68 Days before my wedding, my father tore my bridal gown and smashed a hammer into my face so my sister could steal my billionaire fiancé

The Mercer mansion sat on forty acres of prime coastal cliffside, an imposing Victorian monstrosity of gray granite and slate that had drained five generations of family wealth to maintain. By eight o'clock that evening, the house looked like an armed encampment surrounded by wolves.

Inside the grand drawing room, the atmosphere was suffocating.

Harold Mercer poured his third tumbler of single malt whiskey, his hand trembling so violently that the bottle clattered against the crystal rim. His knuckles were raw and swollen, bruised from the impact of the hammer’s recoil against his aging joints.

Eleanor sat on the velvet sofa, her hair still immaculate, but her eyes darting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows every time tires crunched on the gravel drive half a mile away.

Chloe paced the Turkish rug. She was still wearing my silk robe, though she had spilled red wine down the left lapel. She had tried to wipe it away, leaving a smear that looked dreadfully like the blood drying on the floorboards upstairs.

"You should have killed Nathan," Chloe hissed, her fingernails digging into her palms. "Why did you let him leave with the phone? He has everything on video! If Adrian sees that—"

"Shut up, Chloe!" Harold roared, slamming the glass down. The amber liquid sloshed over the mahogany sideboard. "Nathan is a coward! He won't go to the police. He knows if the Mercer name is dragged through the tabloids, his shipping contracts in the south will dry up! Nobody wants to do business with the nephew of a scandal!"

"He isn't going to the tabloids, Harold," Eleanor said, her voice chillingly quiet. "He’s going to Adrian Vale. And Adrian does not care about the Mercer name. He cares about Evelyn."

"Adrian is an investor!" Harold insisted, his voice cracking with rising hysteria. "He’s an investor who needs our deep-water dock permits! Without our family's clearance, his southern shipping lane is dead in the water! He can't afford to break with us! When he sees Evelyn’s face—when he realizes the reconstruction will take eighteen months, skin grafts, bone wiring—he’ll look at Chloe. He has to look at Chloe! We’ll offer him the docks as part of Chloe’s dowry without the forty percent royalty clause Evelyn insisted on!"

"And what about the witnesses, you idiot?" Eleanor asked, her gaze cutting like a scalpel. "Madame Laurent? The caterers? Rosa?"

"I gave Rosa forty years of employment!" Harold shouted. "I took her in when she had nothing!"

"Rosa hasn't answered her phone in three hours," Eleanor replied, checking her gold Cartier watch. "And her quarters in the carriage house are completely empty. Her clothes are gone. Her uniform is hanging on the kitchen door with her keys pinned to the apron."

The room went cold.

A sudden knock echoed through the cavernous hallway—heavy, rhythmic, authoritative.

Chloe froze, her breath hitching in her throat. "Is that... is that Adrian?"

Harold straightened his waistcoat, attempting to summon the patrician dignity that had masked his incompetence for thirty years. "See? He’s come here to negotiate. He knows he can't cause a scene three days before the harbor expansion. Chloe, go upstairs, wash that wine off, put on the emerald dress I bought you for the rehearsal dinner. Eleanor, smooth your hair."

Harold strode into the foyer, his leather soles clicking against the black-and-white marble tiles. He took a deep breath, composed his features into an expression of grave, patriarchal concern, and pulled the heavy oak door open.

It was not Adrian Vale.

Standing under the portico, illuminated by the halogen lights of six unmarked police cruisers, were eight uniformed officers and two detectives in dark overcoats.

Behind them, leaning casually against the hood of a midnight-black Maybach, stood Marcus Kane, Adrian’s head of security, holding an open leather portfolio.

"Harold Mercer?" the lead detective asked, his badge already displayed in his left hand. "I’m Detective Vance, Major Crimes Division."

Harold’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged for two full seconds. "Detective... this is an absurd misunderstanding. If Nathan has been making accusations, I assure you—"

"I’m not here because of Mr. Nathan Mercer," Detective Vance interrupted flatly. "I’m here on an emergency warrant issued by the presiding magistrate of the County Superior Court. Charges include aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, witness tampering, and conspiracy to commit grievous bodily harm."

Eleanor appeared behind Harold, her voice smooth as melted butter. "Officers, please. My daughter Evelyn had a terrible fall this afternoon while trying on her wedding gown. She tripped on the hem, struck her face on the marble mantelpiece. Harold was simply trying to use a tool to loosen the fireplace screen to assist her—"

"Save it for the grand jury, Mrs. Mercer," Detective Vance said, stepping across the threshold without waiting for an invitation. "We have the sworn statements of six separate witnesses taken at Saint Jude’s Trauma Center over the last four hours. We have the forensic analysis of Miss Mercer's facial lacerations, which the surgical team has already confirmed are wholly inconsistent with a fall onto flat marble and entirely consistent with multiple strikes from a blunt, cross-hatched iron implement."

Two uniformed officers stepped forward, unhooking steel handcuffs from their belts.

"Get your hands off me!" Harold bellowed, backing away into the grand foyer, his face turning an apoplectic purple. "Do you know who I am? I am the chairman of the Mercer Trust! I own the eastern harbor!"

"Not anymore, Mr. Mercer," Marcus Kane’s voice drifted in from the doorway.

The security chief stepped inside, his polished boots leaving faint wet prints on the marble. He held up a single sheet of paper bearing the golden crest of the State Probate and Trust Division.

"As of forty-five minutes ago," Marcus said pleasantly, "the Superior Court executed an emergency freeze on all Mercer Trust accounts, pursuant to Section 4 of the Beatrice Mercer Testamentary Covenant. You have been stripped of your executive authority over the family syndicate. You are currently trespassing on trust property."

Chloe came running down the curving staircase, screaming, her fingers clawing at the banister. "You can't do this! Adrian is my fiancé's name! He is going to marry into this family! He won't let you arrest my father!"

Marcus Kane looked up at Chloe, his expression devoid of warmth or pity.

"Miss Chloe Mercer," Marcus said, "Mr. Vale has instructed me to deliver a personal message to you."

Chloe stopped on the third step, a desperate, pathetic spark of hope lighting her eyes. "A message? He... he understands, doesn't he? He knows I was just trying to help—"

"The message," Marcus interrupted clearly, "is that if you ever wear anything belonging to Evelyn again, he will not bother with the police. He will personally bankrupt every charity, boutique, and social circle you have ever set foot in until you are scrubbing dishes in a truck stop diner. Officers, arrest them."