"City Hall," Adrian said to the driver.

Cinthia whipped her head around. "City Hall? Why are we going to City Hall?"

Adrian continued typing. The blue light of the screen illuminated the sharp angles of his face.

"To get a license," he said, as casually as if he were ordering lunch.

"A license for what?"

He finally stopped typing. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes boring into hers.

"A marriage license," he said. "We're getting married."

The Rolls Royce glided through the Manhattan traffic like a shark through water.

Cinthia's brain was misfiring. "Married?" she choked out. "Mr. Clemons, this is insane. We don't even know each other."

"I don't need to know you," Adrian said, turning back to his tablet. "I need a signature on a piece of paper. And I need a body at family dinners."

Miles, sitting in the front passenger seat, turned around and slid a thin folder through the partition gap.

"Ms. Wise," Miles said, his voice apologetic but firm. "This is a temporary Non-Disclosure Agreement. It covers the next two hours."

Cinthia took the folder. Her hands were shaking so badly the paper rattled.

"If you leak a word of this," Adrian added, his voice devoid of threat but heavy with promise, "the deal with your brother is void. And I will sue you for breach of contract until your grandchildren are paying off the legal fees."

The car pulled up to the side entrance of City Hall. It wasn't the grand steps where happy couples took photos. It was a grey metal door near the loading dock.

"Let's go," Adrian said.

He moved fast. Cinthia had to jog to keep up with his long strides. He didn't hold the door for her.

Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed. A clerk was waiting at a small counter in a private office. He looked nervous, sweating slightly as Adrian entered.

"Mr. Clemons," the clerk stammered. "Everything is ready."

Adrian didn't make small talk. He just tapped the counter. "Papers."

The clerk slid the marriage license application forward.

Cinthia stood there, feeling like she was in a fever dream. The smell of old paper and floor wax made her dizzy.

"Is this... voluntary?" the clerk asked, looking at Cinthia. He saw the tear in her coat, the mess of her hair.

Cinthia opened her mouth.

Adrian turned his head slightly. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her. It was the same look a wolf gives a rabbit before the snap. Think about the debt. Think about the jail cell.

Cinthia swallowed the bile in her throat. "Yes," she lied. "It's voluntary."

She picked up the pen. It felt heavy, like a lead weight. She signed her name. Cinthia Wise.

Adrian took the pen from her fingers. His hand brushed hers for a millisecond, and she felt him flinch. He signed quickly, a sharp, jagged scrawl. Adrian Clemons.

The clerk stamped it. Thump. Thump.

"Done," Adrian said. He didn't wait for the certificate. "Miles, handle the filing."

He turned and walked out.

"Wait!" Cinthia called out, running after him. "What now?"

They were back at the car. Adrian stopped with his hand on the door handle.

"Now?" He looked at her with genuine confusion. "Now you go back to work. Or whatever it is you do. Don't think being Mrs. Clemons means you get to sit around eating bonbons."

Cinthia blinked. "Go back to work?"

"Yes. Miles will drop you off."

He got into the back of the Rolls Royce. "I have a meeting. Take the sedan," he told Miles.

Before Cinthia could say another word, the heavy door slammed shut. The Rolls Royce peeled away, merging into traffic.

She was left standing on the sidewalk with Miles.

"Ms. Wise," Miles said, gesturing to a black Lincoln sedan that had pulled up behind the Rolls. "Where should I take you? Do you have a job?"

Cinthia stared at the empty space where Adrian had been. He didn't know. He genuinely didn't know she worked in his building. He hadn't even bothered to ask for her resume.

"Yes," she said softly. "I have a job."

She got into the sedan.

"Where to?" Miles asked from the driver's seat.

"Clemons Media Tower," Cinthia said. "42nd and 8th."

Miles looked at her in the rearview mirror. His eyebrows shot up. "You work... at the Tower?"

"Junior Executive Assistant. 14th floor."

Miles was silent for a long moment. He didn't smile, but his eyes softened just a fraction. "I see."

He didn't ask why she hadn't told Adrian. He was a good assistant. He knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Cinthia looked down at her left hand. It was bare. No ring. Just a faint smear of ink on her pinky finger.

She was married. To a stranger. To a monster.

And now, she had to go back to his office and pretend she wasn't.

The Clemons Media Tower was a monolith of glass and steel that pierced the Manhattan sky. To Cinthia, standing at the base looking up, it looked like a giant, glittering cage.

She swiped her badge at the turnstile. Beep. It flashed green. Just like yesterday. The security guard, Ralph, 's eyes flickered up from his newspaper for a fraction of a second, a flicker of recognition-or was it confusion?-before he looked away, pretending he'd seen nothing.

"Morning, Ralph," she whispered. He didn't answer.

Sixty floors up, in the penthouse office, Adrian Clemons stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the ants crawling on the pavement.

"Notify the Board," he said, not turning around. "I'm married. The morality clause in the trust is satisfied. My voting rights need to be reinstated effective immediately."

Miles, who had just walked in, cleared his throat. "Sir, about... the lady..."

"Don't call her 'the lady'," Adrian snapped. "Or 'Mrs. Clemons'. It's a merger, Miles. A hostile takeover of a human asset. Nothing more."

He turned, his face tight with stress. "Darryl is buying up loose shares. If I don't lock this down today, he gets the Media division. I won't let that bastard dismantle my father's legacy."

"Understood," Miles said. He hesitated. "But sir, she-"

"Coffee," Adrian interrupted. "Black. Now."

Down on the 14th floor, Cinthia slid into her cubicle. Her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

"You're late, Wise."

Giana, the Senior Executive Assistant, dropped a stack of files onto Cinthia's desk. The thud made Cinthia jump.

"Sorry," Cinthia mumbled, keeping her head down. "Traffic."

"Whatever," Giana rolled her eyes. She was wearing a dress that cost three of Cinthia's paychecks. "The big boss is on a warpath today. He's already fired two interns. You better keep your head down."

If only you knew, Cinthia thought. I'm not just an employee anymore. I'm the liability.

The phone on Giana's desk rang. The red line. The one from the penthouse.

Giana answered it, her voice turning sugary sweet. "Yes, Mr. Clemons's office... Oh. Right away."

She hung up and turned to Cinthia, her face twisting into a sneer. "Sarah is in the bathroom and I'm busy with the quarterly reports. You take it."

Cinthia froze. "Take what?"

"The coffee. Top floor. He's screaming for it."

"Me?" Cinthia's voice squeaked. "Can't someone else-"

"Do you want to keep your job?" Giana hissed. "Go!"

Cinthia's hands trembled as she picked up the tray from the breakroom counter. The black coffee sloshed dangerously near the rim.

The elevator ride was agonizing. Every floor number that lit up felt like a countdown to execution. …55… 58… 60…

The doors opened.

Miles was at his desk outside the double oak doors. When he saw Cinthia step out holding the tray, his eyes widened.

"Ms. Wise?" he whispered. "What are you doing?"

"Giana made me," Cinthia whispered back. "She doesn't know."

"Coffee!" Adrian's voice roared from inside the office.

Miles winced. He gave Cinthia a look that was half pity, half good luck. He gestured to the door.

Cinthia took a deep breath. She pushed the door open with her hip.

Adrian was pacing behind his massive desk, phone pressed to his ear. "Tell Darryl if he even looks at the publishing arm, I'll bury him in litigation so deep he'll need a submarine to find a lawyer."

Cinthia walked softly across the plush carpet. She set the cup down on the coaster. Clink.

Adrian slammed the phone down. He spun around.

"Finally. What took you so-"

He stopped.

He stared at her. Then he looked at the door. Then back at her.

"What are you doing on this floor?" he demanded. His voice was low, dangerous.

"I..." Cinthia stammered. "I brought the coffee."

"I'm aware of where you work, Ms. Wise," Adrian said, his voice dripping with contempt as he took a step toward her. "Did you think signing a paper gave you the right to wander my headquarters? To play house? Your place is on the fourteenth floor. You are an employee. Nothing more."

"No! Sir, I-"

"Get out," he snarled. "And don't come back until I send for you. You don't belong on this floor. You don't belong in this world."

He thought she was an opportunist. A schemer who was already testing the boundaries of their arrangement. The fact that she was an employee only made it worse in his eyes-it meant she'd been under his nose the whole time, a snake in the grass.

Cinthia opened her mouth to say, Giana sent me, but the look in his eyes stopped her. It was pure hatred.

"I'm leaving," she whispered. She turned to flee.

"Wait."

Adrian's voice stopped her at the door.

"Miles!" he shouted.

Miles appeared instantly.

"Call Spencer," Adrian said, staring at Cinthia's back. "Get the Prenup over here. Now. She signs it today. Before she gets any more ideas about her 'rights'."

Cinthia sat on the leather sofa in the corner of Adrian's office. It was Italian leather, soft as butter, but to her, it felt like a bed of nails.

She had her phone clutched in her hand under her coat. A text from Carter had come in five minutes ago: Did he transfer the money yet? Don't screw this up.

She felt sick. Physically sick.

Ten minutes later, the door swung open. A man with sandy blonde hair and a grin that looked too relaxed for this room strode in.

"I hear congratulations are in order," the man said. "Or condolences. Depending on who you ask."

Spencer Hayes. The company's chief legal counsel. And, apparently, Adrian's friend.

Adrian didn't smile. He pointed at Cinthia. "Give it to her."

Spencer turned. He saw Cinthia huddled on the couch. He paused, blinking.

"Her?" Spencer looked back at Adrian. "Adrian, is she... legal? Like, voting age legal?"

Cinthia flushed. She knew she looked young without makeup, especially in her oversized thrift-store blazer.

"She's twenty-three," Adrian said impatiently. "Give her the damn papers."

Spencer sat down on the armchair opposite Cinthia. He placed a thick stack of documents on the low coffee table.

"Hi," he said, offering a charming, predatory smile. "I'm Spencer. I'm the guy who makes sure that when this ends-and it will-you leave with exactly what you came in with. Which, judging by the coat, is nothing."

Cinthia didn't respond to the jab. She reached for the documents.

The header read: PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT.

She flipped the page.

Clause 1: Asset Separation. Total isolation of all assets acquired before and during the marriage.

Clause 4: Confidentiality. Absolute silence regarding the nature of the arrangement.

Clause 7: Behavioral Expectations.

Cinthia read the fine print. The Wife shall not engage in public displays of affection unless initiated by the Husband. The Wife shall attend all mandatory Clemons family functions. The Wife shall not speak to the press.

"What happens if I break a rule?" she asked, her voice small.

Spencer tapped the last page. "Clause 12. Penalty. You become liable for a liquidated damages sum of five million dollars."

Cinthia gasped. "Five million?"

"Plus," Adrian added from his desk, "I reinstate your brother's debt. And I press charges for the incident at The Onyx."

He was leaning against his desk, arms crossed, watching her. "Save it, Spencer," he said, his voice flat. "This is just a signature to appease the trust board, nothing more. What's the matter?" he directed at Cinthia. "Did you think you hit the jackpot? Did you think you could divorce me in a year and take half?"

He thought she was calculating her payout. He didn't know she was calculating her survival probability.

Suddenly, the office door opened.

"Mr. Clemons, I have the-"

It was Giana. She walked in holding a file, not bothering to knock.

She stopped dead.

She saw Spencer. She saw the papers. And then, she saw Cinthia. Sitting on the VIP sofa. In the CEO's office.

Giana's jaw dropped. Her eyes darted from Cinthia to Adrian.

Cinthia instinctively held up the document to cover her face, panic seizing her chest. No. Not now.

Adrian slammed his hand on his desk. "Get out!"

Giana jumped. She scrambled backward, her heels slipping on the floor. "Sorry! So sorry!" She slammed the door shut.

But the damage was done. Cinthia knew that look. By lunch, the entire 14th floor would know Cinthia Wise was in the penthouse. By dinner, the rumors would be mutating into something monstrous.

"Great," Adrian muttered. "Another leak to plug." He looked at Cinthia with renewed irritation. "Sign it. Now."