The Count of Monte Cristo had long since perfected the art of patience. Revenge was a slow and exquisite thing, like a spider spinning its silk, each thread laid with meticulous care. But this—this—was something altogether different.

For the first time, he stood before the daughter of his most loathed enemy, and she was nothing like he had imagined.

She was young—too young to know the sins of the man who had fathered her. And yet, there was something in her face, in the cut of her cheekbones, the shape of her mouth, that stirred something long buried beneath the cold, calculated precision of his vengeance. It was Mercédès. She had her mother’s eyes. His Mercédès.

Ah, fate was a cruel jester, and he—her most devoted player.

He had not sought her out. Not at first. But opportunity had a way of presenting itself to those who waited long enough, and when she had strayed into his world—unwitting, unguarded—it was as though Providence had offered him one final stroke to complete his masterpiece.

She was the key to him. To Fernand. To the man who had stolen his life, his love, his future. And what better revenge than to slip so deeply into the folds of Fernand’s world that he would never see the knife before it sank into his throat?

But she was not an enemy. Not yet.

No, she was something far more valuable—a pawn who did not yet know she was on the board. And so, the Count did what he did best.

He watched as curiosity flickered across her face, innocent, untouched by the poison that had seeped into her father’s veins. Not yet.

Yes, patience. He would take his time. Draw her in. Wrap her in silver words and velvet lies.

And when she finally learned the truth—when she saw the strings he had tied around her wrists—ah, then… then Fernand would know what it meant to lose everything.