"I just need the joint filing status confirmed, please."
Christi pushed the heavy manila envelope across the polished marble counter. It slid under the gap of the bulletproof glass. She offered a polite, practiced smile to the clerk sitting on the other side.
Officer Doyle didn't smile back. He pulled the thick stack of W-2 forms and the Rivera family trust yield certificates from the envelope. His fingers moved mechanically over his keyboard, entering her Social Security Number into the federal tax database for the annual cross-check.
A harsh, flat error tone beeped from his computer speakers.
Doyle frowned. He hit the enter key again. The red glow from the monitor cast a harsh shadow across Christi's face.
"Ma'am, there's no legal marriage record on file for you and Jensen Rivera," Doyle said. His voice was completely monotone, a stark contrast to the sudden ringing in Christi's ears.
Her chest tightened. The air left her lungs in a rush. "That's impossible. We had a massive ceremony in the Hamptons five years ago. There was a priest. Hundreds of guests."
Doyle turned the heavy monitor around to face her. He tapped a thick finger against the screen. "Single," he read aloud. "Without a signed marriage license filed with the state, any religious ceremony is legally void. You are not married."
Christi's breathing stopped. Her brain forcefully replayed a memory from five years ago. Jensen, standing in his tailored suit, smiling warmly as he took the marriage certificate from her hands. *Let me handle the mailing, babe. It's safer for the family trust.*
A violent wave of nausea hit her stomach. She gripped the edge of the cold marble counter to keep her knees from buckling. Five years. She had spent five years in the Rivera family as nothing more than a high-end, legally unprotected companion.
Her phone vibrated violently in her trench coat pocket. The buzzing against her hip broke through the static in her brain. She pulled it out. The screen flashed with the name of her editor-in-chief, Arthur Finch.
She forced air into her lungs and answered. "Arthur-"
"Get to the Upper East Side. The Pierre Hotel. Now," Arthur barked. "There's a multi-car crash outside. I need photos before the police clear the scene."
"Arthur, I have a personal emergency. I can't-"
"You want to keep your health insurance, Christi? You go. Now." The line went dead.
Christi stood frozen for a second. Her fingers were numb. She turned and walked out of Boston City Hall. The early autumn rain of Boston slammed into her face, freezing and sharp. She raised her hand, flagged down a yellow cab, and headed straight for the train station.
Three hours later, the rain outside the Upper East Side was even worse.
Christi stood outside The Pierre Hotel, her waterproof windbreaker soaked through. She wore bulky safety goggles to keep the rain out of her eyes, clutching her telephoto camera. She shoved her way through the aggressive crowd of paparazzi pressing against the yellow police tape.
A black Maybach sat under the dim glow of a streetlamp. The front bumper was crushed.
Christi raised her camera. She adjusted the heavy lens, zooming in. The license plate came into sharp focus. Her stomach dropped. It was Jensen's private car.
Her fingers started to shake. The heavy camera trembled in her hands. She slowly tilted the lens up, focusing through the half-lowered rear window of the Maybach.
The flash of another photographer's camera lit up the inside of the car.
Christi saw Jensen. He was leaning over the backseat, draping his expensive suit jacket over the shoulders of a blonde woman.
The woman turned her head. It was Fallon Ratcliff. Her face, usually plastered on the covers of socialite magazines, was flushed.
Fallon didn't look scared of the crash. Instead, she reached up, hooked her arms around Jensen's neck, and pulled him down. Right there, in the back of the wrecked car, they engaged in a deep, possessive kiss.
Acid burned the back of Christi's throat. She gagged, the bile rising fast. The hard plastic viewfinder of the camera slammed hard against her brow bone. A sharp, stinging pain shot through her forehead.
She bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard she tasted the hot, metallic tang of blood. *Don't look away.* She forced her finger to press the shutter button.
Click. Click. Click. She took over a dozen high-definition close-ups.
The rapid flashes caught the attention of a bodyguard inside the car. A man in a black suit stepped out, snapping open a massive black umbrella to block the window.
Christi immediately lowered her head. She shoved the heavy camera deep inside her oversized windbreaker. Using the chaotic pushing of the crowd, she backed away and slipped into a dark, narrow alleyway next to the hotel.
She leaned against the wet brick wall and slid down until she hit the cold pavement.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. A text message from Gilda Rivera, her "mother-in-law."
*Don't be late for the dinner party tonight. Make sure you wear something that doesn't make us look cheap.*
Christi stared at the words, the title "Mrs. Rivera" a cruel, mocking lie. A dry, ugly laugh scraped out of her throat.
She opened her phone's photo gallery. She zoomed in on the picture she just took. Jensen and Fallon kissing. Jensen's left hand rested on Fallon's waist. His wedding ring caught the street light, a circle of gold that now seemed utterly ironic.
A five-year highlight reel of psychological torture played in her head. Jensen telling her her journalism job was a joke. Jensen isolating her from her college friends. Jensen whispering that she was lucky the Rivera family accepted a girl from the Rust Belt.
The tears in her eyes dried up, replaced by a heat that burned her chest. She stood up. She went to Gilda's contact and hit 'Do Not Disturb'.
She opened the camera compartment, pulled out the small SD card, and carefully slipped it into the hidden lining of her bra. This was her first bullet.
She walked out of the alley, heading straight for the subway.
She didn't notice the black Lincoln Navigator parked silently at the mouth of the alley. The windows were tinted pitch black.
In the back seat, a man sat in the shadows, his eyes fixed on the screen of a tablet. He watched Christi's retreating figure until she disappeared into the rain.
Christi unlocked the door to her cramped Brooklyn apartment. She had rented this place before the "marriage" and kept it as a small studio for her photography.
She peeled off her soaking wet windbreaker and threw it onto the peeling leather sofa.
Her hands were still shaking. She pulled the SD card from her bra and shoved it into the slot of her battered MacBook. She imported the high-res photos of the kiss into a hidden, encrypted folder.
She opened Instagram. Using a burner account, she searched for Fallon Ratcliff's public page. It was a flawless grid of charity galas, art exhibitions, and polo matches.
Christi's eyes scanned the background of a photo taken at a Hamptons party. Sitting on a table behind Fallon was a limited-edition Hermes Birkin bag. Christi clicked the tags on the photo, tracing the accounts of the people in the background.
It took her twenty minutes of reverse-tracking to find it. A private account. The handle was "F_loves_J".
Christi stared at the password prompt. Her mind raced back to a time she'd glimpsed Fallon's password combination in Jensen's study. She typed it in. Hit enter.
The screen loaded.
Hundreds of photos populated the grid. Christi scrolled down to the very bottom. The timeline started a year into Christi's own five-year sham marriage, a brutal confirmation that the betrayal had been running for four of those five years.
She clicked on a photo from three years ago. Fallon was sitting in Jensen's lap in a hotel room in Paris. Pinned to Fallon's dress was the Rivera family's heirloom ruby brooch.
The caption read: *The real lady of the house doesn't need a piece of paper to prove it.*
Christi's fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. This wasn't just an affair. This was a four-year slaughterhouse. Everyone in that family knew. Everyone played along.
Her chest heaved. She grabbed her half-full coffee mug from the desk and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall. Brown liquid exploded everywhere, splattering all over a framed photo of her and Jensen with the Rivera family.
She dragged her hands through her wet hair, pulling hard at the roots. She was going to send these screenshots to every tabloid in the city.
Before her finger could hit the export button, her phone rang.
The screen showed an 'Unknown Caller'.
She took a deep breath, forcing her heart rate down, and answered. "Hello?"
"Miss Schmidt," a deep male voice said. The man spoke with a thick, old-money Boston accent. "My name is Silas Croft."
Christi's spine stiffened. She assumed Jensen had already found out about the photos and sent a crisis management lawyer. "Don't play games with me," she snapped, her voice cold. "Tell Jensen I'm not signing anything."
"I do not work for Mr. Rivera," Silas said calmly. "I am calling regarding Brad David and Beryl Jackson. Formerly of Sunfield."
Christi froze. The blood drained from her face. Brad and Beryl were her adoptive parents.
On her eighteenth birthday, she finally learned that Brad David and Beryl Jackson weren't her real parents. She had originally been the daughter of the Ratcliffs—born on the same day as Fallon Ratcliff—but had been mistakenly switched at the hospital due to a mix-up. Afterward, she was reclaimed by the Ratcliffs, while Fallon Ratcliff never returned to Brad's side.
Brad David and Beryl Jackson had desperately wanted to take Fallon Ratcliff back home with them. Yet Fallon Ratcliff looked down upon their social status and even pretended to shed tears, saying she simply wasn't ready to accept them just yet.
Reluctantly, Brad David and Beryl Jackson gave up hope—and under intense pressure from the Ratcliffs—Fallon Ratcliff continued living with the Ratcliffs.
But even now, Fallon Ratcliff has completely ignored Brad David and Beryl Jackson. She hasn't even bothered to call after they passed away.
It was Christi who single-handedly arranged the funeral.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Brad David was not a blue-collar mechanic, Miss Schmidt. He was the eldest son of the David family of Boston, and a covert researcher funded by DARPA."
"That's absurd," Christi shot back, the words feeling like ice in her veins. "If they were billionaires, they wouldn't have given up on treatment because they couldn't afford the medical bills."
Silas explained, his tone unwavering. "The poverty was part of their cover. The non-disclosure agreements have expired today."
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside Christi's apartment.
She stopped breathing. She crept toward the door and pressed her eye against the peephole.
Two massive men in tailored black suits stood in the narrow, dirty hallway. They had earpieces in. They weren't knocking. They were standing with their backs to her door, guarding it.
"The men outside are private security from the David family," Silas said through the phone, anticipating her panic. "From this moment on, no one will ever hurt you again."
Christi's hand trembled against the cheap wood of her door. "Why are you calling me now?"
"I am executing the will," Silas said. "As the sole legal heir, a trust fund valued at fifty billion dollars has automatically transferred into your name."
Fifty billion.
The number hit Christi's brain like a physical blow. Her mind blanked. That was three times the net worth of the entire Rivera conglomerate.
She stumbled backward and collapsed into her desk chair. Her eyes flicked to the computer screen, looking at Fallon showing off a two-million-dollar necklace. It suddenly looked like cheap plastic.
"How do I access it?" Christi asked, her voice shaking. "I need cash now. I need to destroy Jensen."
"There is a strict trigger clause in your father's will," Silas warned, his voice turning grave.
"To prevent you from being swallowed by rival factions, Brad David designated a mandatory marital alliance with a partner of absolute power."
Christi's stomach twisted. She had just escaped a five-year fake marriage trap. "I'm not selling myself for money. I won't do it."
"The designated partner," Silas continued, ignoring her outburst, "is the controlling shareholder of the Apex Group. Cornelius Gregory."
Christi sucked in a sharp breath.
Everyone on Wall Street knew that name. Cornelius Gregory was a monster. Rumors said a car crash left him paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair, and completely unhinged. A violent madman.
At ten o'clock the next morning, Christi walked into a private, high-end cafe in Midtown Manhattan. The two Blackwater guards flanked her, stopping at the entrance to secure the perimeter. The entire cafe had been cleared out.
Silas Croft sat in a leather booth in the far corner. A silver, blast-proof briefcase rested on the table in front of him.
Christi slid into the booth opposite him. She didn't bother with pleasantries. "Show me the file on Cornelius Gregory."
Silas opened his leather satchel and handed her a thick dossier. The Apex Group logo was stamped in gold on the cover. The very first page was a grainy, long-distance paparazzi photo of Cornelius sitting in a high-tech wheelchair.
Christi flipped through the pages quickly. The reports detailed his reclusive lifestyle. The crash had allegedly destroyed his legs, left him with severe psychological trauma, and rendered him sterile.
She dropped the file on the table and let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "So the David family wants to use fifty billion dollars to buy me as a glorified, lifelong nurse for a cripple?"
"Legally, it is termed a 'care-oriented companionship agreement'," Silas corrected her smoothly. "The Gregory family needs a woman with a clean background and zero ambition to pacify their board of directors."
Christi narrowed her eyes. She traced the edge of the file with her index finger. "If I'm a fifty-billion-dollar heiress, how do I qualify as having 'zero ambition'?"
"The David family's identity remains highly classified," Silas explained. "To the outside world, and to the Gregory family, you are still the penniless, discarded partner of Jensen Rivera."
Christi's mind raced. She had to wear two masks. To Cornelius, she would be the desperate, poor girl. To Jensen, she would pretend she didn't know about the cheating or the fake marriage. It was a high-stakes game. Refuse, and she'd be left with a few photos to fight a losing legal battle. Accept, and she'd gain the power to crush the Riveras, at the cost of being tied to a disabled man with no sexual function.
Her phone buzzed on the table. A text from Jensen.
*Make sure you go to the private clinic at 2 PM for your routine checkup. We need to start prepping for the baby.*
The text was the final straw. The audacity. He was kissing Fallon in a wrecked car last night, and today he wanted her to prep for a baby to secure his trust fund.
A cold, hard knot formed in her stomach.
She reached into her purse and pulled out her Montblanc pen. She didn't hesitate for a single second. She flipped to the last page of the contract and signed her name in bold, sharp strokes.
Silas's eyes gleamed with approval. He pulled the silver briefcase closer and punched in a code. It clicked open.
Inside lay a solid black Centurion card and a heavy set of keys to a Fifth Avenue penthouse.
Silas stood up and bowed deeply. "Miss David. You now have emergency authorization."
Christi picked up the heavy metal card. The cold weight of it sent a thrill of raw power straight into her veins.
"Freeze every joint account I have with the Rivera family," Christi ordered, her voice completely steady. "Cut all financial ties."
She stood up. "Tell the guards to fall back. I'm going to meet Jensen alone. The show starts now."
At that exact moment, in the penthouse office of the Apex Group building.
Leo Vance, the Chief of Staff, placed a signed copy of the marriage agreement on the massive mahogany desk.
Behind the desk, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood facing the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the Manhattan skyline.
He turned around. His strides were long, powerful, and perfectly steady. There was absolutely nothing wrong with his legs.
Cornelius Gregory picked up the contract. His dark eyes locked onto Christi's elegant signature. His thumb rubbed slowly over the ink. A dark, possessive smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Do we need the medical team to continue the paralysis protocol, sir?" Leo asked respectfully.
"Of course," Cornelius murmured, his voice a low rumble.
He walked over to the custom-built wheelchair sitting in the corner of the office. He sat down and expertly adjusted the metal braces around his muscular thighs. His eyes darkened, turning dangerous.
"Monitor her trip to the clinic this afternoon," Cornelius ordered, his fingers gripping the armrests of the wheelchair tight enough to turn his knuckles white. "Do not let anyone touch my prey before I close the net."
