VOW OF POWER

PROLOGUE

The Night of the Accident

The neon lights of Las Vegas pulsed like a heartbeat against the midnight sky, a city that never bothered to sleep. Music spilled from every corner—bass-thumping clubs, casino jingles, laughter rising like smoke in the warm desert air.

Stacey Nolan had sworn she would never end up in a place like this again. Vegas was chaos, and Stacey was control. At least, that was what she told herself before the second glass of champagne, before the tequila shots that followed, before the neon blur swallowed her whole.

She didn’t remember who dared her first—her best friend, maybe, or some stranger at the bar—but Stacey remembered saying yes. Yes to one more drink. Yes to dancing on the edge of reason. Yes to the temptation of forgetting the crushing weight of her company back in Manila, the endless lawsuits, the constant negotiations.

For one night, she wasn’t Stacey Nolan, CEO of a multimillion-peso tech empire. For one night, she was just a woman with messy hair, high heels she couldn’t walk straight in, and laughter spilling from her lips like it belonged to someone freer, someone lighter.

And then there was him.

Theodore Cohen.

She didn’t know his name then. Only the sharp lines of his jaw, the storm in his eyes, and the way he carried himself like he owned every room he entered. He wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to brush against her at the blackjack table, wasn’t supposed to smirk when she lost spectacularly and threw her last chip onto the table with reckless abandon.

“You’re not very good at this,” he had said, his voice smooth, low, tinged with amusement.

“And you’re too smug for someone in a cheap suit” she had shot back, though she noticed his watch—an elegant piece that screamed old money, old power.

He laughed, deep and genuine. It was infuriating. It was magnetic.

One more drink became two. Then three. Then a blur of streetlamps, her heels in her hand, his jacket draped over her shoulders as they stumbled down the Strip like two reckless teenagers.

And then—God help her—they had ended up in front of a chapel. One of those tacky neon-lit places with a sign that read “Marry Me Tonight!” The kind of thing tourists joked about but never actually did.

Except they did.

The officiant smelled faintly of cigars and boredom, flipping through a script with mechanical precision. Stacey had laughed through the vows, slurring her “I do” while trying not to hiccup. Theo had smirked, his hand steady against hers as if he wasn’t drunk at all. The kiss that sealed it had been clumsy, warm, unexpected—and somewhere deep inside, something dangerous stirred.

The rest was fragments. Champagne bubbles. His hand brushing against hers as they stumbled into a hotel room. A wedding band gleaming against her finger under the dim light. The world spinning faster than her breath could catch.

And then—nothing.

Darkness.

Stacey woke to silence.

Her head throbbed violently, the kind of pounding that made her regret every decision of the last twelve hours. Her eyes fluttered open, the unfamiliar ceiling above her swimming in and out of focus.

This was not her hotel suite.

Her heart stuttered.

The sheets were expensive—silk, imported. The scent lingering in the air was distinctly masculine: cologne with a faint trace of cedarwood. She turned her head, and there it was—a black suit jacket, neatly hung over a chair. Not hers.

And next to her…

Her pulse roared in her ears.

Theodore Cohen lay on the bed, half-covered in the sheets, his dark hair tousled, his chest bare. He looked infuriatingly peaceful, as if the world couldn’t touch him.

Satcey shot upright, her headache protesting violently. “Oh, God…”

The movement stirred him. His eyes opened slowly, heavy with sleep, but when they focused on her, something sharp flickered there.

“Well,” his voice rasped, lazy and dangerous, “good morning, wife."

Stacey froze. “Excuse me?”

He reached toward the nightstand and, with deliberate calm, held up a piece of paper. Her stomach dropped when she recognized the garish pink-and-gold certificate, the ridiculous looping font:

Marriage License.

Her name. His name. Last night’s date.

Her throat dried.

“That’s fake” she croaked, though the weight of the ring on her finger betrayed her. She yanked her hand up, staring at the thin band that mocked her with its undeniable reality.

Theodore smirked. “I don’t think Vegas does fake, querida.”

“This—this is insane. This didn’t happen.”

“Oh, it happened.” He sat up, leaning against the headboard with an infuriating calmness, his gaze pinning her where she stood. “You begged me to kiss you at the altar. Said you’d rather die than let a stranger see you lose.”

Her face burned. “You’re making that up.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he intended to solve.

Stacey scrambled for her phone, her clothes, anything that could anchor her to reality. But reality was a cruel thing—because on the bedside table lay polaroid pictures of last night. Pictures of her laughing in a cheap veil. Pictures of them kissing under neon lights. Pictures of her hand laced with his.

Her stomach turned.

This wasn’t just a hangover. This was a disaster.

And disasters had consequences.

Stacey Nolan was not the kind of woman who panicked. She was the kind who fired people who panicked. She built her empire on precision, on keeping calm when everything around her collapsed.

But this?

This was not in the manual.

She dragged the silk sheets closer to her chest as if they could shield her from the storm unraveling in her mind. “I don’t know what sick joke this is, but it ends now. We—we annul this. Immediately.”

Theodore Cohen—still lounging like the bed was his throne—arched an eyebrow. “Annulment requires grounds. Fraud. Duress. Impotence, perhaps?” His mouth curved into a slow, wicked grin. “Do you want to test that last one?”

Her cheeks flamed. “You arrogant bastard!”

He shrugged, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, sipping like this was the most ordinary morning of his life. “I’m just stating facts. You signed. You said ‘I do.’ And now you’re Mrs. Cohen, whether you like it or not.”

“Nolan” she snapped. “Stacey Nolan. I don’t take anyone’s name, least of all yours.”

His gaze darkened for a second, sharp and assessing. “Nolan…” He repeated the name slowly, as though tasting it. Then, recognition flickered. “The tech company heiress. Of course.”

Stacey blood ran cold. He knew who she was.

“Perfect” Theodore murmured, almost to himself. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his voice dropping into a tone that made the room feel smaller. “Then this marriage isn’t just a drunken mistake, is it? It’s leverage.”

Her breath caught. “Leverage?”

He smiled, a predator who had just spotted his prey. “Think about it, querida. Your shareholders, your rivals—they’ll eat this up. The infamous Stacey Nolan, tied to the one man who can match her game.”

Stacey's jaw clenched. “You think this benefits me? This is humiliation.”

“No” he said softly. “This is opportunity.”

For a moment, the room was thick with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside the window. Stacey's mind raced, calculating, strategizing. She had to undo this. Fast. But Theodore was right about one thing: the world would know. Vegas secrets never stayed in Vegas, not when the tabloids hunted her every move.

She pulled the sheet tighter and stood, forcing her legs not to wobble. “This ends today. I’ll call my lawyer.”

“Do that” Theodore said with infuriating calm. “But remember—divorce isn’t cheap. Especially when half your empire is on the table.”

Her breath hitched. He was bluffing. He had to be.

But the look in his eyes told her otherwise.

Her headache throbbed again, memories flickering like broken film reels. The tacky neon lights of the chapel. His hand steady in hers. Her own voice, laughing and reckless: Why not? Life is short, right?

The kiss. Warm, dizzying. A spark she’d denied even as it flared inside her.

No. She shook her head, furious at herself. She had been drunk. Vulnerable. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

And yet the ring glinted mockingly on her finger.

Stacey dressed in silence, ignoring Theo's amused gaze as she buttoned her blouse with trembling fingers. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she stormed out of the suite, but the moment she entered the hotel lobby, reality closed in.

Flashes. Cameras.

Reporters.

Someone had leaked.

“Ms. Nolan! Is it true you married Theodore Cohen last night?”

“How will this affect your company’s merger in Singapore?”

“Are you really in love, or is this just a publicity stunt?”

Stacey froze, blinded by the strobe of camera flashes. Her heart slammed against her ribs. This wasn’t supposed to be public. Not yet.

To be continued...