Chapter 3: The Prince’s Cruel Mask

Peeking through a secret peephole, I was stunned by what I saw.

At the head of the table sat a man in a tailored black suit. He was striking—handsome and elegant. But his eyes were icy cold.

It was Michael Sterling, and yet it wasn’t.

He carried himself differently now—shoulders squared, gaze sharp as a blade.

I glanced at the signet ring on his finger, engraved with the Sterling family crest.

The ring caught the light, a subtle flex of power. It was the kind of thing you only wore if you wanted people to know exactly who you were.

He was the youngest son of the Sterling dynasty—Prince of the Court, so to speak.

Rumor had it the Sterlings ran half the city from their penthouse. Their influence woven through every deal and handshake. Michael, it seemed, was finally claiming his place at the table.

Before I retired, I’d heard rumors in the Syndicate: A year ago, Michael Sterling went south to investigate family corruption. On his way back to New York, he mysteriously disappeared.

The whispers had been everywhere—some said he was dead, others that he’d run off with a lover or gotten caught up in something darker.

Should I call it good luck or bad? I’d picked up a half-dead sickly man in town, spent a fortune nursing him back to health—turns out he was blue blood through and through. Only I could wind up married to a missing heir without even knowing it.

I was about to make a clean break and leave, but then I heard the guard in the next room ask, “Sir, should we send someone to get rid of that woman?”

My blood ran cold.

I stopped in my tracks.

Michael said with disgust, “Just some hick from the sticks. If I hadn’t been poisoned and couldn’t risk alerting anyone, I’d never have let her touch me. Enough about this. What matters now is marrying Rachel Covington.”

His words stung, each syllable like a slap. I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to burst in and set the record straight—right then and there.

Hick? Touch? Seriously?

My brow arched slowly as anger welled up inside me.

What a shameless bastard. Who was it, soaked to the bone in the rain, who collapsed into my arms? Was I so desperate for a man that I forced you to the altar?

The memory flashed before my eyes—him shivering on my doorstep, eyes pleading. If anyone was desperate, it sure wasn’t me.

The guard continued, “After the family purge, we’re short on skilled hands. The Nightshade Syndicate sent word—they’ll assign the Shifter to protect you.”

I gritted my teeth.

I took out the note and smeared it with a special chemical ink.

My hands moved automatically, muscle memory from a hundred old missions.

Soon, a line of words appeared: “Bet you’re shocked, huh? Ha—wish I could see your face right now.”

I couldn’t help but snort.

Expressionless, I burned the note and changed my appearance.

Wigs, colored contacts, prosthetics—my disguise kit was second nature by now.

No wonder they’d sent me disguise tools along with the message—just waiting for the show. They always did love their theatrics.

Fine. I’ll give them a real spectacle.

Moments later, I slipped into the Penthouse Suite.

My heart pounded, but my face gave nothing away.

“The Shifter of the Nightshade Syndicate, at your service, sir!”

I gave him a nod.

Michael barely glanced at me, already moving on to his next command.

The arrogance was almost impressive.

To my surprise, my first assignment after signing on with Michael was to deliver a letter. Really.

I expected blood and danger, not errands. Still, I took the envelope, curiosity piqued.

“Take this letter to Maple Heights, Locust Lane. There’s a girl named Lena there.”

Michael said, dead serious, “Be extremely careful. Don’t let this leak.”

He handed me the letter like it was the key to Fort Knox.

This wasn’t just a letter—it was dozens of pages thick, practically a book. He even promised that once he settled things in New York, he’d come for me.

Ugh. What, come fetch me to be a servant for the new Mrs. Sterling?

I rolled my eyes, tempted to scribble my own note in the margins: "Nice try."

I pulled out the three cashier’s checks inside and burned the letter.

Money talks, but this time, it said nothing I wanted to hear.

From the moment Michael lied to me, he was dead to me.

The past was ashes—literally.

I’d begged on the streets since I was three, entered the Syndicate at five to train, and completed my first mission at fifteen. I was tired of living on the edge, always one step from death. Nothing fancy—just a man to share a bed and a table.

Someone like Michael Sterling? I wanted nothing to do with that.

The thought of being a pawn in someone else’s game made my skin crawl.

I craved peace, not power.

I took the checks and spent ten days living it up at the city’s swankiest Blue Note before reporting back.

Ten days of jazz, champagne, and midnight laughter.

Unfortunately, Michael was off at the Cathedral of Saint Jude with his fiancée, lighting candles.

The cathedral was all stained glass and silence, the kind of place that made you feel small.