The cool Manhattan wind whipped Darla's hair across her face as she stood on the sidewalk. The streetlights cast long, harsh shadows on the pavement.

Darla gently pulled her hand out of Anson's grip. She took a step back, putting a polite distance between them.

She unclasped her silver clutch and pulled out the rest of the cash she had on her. It was about three hundred dollars.

She held the money out to him. "Thank you. For everything. Your acting was incredible, and... thank you for stopping Rudy."

Anson looked down at the crumpled bills in her hand. He stayed quiet for two agonizing seconds before he reached out and took the money.

"I'm sorry it's not much," Darla said, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the chill. "When I get my next paycheck, I can send you the rest of what I owe you."

A low, rich chuckle vibrated in Anson's chest. "This covers my rate."

Darla smiled faintly. He was broke, but he had pride. She liked that about him.

"What's your full name?" Darla asked. "If any of my friends ever need security, I'll recommend you."

Anson reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a matte black card and handed it to her.

Darla took it. The card was heavy, expensive cardstock. There was no company logo. No address. Just a single word stamped in silver foil: ANSON. Beneath it was a phone number.

"No last name?" Darla asked, her brow furrowing.

"I take private contracts," Anson lied smoothly, his face a mask of calm. "I keep a low profile."

Darla nodded, slipping the heavy card into her clutch. It made sense. A guy with his skills probably worked off the books.

A yellow cab pulled up to the curb. Darla opened the door and slid onto the cracked vinyl seat.

Anson stood on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets. His dark eyes locked onto hers through the open window.

"Get home safe," he murmured.

Darla nodded and rolled up the window. The cab merged into the busy traffic. She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes, letting the exhaustion pull her under.

Anson watched the taillights of the cab until they disappeared around the corner.

The moment she was out of sight, the mild, accommodating expression vanished from his face. His jaw clenched. His eyes turned back to black ice.

He turned and walked down a narrow, unlit alleyway beside the hotel, putting several dark, quiet blocks between himself and the venue before stopping on a deserted corner. A custom, pitch-black Maybach glided silently out of the shadows and stopped right in front of him.

Isaac Kerr, his executive assistant, jumped out of the driver's seat and pulled open the rear door.

Anson slid into the luxurious leather interior. He tossed the crumpled hundreds onto the polished walnut bar without a second glance.

Isaac looked at the cash through the rearview mirror. He swallowed hard. "Boss... did you really let her pay you? Eight hundred dollars?"

Anson reached up and yanked his tie loose. He shot Isaac a glare so lethal it made the assistant shrink in his seat.

Isaac quickly cleared his throat and handed a thick manila folder over the center console. "The background check on the Hammond and Mosley families, sir."

Anson opened the folder. His eyes scanned the pages, stopping on the police report regarding Darla's adoptive father, David Hammond.

"Put a team on the Mosleys," Anson ordered, his voice cold and sharp. "If they get within ten feet of Darla, break their legs."

Isaac's eyes widened. Anson Prince, the ruthless CEO of MUA Group, never got personally involved with anyone.

Anson looked out the tinted window at the passing city lights. He could still feel the phantom warmth of Darla's small hand in his.

"Drive," Anson commanded.

The Maybach accelerated smoothly, heading toward the most expensive penthouse overlooking Central Park.

Sunlight sliced through the cheap plastic blinds of Darla's Brooklyn apartment, hitting her directly in the eyes.

She groaned, pulling the thin comforter over her head. Her entire body ached from the tension of the previous night.

On the nightstand, her phone erupted into a shrill, aggressive ringtone.

Darla blindly reached out and grabbed it. She cracked one eye open. The screen flashed Agnes's name.

Her stomach instantly tied itself into a knot. She pressed answer and held the phone an inch away from her ear.

"You stupid, ungrateful bitch!" Agnes's voice blasted through the speaker, vibrating with rage. "Do you have any idea how much money you cost this family last night?"

Darla sat up, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I didn't cost you anything. You sold me to Bennet for a business deal."

"And now you're going to fix it," Agnes snarled. "Arthur Vance is looking for a new wife. He's fifty-five, he's rich, and he's willing to overlook your little stunt. You are marrying him next week."

Darla's blood ran cold. Arthur Vance was a known predator on Wall Street. "I'm not marrying anyone, Agnes. I'm done with you."

Agnes let out a vicious, ugly laugh. "Are you? Because if you don't do exactly what I say, I am cutting off every cent of the legal defense fund for your father. Let him rot in that prison for the rest of his life."

The air rushed out of Darla's lungs. Her father. The only person who had ever truly loved her. He was sitting in a maximum-security cell for a crime he didn't commit, waiting for the appeal.

"You can't do that," Darla whispered, her throat tight with panic.

"Watch me," Agnes spat, and hung up.

Darla threw the phone onto the mattress. She grabbed her hair, pulling hard, trying to ground herself. She couldn't breathe. Agnes had total control over her as long as she was her legal guardian on paper.

She needed a way out. She needed a legal shield. A husband.

Her eyes darted to her silver clutch on the floor.

Darla scrambled off the bed, grabbed the bag, and dumped the contents onto the rug. The heavy, matte black card fell out.

ANSON.

She remembered the way he had stood in front of her, an impenetrable wall of muscle and calm. He needed money. She needed a husband.

Her hands shook violently as she picked up her phone and dialed the number.

It rang twice.

"Speak." Anson's voice was a low, gravelly command.

Miles away, in the glass-walled boardroom at the top of the MUA tower, Anson sat at the head of a massive mahogany table. A dozen terrified executives stared at him.

Anson held up one finger, silencing the room. He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.

"Anson?" Darla's voice was breathless, bordering on frantic. "It's Darla. I need to hire you for a long-term job."

Anson's eyes darkened. "What kind of job?"

"I need you to marry me," Darla blurted out. "Today. At City Hall. Just for one year. I'll pay you a lump sum at the end, and I'll cover your rent and food. You can live in my apartment."

Anson stared down at the sprawling Manhattan skyline. He was worth eighty billion dollars. He owned half the buildings he was looking at.

"I do need a place to stay," Anson lied effortlessly, his voice perfectly smooth.

Darla let out a massive breath of relief. "City Hall. One hour."

She hung up.

Anson lowered the phone. A dark, possessive thrill shot straight to his chest. He turned back to the boardroom.

"Meeting adjourned," Anson said coldly. He walked out before anyone could speak.

Darla burst out of the subway station, her breath burning in her lungs as she took the wide concrete steps of Manhattan City Hall.

She scanned the crowd of happy couples. Then, she saw him.

Anson was leaning against a marble pillar. He was wearing a faded, light blue button-down shirt and plain dark jeans. Isaac had spent an hour finding clothes cheap enough to fit the profile.

Even in cheap clothes, Anson looked like a god among men.

Darla jogged up to him, her chest heaving. "I'm sorry I'm late."

She unzipped her tote bag and pulled out a single sheet of paper. "This is the prenuptial agreement. One year. No interference in each other's personal lives. You get fifty thousand dollars when we divorce."

Anson took the paper. His eyes scanned the terms. Fifty thousand dollars. He spent more than that on a bottle of wine.

He didn't smile. He took the pen from her hand and signed his name with sharp, aggressive strokes.

They walked through the metal detectors. The female security guard openly stared at Anson's broad shoulders, but Anson didn't even blink. His focus was entirely on the nervous woman walking beside him.

They sat on a hard wooden bench, waiting for their number to be called. Darla was bouncing her leg, her teeth chewing raw the inside of her cheek.

Suddenly, a warm paper cup was pressed into her hands.

Darla looked up. Anson had bought her a black coffee. His fingers brushed against hers as she took the cup. The heat from his skin sent a sudden, sharp jolt up her arm. Her anxiety instantly dialed back.

"Number 42," a bored voice called over the intercom.

They walked up to the thick glass window. The tired clerk typed their information into the system.

"Do you have the rings?" the clerk asked without looking up.

Darla froze. Rings. She had completely forgotten.

Panic flared in her chest. She dug frantically into her bag and pulled out a small paper pouch. She dumped two plain, cheap silver bands onto the counter. She had bought them for ten dollars from a vendor in the subway tunnel.

The clerk rolled her eyes. "Join hands and say the words."

Anson didn't hesitate. He picked up the smaller silver ring. He took Darla's left hand. His grip was firm, warm, and incredibly gentle.

He slid the cheap metal onto her ring finger. He looked straight into her eyes, his gaze so intense it felt like a physical weight pressing against her chest.

Darla's heart skipped a beat. She picked up the larger ring. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it. She pushed it over Anson's large knuckle.

The clerk stamped the paperwork with a loud thwack.

"Congratulations. You're married."

They walked out of the building into the bright sunlight. Darla dug into her pocket and pulled out a scratched brass key.

"This is the spare key to my apartment in Brooklyn," Darla said, handing it to him. "You can move your stuff in today. I have to go to the Hamptons to handle my family."

Anson looked down at the cheap key in his palm. His jaw tightened.

"I'm coming with you," Anson said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

"No," Darla said firmly. "This is my war. I don't want you getting hurt because of me. Just go home."

She turned and walked quickly toward the subway, her spine straight.

Anson stood on the steps, his thumb rubbing the brass key. He pulled out his phone and hit speed dial.

"Isaac," Anson said, his eyes tracking Darla's retreating figure. "Bring the car. We're going to the Hamptons."