Chapter 1Gilded Cage and Cold Revenge

In the elite circles of Manhattan, Silas Sterling was a king, and he had two "princesses" by his side.

One was a spoiled brat who pouted and called him "Uncle Silas."

The other was a siren who drove him to madness in the sheets.

I was the latter. The former was Tiffany Moore, a girl who hated me to the bone.

She was reckless, cruel, and pampered beyond reason.

The day she pushed me into the freezing Atlantic from a luxury yacht, she laughed so hard she could barely stand.

"You're just a cheap little bird, Sera," she sneered. "Did you really think you could compete with me? Now, go feed the sharks."

Let her throw me in.

I was already carrying Silas’s child, and I was just looking for the perfect way to turn his protective streak into a weapon of mass destruction.

* * *

Silas Sterling ruled both the boardroom and the back alleys of New York.

The tabloids called him ruthless, a man with ice in his veins who had no room for women.

Two years ago, I appeared by his side, sporting the face of an innocent "English Rose"—pure, soft, and fragile.

Only after getting close did I realize that this "ascetic" mogul was anything but.

On countless blurry nights, Silas would strip away his mask of cold indifference.

He would tear off my silk slips and drag us both into a feverish abyss.

The high-thread-count sheets would be soaked in sweat, smelling of his heavy, masculine cologne.

It was Friday the 13th, a night of bad omens.

Silas returned to the penthouse reeking of expensive bourbon.

The city lights flickered like dying embers outside.

He shed his bespoke suit jacket and gestured for me.

I walked over obediently and sat on his powerful, muscular lap.

In the dim light, Silas’s emotions were thick and suffocating.

I cupped his sharp jawline, raining kisses on his eyes, his nose, and finally, his sensitive throat.

He let out a low, tired chuckle.

"Only with you, Sera... do I find a moment of peace."

I knew that.

Silas had climbed to the top over the bodies of his own rivals.

Family betrayals, boardroom coups—he had seen it all.

He was pathologically paranoid.

Every woman who approached him, whether an A-list actress or a billionaire heiress, was viewed as a pawn with an agenda.

Except for me.

Well, and one other girl: Tiffany Moore.

Silas had doted on her for far longer.

At 3:00 AM, she was the only one who dared to call his private line.

He put it on speaker. A muffled sobbing came through:

"Uncle Silas... it’s the anniversary of my dad’s death. I had that nightmare again."

"Can you come over? I'm so scared."