Saintess's Worthless Husband Turned Dragon Commander novel Chapter 1

The Hartford family mansion loomed against the evening sky like a monument to old money and older pride.

Marcus Steel stood at the entrance, straightening his modest suit jacket—the only decent one he owned—while luxury cars deposited guests dressed in designer labels he couldn’t pronounce, let alone afford.

Three years. Three years of this.

He pushed through the heavy oak doors into the grand foyer, where crystal chandeliers cast golden light across marble floors that probably cost more than most people’s houses.

The air smelled of expensive perfume, aged wine, and subtle contempt.

“Well, well. Look who decided to grace us with his presence.” Wellington Radcliffe’s nasal voice cut through the ambient chatter. The man appeared at Marcus’s elbow, his tailored tuxedo immaculate, his smile vicious. “I thought maybe you’d gotten lost on the bus ride over.”

“I drove,” Marcus said evenly.

“In that thing?” Wellington laughed, loud enough to turn heads. “I’ve seen better vehicles in junkyard commercials. Honestly, Marcus, it’s embarrassing. This is a Hartford family event, not a charity drive for the homeless.”

Marcus’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Experience had taught him that engaging only provided more ammunition.

The dining hall sprawled before them, a cathedral of wealth where a table stretched beneath more chandeliers, set with china that gleamed like fresh snow. Family members and distinguished guests mingled in clusters, their conversations a symphony of business deals and social maneuvering.

And there, at the center of it all, sat Quinn.

His wife. The woman he’d married in what felt like another lifetime.

Quinn Hartford—he’d taken her name, another source of family mockery—sat poised and perfect in a midnight blue gown that probably cost more than Marcus earned in six months.

Her dark hair fell in elegant waves, her posture radiating the refined grace that came from generations of breeding.

She was beautiful in the way expensive art was beautiful: admirable, untouchable, cold.

Beside her sat Alexander Grant, twenty-four years old and insufferably handsome in his designer suit.

He leaned close to Quinn, whispering something that made her lips curve—not quite a smile, but the closest thing to warmth Marcus had seen on her face in months.

“Your seat is over there.” A servant appeared at Marcus’s elbow, gesturing toward the far corner of the table. The spot where they seated distant cousins nobody cared about. The spot that screamed: You don’t belong here.

Marcus made his way to the corner chair, feeling eyes track his movement like predators watching wounded prey. Conversations didn’t stop, but they shifted—became pointed, theatrical.

“I heard he’s been looking for work again,” someone stage-whispered. “Third job this year.”

“Can you imagine? Quinn, a Saintess of the holy bloodline, married to a man who can’t even hold down basic employment.”

“It’s tragic, really. She could have had anyone. Senator Morrison’s son was interested. The Whitmore heir practically begged for her hand.”

Marcus settled into his chair and reached for the simple wrapped package he’d brought—his gift for Grandfather Sebastian.

Inside was a carefully prepared dish, a recipe passed down from his own grandmother.

It wasn’t expensive, but it was made with care, with memory, with the kind of love that couldn’t be bought.

He set it on the table and immediately regretted it.

Beside the dish sat a parade of extravagance: a jade sculpture that probably belonged in a museum, bottles of wine older than Marcus, a golden Buddha statue that gleamed with ostentation.

His simple wrapped package looked like a child’s crayon drawing hung next to the Mona Lisa.

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