gray eyes sweeping over Evelyn’s raised hand and my unyielding posture.

"Is there a problem here, Evelyn?" Dominic asked, his voice dropping into that terrifying, icy baritone that made the air in the room freeze.

Evelyn froze. Her hand hovered in mid-air for a fraction of a second before she dropped it, smoothing the front of her lace dress with a frantic, artificial smile.

"No problem at all, darling!" Evelyn chirped, her voice pitching up into an unnatural, cheerful register. "We were just... discussing the floral arrangements for the reception! Weren't we, Grace?"

I looked at Dominic, then back at Evelyn.

"We were discussing budget allocations and zoning permits, Mr. Mercer," I corrected coolly. "Miss Ashford was just expressing her deep enthusiasm for fiscal responsibility."

Dominic looked between the two of us, a dark, razor-thin smirk touching the corner of his mouth. He knew damn well what had almost happened.

"Good," Dominic said, walking over and placing a heavy, possessive hand on the small of my back. "Because my estate manager's budget allocations are non-negotiable. Now, put your coat on, Evelyn. My attorneys need your final signature on the amended prenuptial contract before the bank vaults close at four o'clock."