The pen felt slippery in Cinthia's sweating fingers.

"My patience is finite," Adrian said. He checked his watch again.

"It's a standard contract, Ms. Wise," Spencer said, his tone bored. "Standard for billionaires marrying... well, you."

Cinthia's throat was dry as dust. She reached for the glass of water Miles had placed on the coffee table earlier.

Her hand was shaking.

Her elbow knocked into the coffee cup she had brought up earlier-the one sitting on the edge of the table.

Splash.

The cup tipped. Dark, hot liquid cascaded off the table.

It didn't just hit the rug. It splashed onto the grey wool of Adrian's trousers as he stepped forward to grab the pen.

For a second, there was silence.

Then, Adrian recoiled. It was a violent, jerky movement, like he had been burned by acid. His breath hitched, a sharp, audible gasp that was more shocking than a shout.

"Damn it!"

His face went white. Not angry red-white. A stark, bloodless white that tightened the skin over his cheekbones.

Cinthia scrambled up, horrified. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!"

She grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the table. Without thinking, she dropped to her knees and reached out to dab at the stain on his leg.

Her hand brushed his thigh.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The roar was primal. It wasn't just anger; it was the sound of an animal caught in a trap, raw and terrified.

Adrian didn't just step back; he shoved her hand away. The force of his reaction sent Cinthia toppling backward.

She fell hard. Her knee cracked against the sharp corner of the solid oak coffee table.

Pain exploded up her leg. A sharp, blinding spike of agony that made her gasp.

She curled into a ball on the rug, clutching her knee.

The room went deathly still.

Spencer stood up slowly, his playful smile gone. He looked at Adrian.

Adrian was breathing hard. His chest heaved. He was staring at the spot where she had touched him, his eyes dilated with something that looked terrifyingly like panic. He was trembling.

It wasn't just anger. It was something else. Something broken.

"Adrian," Spencer said softly. "Easy."

Adrian squeezed his eyes shut. He took a ragged breath, forcing the monster back into its cage.

"Miles," he rasped.

Miles was already there, helping Cinthia sit up. "Sir?"

"Get her to sign," Adrian said, his voice hollow. "Spencer, get out. Everyone get out."

He turned and walked stiffly toward the private bathroom attached to the office. He slammed the door. The lock clicked.

Cinthia sat on the floor, tears stinging her eyes. Her knee throbbed with a dull, sickening heat.

Spencer looked down at her. He didn't offer to help her up.

"You should sign it," he said. His voice was colder now. "You triggered him. Not a smart move on day one."

Triggered?

Cinthia wiped her eyes. She grabbed the pen. Her hand shook, but she forced the nib onto the paper.

Cinthia Wise.

She signed her life away.

"Done," she whispered.

Miles handed her a tissue. "Come with me, Ma'am."

"Don't call me Ma'am," she sniffled, pulling herself up. Her knee buckled, but she forced it straight.

She limped to the elevator.

When the doors opened on the 14th floor, Giana and three other secretaries were standing near the water cooler. They went silent as Cinthia limped past, her eyes red, her knee throbbing.

They exchanged looks. Excited, malicious looks.

Cinthia kept her head down and walked to her desk. She wanted to disappear. But she knew, with a sinking feeling, that the show was just beginning.

Inside the penthouse bathroom, Adrian ripped off the stained trousers. He scrubbed his leg with a wet towel, scrubbing until the skin turned red.

Get it off. Get it off.

It wasn't the coffee. It was the touch. The unexpected, grabbing sensation. It felt like the wreckage. Like the biting cold of twisted metal and the memory of a hand going limp in his…

He squeezed his eyes shut. Stop.

He changed into a spare suit he kept in the closet. When he walked back out, Spencer was packing up the papers.

"Congratulations," Spencer said dryly. "You legally own a wife."

Adrian poured himself a drink. "Shut up."

"You overreacted," Spencer said. "She's just a scared kid. She didn't mean to touch you."

"She's a liability," Adrian muttered, downing the scotch. "She's clumsy. She's loud."

"But she's exactly what you wanted," Spencer pointed out. "Think about Georgiana's face when she meets her. A Brooklyn girl with a criminal brother and a cheap coat? Your mother is going to have an aneurysm."

A dark, cruel smile touched Adrian's lips. "That is the only reason she is here. Nothing disgusts my mother more than poverty."

"You're a sadist, you know that?" Spencer zipped his bag. "Though... calling her 'Sister-in-law' is going to be fun."

"Don't get attached," Adrian warned. "One year. Then she's gone."

Cinthia hid in the stairwell on the 14th floor. It was the only place without cameras.

She cried for five minutes. Quiet, efficient tears. Then she stopped. Crying didn't pay the bills.

Her phone buzzed. She blocked Carter's number without reading the text.

She walked back to her desk.

There was a steaming mug of hot chocolate sitting on her keyboard. Beside it, a sticky note with a smiley face.

She looked up. Kamren Newton, the Marketing Manager from down the hall, was watching her from his office door. He gave her a small, warm wave.

Cinthia's heart squeezed. Kamren was everything Adrian wasn't. Kind. Warm. Safe. He had asked her out for coffee three times. She had always said she was busy with Casey.

Now, she was married.

She couldn't even smile back. She looked away, guilt washing over her.

"Ms. Wise?"

Cinthia jumped. Miles was standing at her desk.

The low buzz of office chatter around them didn't stop, but a new kind of silence fell over the immediate area as heads subtly turned their way. Giana leaned over her partition, pretending to look for a paperclip.

"Mr. Clemons requires you downstairs," Miles said, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. He gestured discreetly toward the elevators.

"Downstairs?" Cinthia whispered, confused. "For what?"

"A car is waiting," Miles clarified, his expression unreadable. "You are to relocate to the Estate. Tonight. Please gather your personal effects quietly."

Giana gasped, a small, choked sound that was audible in the sudden quiet. Relocate? To the Estate?

The whispers started before Cinthia had even pushed her chair back. She didn't need to hear the words to know what they were saying. She grabbed her bag, feeling the heat of dozens of eyes on her back as she followed Miles to the elevators.

"Did you see her coat?"

"Sleeping her way to the top..."

"I bet she's pregnant."

Downstairs, the Rolls Royce was waiting.

Cinthia climbed in. Adrian was reading a file. He didn't look at her.

"Drive," he said.

The silence in the car was heavier than lead.

"Where do you live?" Adrian asked, breaking the silence after ten minutes.

Cinthia gave him the address.

Adrian frowned. "That neighborhood? It's a slum."

"It's where people live," Cinthia snapped, finding a shred of courage. "People who don't have trust funds."

Adrian didn't respond. He just looked out the window as the scenery changed from the gleaming towers of Manhattan to the graffiti-stained brick of Brooklyn.

The car pulled up to her building. A group of teenagers on the corner whistled at the car.

"You have thirty minutes," Adrian said. "Essentials only. Leave the trash."

"My things aren't trash," Cinthia muttered.

She opened the door and ran up the three flights of stairs.

Her apartment smelled of bleach and old cooking oil. She grabbed her suitcase.

Clothes. Not many. Just the professional ones. Her toothbrush. Casey's photo.

Then, she went to the closet. She pulled out the heavy wooden box. Her paints. Her brushes. Her sketchbooks.

She buried them at the bottom of the suitcase, under her sweaters. These were her secret. If Adrian saw them, he might mock them. Or worse, forbid them.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Someone pounded on the door.

"Cinthia! Open up!"

It wasn't Adrian. It was Aunt Linda.

Cinthia froze. "Go away, Aunt Linda!"

The door flew open. The lock had been broken for years.

Linda stood there, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, her face red with rage.

"Carter said you hit the jackpot!" Linda screamed, marching in. "He said you married a billionaire! Where's my cut?"

"There is no cut!" Cinthia yelled, backing up. "He paid Carter's debt! That's it!"

"Liar!" Linda grabbed a handful of Cinthia's hair.

"Ah!" Cinthia screamed, dropping the suitcase.

"You ungrateful little brat!" Linda yanked her head back. "After everything I did for you? You think you can just leave us here and go live in a palace?"

Cinthia clawed at Linda's hand. "Let go!"

Down on the street, the window of the Rolls Royce was cracked open an inch.

Adrian heard the scream.

He sighed. He rubbed his temples. He didn't want to deal with this. It was messy. It was low class.

But... she was his wife. His property.

"Miles," he said quietly.

Miles nodded. He tapped the earpiece. Two massive bodyguards stepped out of the SUV trailing them.

Upstairs, Linda was trying to rip Cinthia's purse from her shoulder.

"Give me the cash!"

Crash!

The apartment door was kicked fully open.

Miles stood there, flanked by the two mountains of muscle.

"Let her go," Miles said. His voice was calm, but terrifying.

Linda froze. She looked at the suits. She looked at the guns bulging under their jackets.

She dropped Cinthia's hair.

Cinthia fell back against the wall, gasping. Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it. Her hair was a wild mess.

She looked at Miles. Shame burned in her chest.

"Get your bag, Ma'am," Miles said.