Crown of the Empire

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

The thing about charity galas is that everyone there thinks they're saving the world when in reality they're just saving face. Sequins and silk, smiles sharper than glass, cameras catching every practiced angle of hypocrisy.

And there I was, Mariya Elena Vergara-not-Vergara-anymore, in a crimson gown that clung to me like fire. I could practically feel the whispers following me as I stepped into the ballroom, arm looped loosely with Jules who had insisted on escorting me as if he were my glamorous gay bodyguard. Solene trailed behind us in a tuxedo she swore was Yves Saint Laurent but I was ninety percent sure she had bullied some poor stylist into tailoring it overnight.

"Darling," Jules whispered dramatically as we reached the center of the marble floor, "half of them want to be you, the other half want to bury you alive."

"And you?" I tilted my head, my earrings catching the light. "Which half are you in?"

"The one that wants your shoes." His grin flashed. "Size thirty-eight, don't deny it."

I smirked, but my eyes swept the room. Politicians, business tycoons, foreign diplomats. Eyes that pretended to smile but lingered on me like I was both spectacle and scandal. They weren't wrong. I had singlehandedly walked out of my father's empire, dragged his bank to its knees, and founded my own that eclipsed his in a month. To them, I wasn't Mariya. I was bloodshed in couture.

"Relax," Solene muttered beside me, her voice lower, calmer. "They can't touch you anymore. They're just vultures waiting for scraps."

I gave her a thin smile. "I know. I just hate the smell of carrion."

Nikolai was across the room, speaking with a cluster of investors. Even in a crowd of the rich and ruthless, he stood out. Not just because of his height or his face—which, yes, was annoyingly carved by the gods—but because he carried power like it wasn't borrowed. Like he had been born in it, and he had. His eyes flicked toward me, just once, as if tethering me to him across the ballroom, and then back to his conversation. Subtle, grounding.

I inhaled, squared my shoulders, and moved through the sea of whispers like it was my runway.

The night went on. Speeches about philanthropy, pledges written with pens that would never reach the hands of the poor, champagne glasses clinking. I played my part: the witty heiress, the untouchable queen, every remark laced with just enough bite to keep them from thinking I was soft.

Until I felt it.

The shift.

Eyes on me—not the usual curious, judgmental stares, but sharp, pointed. I turned my head slightly, catching a glimpse of movement near the archway. My skin prickled. Jules leaned close, his perfume clouding around me.

"Why do I feel like someone just walked over your grave?" he murmured.

I didn't answer. My instincts screamed.

I excused myself, leaving Jules and Solene mid-conversation, and slipped toward the terrace. The air outside was cooler, cleaner, laced with the faint scent of roses planted along the balustrades. For a moment, I let myself breathe.

And then the air shifted again.

"Mariya."

The voice I hadn't heard in months. The voice that still had the power to crawl under my skin like a parasite.

My father.

Karsten Vergara stepped out of the shadows, dressed in his usual tailored suit, as if he belonged here. As if he hadn't been publicly humiliated, stripped of his empire, reduced to a relic gnawed at by the press.