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."

The Uber tires crunched against the pristine gravel of the Mosley estate in the Hamptons.

Darla stepped out of the car. Her stomach churned with nausea, but she forced her shoulders back. She walked up the sweeping marble steps and pushed open the massive front doors.

In the sunken living room, Agnes was sipping champagne. Rudy was pacing, and Caren was lounging on a white sofa, filing her nails.

Agnes looked up. Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Go upstairs and put on the red Valentino dress. Arthur Vance will be here for dinner at seven."

Darla didn't say a word. She walked straight to the glass coffee table.

She unzipped her bag, pulled out the thick, legally binding marriage certificate, and slammed it down onto the glass.

The sound cracked like a whip in the quiet room.

Agnes frowned. She set her champagne flute down and picked up the paper. Her eyes scanned the text. The color instantly drained from her face.

Rudy snatched the paper from his mother's hands. "Anson? Who the hell is Anson?"

Caren dropped her nail file, her eyes widening in shock. "Wait. Is that the security guard from last night? You actually married that broke loser?" Caren burst into a shrill, mocking laugh.

Agnes's face turned a mottled, furious red. She lunged forward, raising her hand to strike Darla. "You stupid, ruined little bitch!"

Darla didn't flinch. She shot her hand out and caught Agnes's wrist mid-air. Her grip was iron-tight.

"Don't ever touch me again," Darla said, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I am a married woman. You are no longer my legal guardian. You have no right to my trust fund, and you have no right to tell me what to do."

She shoved Agnes's hand away.

Rudy stepped forward, "I'll make sure that security guard never works in this state again. He'll be begging on the streets."

"Try it," Darla challenged, her eyes burning with defiance.

She turned her back on them and walked out the front doors.

The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind her, the adrenaline vanished. Her knees shook. A wave of exhaustion hit her so hard she almost stumbled.

She started walking down the long, tree-lined driveway, pulling out her phone to call another Uber.

Before she could unlock the screen, a massive, pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided silently up the driveway and stopped right beside her.

The rear door popped open.

Anson stepped out. He was still wearing the cheap blue shirt and jeans, looking completely out of place against the multi-million dollar vehicle.

Darla's jaw dropped. She stared at the car, then at Anson. "What... what is this?"

Anson walked up to her and smoothly took her heavy tote bag from her shoulder.

"My boss lives out here," Anson lied without missing a beat. "I had to drop off some sensitive documents for him. He let me borrow one of his cars for the trip back to the city."

In the driver's seat, Isaac gripped the steering wheel, biting his tongue so hard he tasted copper.

Anson wrapped a heavy, warm arm around Darla's shoulders. "Picking up my wife is part of the job description."

The word wife sent a hot shiver straight down Darla's spine. She was too exhausted to question the insane coincidence.

She let Anson guide her into the back of the Phantom. The plush leather swallowed her tired body. Anson slid in next to her, his large frame taking up most of the space.

The Rolls-Royce pulled away from the estate, leaving the toxic Mosley family far behind.