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.