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.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom idled smoothly at the curb outside Darla's Brooklyn apartment building.

Darla and Anson walked up the three flights of narrow, scuffed stairs. Darla unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The apartment was tiny. The living room and kitchen were crammed into one space, but it was spotless. Books were stacked neatly on shelves, and a small plant sat on the windowsill.

Anson stepped inside. His broad shoulders seemed to take up half the room. His dark eyes scanned the cramped space, but there was no pity or disgust in his gaze.

Darla felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. She walked to the tiny fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to him.

"I know it's not much," Darla said quietly.

Anson unscrewed the cap and took a drink. "It's perfect. It's better than where I used to sleep."

He checked his watch. "I have to take the car back and cover a night shift at the hotel. Will you be okay here alone?"

Darla nodded, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Anson."

Anson held her gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning and walking out the door. The lock clicked shut.

The silence of the apartment crashed down on Darla. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the cheap fabric sofa. Her muscles felt like lead. She closed her eyes, finally feeling safe.

Her phone buzzed violently on the coffee table.

It was an unknown number.

Darla frowned and hit accept. "Hello?"

"Is this Darla Hammond?" The voice was mechanical, completely devoid of emotion.

"Yes."

"This is Warden Miller from the State Penitentiary. I am calling to inform you that your father, David Hammond, was pronounced dead at 6:14 PM this evening."

The air vanished from the room. Darla's lungs stopped working.

"What?" Darla whispered, her vocal cords paralyzing.

"Preliminary reports indicate suicide by hanging," the warden continued coldly. "You will need to claim the body."

The phone slipped from Darla's numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass.

Darla's knees gave out. She slid off the sofa and hit the floor hard.

Her father. Her kind, gentle father. He had promised her he would wait for the appeal. He would never kill himself.

Agnes's threat from the morning echoed in her head. Let him rot in that prison.

They killed him. The Mosleys had him killed to break her.

A sound tore out of Darla's throat-a raw, guttural scream of pure agony. She curled into a ball on the floor, clutching her stomach as if she had been stabbed. The grief hit her like a physical weight, crushing her ribs, suffocating her.

Tears poured down her face, soaking into the rug. She was completely, utterly alone.

Down on the street, Anson was walking toward the Maybach when his phone rang.

"Boss," Isaac said, his voice tight. "We just intercepted a report from the prison. David Hammond is dead."

Anson stopped dead in his tracks. His blood turned to ice.

He didn't say a word. He spun around and sprinted back into the building. He took the stairs three at a time.

He jammed the brass key into the lock and shoved the door open.

He saw Darla on the floor, her body shaking violently with sobs.

Anson's chest seized. He crossed the room in two massive strides and dropped to his knees. He reached out and pulled her small, trembling body roughly into his chest.

Darla didn't fight him. She buried her face in his shirt, her fingers digging desperately into his shoulders as she sobbed out her broken heart.

Anson wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight enough to keep her from falling apart. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his eyes staring blankly at the wall, burning with a dark, terrifying promise of violence.