Crown of the Empire

Prologue

Prologue

Singapore smelled of money.

Not the crumpled kind that clung to sweaty palms and jeepney seats back in Manila, or the sticky bills passed under café tables in Madrid. No. This was the sterile kind—minted, washed, perfumed, ironed until it gleamed. The air here was so clean it almost offended me. The streets had no chewing gum stains, the buildings glittered like freshly polished diamonds, and even the trees lining the boulevard looked like they'd been trained to breathe only when permitted.

It was a city obsessed with order. And where there was order, there was power.

I adjusted my silk blouse and heels as I stepped out of the car and onto the red carpet leading into Marina Bay Sands. A ridiculous building, if you asked me—three towers holding a boat-shaped rooftop pool in the sky. Architectural flex, sure. But mostly, it looked like the sort of thing you built when you wanted to remind the world you had more money than taste.

Not that anyone asked me.

Inside, the Global Economic Forum buzzed like a hive of polished bees. The room shimmered with diamonds on cuffs and gold stitched discreetly into ties. Men with shiny shoes and women with icy eyes clustered in little groups, whispering numbers that could topple governments. Every word here was currency. Every handshake was collateral.

And me? I was the unwanted surprise guest.

"Mariya Elena Vergara," I heard someone hiss behind me, the syllables dripping with disbelief. "The banking princess."

I almost laughed. Princess. As if I'd ever been pampered. If only they knew the hours I'd spent in boardrooms, weaponizing spreadsheets like daggers, cutting old men in suits down with nothing but percentages. But of course, they didn't see that. They saw the couture dress, the designer heels, the hair glossed to perfection. They saw a young woman in her twenties with a half-European face and a surname whispered in Forbes.

They saw an heiress. A socialite. A pretty distraction.

Perfect. Let them.

Because while they saw glitter, I saw cracks. And cracks meant leverage.

The conference hall was monstrous: chandeliers dripping like stalactites, walls lined with digital screens flashing market indexes in real time. Rows of white chairs awaited us, perfectly aligned, each with a folder embossed in gold. I scanned the seating chart and spotted my name front row, right where the cameras could catch me. Of course. Banking royalty needed to be on display.

I slid into my seat, crossing my legs slowly, deliberately. I caught one man two rows back staring. When I tilted my head and smiled—sharp, deliberate—he flushed and turned away. Easy.

The thing about men like these? They were predictable. Money insulated them but also dulled them. They thought power was about who had the louder voice, the bigger company, the thicker wallet. They never understood that power wasn't what you held. It was what you made others believe you could take away.

That was my edge. And today, I would remind them.

The lights dimmed. A host droned into the microphone about "global recovery" and "sustainable growth" and other buzzwords designed to make billionaires sound benevolent. I scanned the crowd. Old families, new tech barons, a handful of politicians—all of them gathered to flex, pretend, and silently bleed one another dry.

My fingers tapped against the folder on my lap. Inside were my notes for the keynote. Notes I didn't really need. Numbers were already etched into my veins.

Debt-to-GDP ratios. Cross-border investments. Interest rates. And my favorite—corporate tax evasion cloaked as "strategic offshore planning."

All dressed up in my words, sharp enough to cut.