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."

Christi pushed open the frosted glass door of the VIP waiting room at the Manhattan West Private Clinic. She wore an old, seemingly cheap but well-tailored trench coat, deliberately looking small and out of place in the luxurious room.

Jensen was sitting on the plush velvet sofa, typing rapidly on his phone. When he heard the door, he immediately dropped the phone and manufactured a look of deep, exhausted affection.

He stood up and reached out to hug her. "Where were you last night? You didn't come back to the estate. You know how worried my mother gets." His tone carried that familiar, subtle layer of guilt-tripping.

Christi expertly twisted her shoulder, dodging his embrace. She made her eyes wide, forcing her breathing to become shallow and erratic. She let her body tremble visibly.

She reached into her cheap handbag, pulled out her phone, and slammed it onto the glass coffee table. The screen displayed the high-definition photo of him kissing Fallon.

Jensen's pupils contracted to pinpricks. The color drained from his face for a fraction of a second, but his narcissistic brain instantly kicked into survival mode.

He stepped closer, grabbing Christi's shoulders tightly. "Christi, look at me. This is a misunderstanding. Fallon was drunk from the gala. She tripped, and I caught her. It's just business etiquette."

Christi laughed internally, but outwardly, she let two perfectly timed tears roll down her cheeks. "Do you think I'm stupid, Jensen?"

Jensen's grip tightened, his fingers digging painfully into her collarbone. He adjusted his silk tie with his free hand. "You're stressed. You've been acting paranoid lately. Are you sure you're taking your anxiety meds? If this gets out, it ruins the family stock. It ruins the life I provide for you."

Christi forced her shoulders to shake harder. She grabbed the hem of her coat, twisting the fabric in her fists, playing the role of the terrified, dependent woman perfectly.

Seeing her physical submission, a flash of arrogant triumph crossed Jensen's eyes. His voice softened into a sickeningly sweet purr. "I'll make it up to you, baby. What do you need?"

Christi looked up, her eyes red. She kept her voice meek, trembling. "I need security. I want an independent trust account in my name."

Jensen frowned instantly. His hand dropped from her shoulder. He never allowed her to have financial independence. That was how he controlled her. "We share everything, Christi. You don't need-"

Christi immediately reached for the phone on the table. "Maybe I should ask Gilda about this 'business etiquette'. Or the New York Times."

Jensen's jaw clenched. He was in the middle of a massive C-round merger. A scandal right now would cost him billions.

"How much?" he hissed through his teeth.

Christi looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. She held up her fingers. "Six million."

Jensen almost choked. Six million was exactly the budget he had set aside to buy Fallon a high-end piece of jewelry at tonight's auction.

"That's just a fraction of your bonus from last year," Christi whispered, her voice cracking. "Is my peace of mind not worth that much?"

Jensen stared at her. He calculated the risk. He firmly believed Christi was too stupid and too cowardly to actually leave him. Giving her the money would shut her up until the merger was done.

He pulled out his checkbook, his fingers stabbing aggressively at the paper. He wrote out a six-million-dollar cashier's check and tore it out. "Keep your mouth shut."

Christi took the check. She inspected the signature and amount carefully. Then, right in front of him, she tapped the screen of her phone and hit 'Delete' on the photo.

Jensen let out a heavy breath, adjusting his cuffs. "I have a board meeting. Do your checkup." He turned and practically ran out of the room.

The second the door clicked shut, the pathetic, trembling look vanished from Christi's face. Her features turned to ice.

She reached into her bra and pulled out the physical SD card. She had only deleted the cloud copy.

She took a photo of the check and dialed her private assistant, Mia Stone. "Mia. Route this into an offshore account and wash it into my personal ledger. Keep it off the Rivera radar."

In the upper corner of the room, the security camera silently rotated, zooming in on her face.

Miles away, in the Apex building security room, Cornelius watched the monitors. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest as he watched his 'poor, helpless' fiancé extort six million dollars in under five minutes.

He pressed the intercom button. "Leo. Call the Bvlgari flagship on Fifth Avenue. Tell them a very important guest is about to arrive. Give her whatever she wants."