Gretchen threw her head back and swallowed the last burning drop of her dry martini.

The harsh liquid scorched a path down her throat, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach.

The dim, amber lighting of the Soho House private club offered her a dark corner to hide.

A man in a custom-tailored suit leaned heavily against the bar next to her.

His eyes roamed hungrily up and down her bare legs.

Gretchen turned her head slowly, fixing him with a dead, freezing stare.

"Get lost."

The words slipped from her lips, flat and utterly fearless.

The man's face flushed red with sudden, wounded pride.

He reached out, his thick fingers grabbing her wrist to pull her off the stool.

He muttered a filthy curse under his breath.

Before Gretchen could pull away, a large hand shot out from the shadows.

The hand, adorned with a heavy Patek Philippe watch, clamped down on the man's wrist like a steel vice.

A sickening pop of grinding bone echoed over the low jazz music.

The man let out a sharp, pathetic yelp.

He stumbled backward, clutching his arm to his chest, his face pale with pain.

Gretchen blinked her heavy eyes and turned her head.

Her gaze crashed into a pair of deep, dangerous, gray-blue eyes.

Dixon Spencer stepped smoothly out of the shadows of the VIP booth.

He was Barnett's younger brother.

He moved with the lazy grace of a predator, taking the empty barstool right beside her.

He raised two fingers in the air.

The bartender immediately backed away to the far end of the counter, terrified, leaving them in absolute privacy.

Gretchen stared at the sharp angles of his face.

He looked so much like Barnett, yet infinitely more lethal.

Her stomach violently churned.

She grabbed her small clutch purse from the counter and stood up.

"Running away?"

Dixon's voice was a low, dark rumble, like a demon whispering in the dark.

"Just like you ran away from The Plaza tonight? Like a stray dog?"

The words stomped directly onto her bleeding wounds.

Gretchen froze in her tracks.

She spun around, her chest heaving, glaring at him with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Did you come here to laugh at me, the second son of the Spencer family?"

She sneered, her knuckles turning stark white as she gripped her purse.

Dixon's lips curved into a cold, entirely humorless smirk.

He reached into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket.

He pulled out a neatly folded legal document and slid it across the polished mahogany bar.

"I came to hand you a knife."

He tapped his long, elegant index finger against the thick paper.

"Do you want to destroy Barnett?"

Gretchen stopped breathing.

Her eyes were dragged downward against her will, landing on the bold black letters at the top of the page.

Commercial Marriage Agreement.

"He forgot you," Dixon said smoothly, tossing out the bait.

"He married a woman from nowhere. And now, he plans to transfer the company shares that belonged to both of us to that little stray."

Gretchen's breathing turned shallow and rapid.

The image of Barnett looking at her with absolute disgust flashed behind her eyelids.

A sharp, stabbing pain twisted her heart.

"Marry me."

Dixon leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.

The scent of cedar and expensive tobacco wrapped around her.

"Move back into the estate, openly and legally, as the second Mrs. Spencer."

Gretchen stumbled back half a step.

She stared at him like he had lost his mind.

"Are you insane? I am your brother's ex-fiancée!"

"Exactly."

Dixon's eyes darkened into a pitch-black void, threatening to swallow her whole.

"That is what makes it the perfect revenge. I want his shares. You want his pain. We both get what we want."

Gretchen gasped for air.

Every rational thought in her brain screamed at her to run away from this dangerous man.

But the alcohol in her bloodstream poured gasoline on her burning hatred.

She refused to be kicked to the curb like a piece of trash.

"Why me?"

She ground her teeth together, probing for the trap.

"Because you are the only person who can make him and the old man utterly miserable."

Dixon delivered the business excuse flawlessly.

He blinked, hiding a dark, possessive gleam that flared in his pupils for a fraction of a second, burying the true depth of his calculations behind a flawless mask.

Gretchen closed her eyes.

A single, hot tear finally broke free and slid down her cheek.

She raised the back of her hand and wiped it away with a violent, angry swipe.

When she opened her eyes again, the fragile, broken woman was gone.

Only a cold, burning fire remained.

She snatched the heavy Montblanc pen resting on the bar.

Without a single second of hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name at the bottom of the page.

Dixon stared at the wet ink.

His Adam's apple bobbed sharply against his collar.

He snatched the document back instantly, as if terrified she might rip it up.

"Let's go, Mrs. Spencer."

He stood up, his tall frame towering over her.

He wrapped his large hand firmly around her waist, leaving no room for argument.

He guided her out of the dim club and into the freezing Manhattan night.

A blast of freezing morning wind whipped across Gretchen's face.

She groaned, pressing her fingers hard against her throbbing temples.

She slowly peeled her eyes open.

She was sitting in the plush leather passenger seat of an unfamiliar Maybach.

Through the tinted window, the massive stone pillars of the Manhattan City Hall loomed over her.

Dixon pushed open the driver's side door and stepped out into the cold.

He walked around the hood of the car and yanked her heavy door open.

"Get out."

His tone was hard and clipped.

He shoved a freezing cup of iced Americano into her hands, forcing the cold plastic against her warm skin.

Gretchen shivered violently.

The memories of the dark bar and the signed contract crashed into her pounding skull.

She pressed her spine hard against the leather seat, her legs feeling like lead.

"Now? We don't even have a Marriage License."

"In New York, with enough money and the right lawyers, a twenty-four-hour waiting period becomes zero."

Dixon let out a short, cold laugh.

He reached in, wrapped his hand around her upper arm, and half-dragged her out of the luxurious cabin.

Gretchen stumbled over her own feet as she followed him up the wide concrete steps.

Couples waiting in line for their morning appointments stared at her wrinkled evening gown in shock.

Dixon ignored them all, pulling her directly past the security checkpoint.

They were ushered into a small, private office in the back of the building.

A judge was already standing behind a wooden desk, wiping sweat from his balding forehead.

Dixon's executive assistant, Kian, stepped forward instantly.

He handed Gretchen a thick stack of legal documents, pointing a silver pen at the dotted lines.

Gretchen's hand shook violently as she took the pen.

She stared at the papers that would legally bind her to the devil.

She hesitated for ten agonizing seconds.

Dixon didn't rush her.

He casually leaned his hip against the edge of the desk.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, and turned the volume up.

A news clip played loudly in the quiet room.

It was footage from last night, showing Barnett wrapping his coat around Joslyn's shoulders as they left The Plaza, smiling lovingly.

The sound of Joslyn's shy, breathy giggle shattered the last of Gretchen's hesitation.

She pressed the pen down and signed her name.

The judge quickly mumbled through the standard vows.

"Dixon Spencer, do you take..."

"I do."

Dixon cut the judge off before he could even finish the sentence.

His answer was so fast, so immediate, that it sent a strange shiver down Gretchen's spine.

The judge cleared his throat and turned to her.

Gretchen took a deep breath.

She stared at the blind scales of justice sitting on the desk.

"I do."

Her voice was as cold and hard as stone.

"You may now kiss the bride," the judge announced awkwardly.

Gretchen's entire body went rigid.

She instinctively turned her face away to avoid him.

But Dixon's large hand shot out, his fingers gripping her chin with terrifying strength.

He forced her face back toward him.

He lowered his head.

His warm, firm lips brushed against the corner of her mouth.

It was a fake kiss, heavy with a silent, dark warning.

The moment Kian handed her the stamped marriage certificate, a wave of dizzying nausea hit her.

She walked back to the Maybach like a zombie.

The second the heavy car door clicked shut, the adrenaline left her body.

The crushing weight of her hangover pulled her down, and she slumped against the cold window, falling into a deep sleep.

The Maybach glided smoothly toward Long Island.

Dixon pressed the brake pedal as they hit a red light.

He slowly turned his head to look at the passenger seat.

He reached out his hand.

His thumb gently, greedily traced the dark purple circles under her closed eyes.

His gaze was burning, obsessive, and entirely unhinged.

A car honked loudly from behind them.

Dixon snatched his hand back instantly.

The manic fire in his eyes vanished, replaced by the freezing mask of a Wall Street shark.

The car passed through the heavy iron gates of the Spencer Estate.

He parked near the side entrance of the massive main house.

He got out, walked to her side, and opened the door.

He didn't wake her.

He leaned in and scooped her up into his arms, lifting her against his chest.

The estate maids standing in the foyer gasped, their eyes wide with shock as the second young master carried a woman inside.

Alistair, the head butler, rushed forward to speak.

Dixon shot him a glare so lethal it nailed the old man to the floor.

Dixon carried her straight up the grand staircase.

He kicked open the door to a guest bedroom.

He laid her gently onto the center of the massive, soft mattress.

He stood over the bed, staring down at her sleeping face for a long time.

Then, he pulled the stamped marriage certificate from his pocket.

He dropped it onto the pillow right next to her head.

He turned, walked out, and pulled the heavy door shut behind him. Outside in the quiet corridor, two of his personal security guards took up silent positions, their imposing presence a clear, unspoken warning that she was now fully within his territory.

A sharp beam of morning sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy French drapes.

The light stabbed directly into Gretchen's eyes.

She jolted awake with a violent gasp, her hands gripping the silk sheets of an incredibly massive king-size bed.

Her skull felt like it was splitting open from the inside.

She scrambled into a sitting position, looking down in panic.

She was still wearing the expensive, now heavily wrinkled evening gown from last night.

Her eyes darted around the room.

She saw unfamiliar antique mahogany furniture and expensive oil paintings hanging on the walls.

Her heart began to slam against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She turned her head.

Her gaze slammed into the piece of paper resting on the pillow beside her.

The raised seal of the New York City Hall stared back at her.

Her fingers trembled violently as she picked up the certificate.

There it was, printed in stark black ink: Dixon Spencer and Gretchen Valentine.

A wave of pure, suffocating absurdity washed over her.

At that exact moment, the brass doorknob clicked loudly.

The heavy door swung open.

Dixon strolled into the room.

He was wearing a perfectly tailored, dark gray three-piece suit.

He had one hand casually tucked into his trouser pocket, walking with the slow, arrogant stride of a king inspecting his territory.

Gretchen scrambled backward against the headboard like a cornered cat.

She yanked the thick duvet up to her chest.

"You actually brought me back to the estate?!"

She screamed, her voice hoarse.

"This is your legal residence, Mrs. Spencer."

Dixon stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down at her with absolutely zero emotion on his face.

Gretchen crumpled the marriage certificate in her fist and hurled it at his chest.

"This is completely insane! I changed my mind. I am canceling this damn registration!"

The paper hit Dixon's expensive lapel and fluttered to the carpet.

He didn't even blink.

He slowly bent down and picked up the paper.

He casually brushed a speck of invisible dust off the corner.

"In the state of New York, an annulment requires proof of fraud or extreme duress."

He took a slow step forward.

He placed both hands on the edge of the mattress, leaning his upper body toward her.

He trapped her between his massive frame and the headboard.

"Do you really think a judge will believe that you forced me, or that I forced you?"

The heavy scent of cedar and cold tobacco rolled off his skin, suffocating her.

Gretchen felt the air thin out in her lungs.

"We signed a contract. I will pay the breach penalty!"

She spat the words through clenched teeth.

Dixon let out a low, dark chuckle, as if she had just told a hilarious joke.

"The penalty clauses grant me the absolute power to freeze every single corporate sponsorship funding your beloved ballet company."

His eyes locked onto hers, cold and merciless.

"Are you planning to watch your life's work go bankrupt overnight, or are you going to force your parents to sell their Manhattan apartment to cover your catastrophic legal fees?"

The words clamped around Gretchen's throat like an iron fist.

All the blood instantly drained from her face, leaving her skin chalk-white.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard it turned white.

Dixon stared at her pale face.

A tiny, almost imperceptible flicker of pain flashed deep in his gray-blue eyes.

But he instantly crushed it, his voice dropping to a freezing temperature.

"Put away the victim act."

He pushed off the bed and stood up straight, casually adjusting his silver cufflinks.

"You wanted revenge. I simply handed you the weapon."

He paced slowly toward the window.

"Stay here. Show your face to Barnett and that stray every single day. Disgust them. Remind them that you exist."

He turned back to face her, mapping out the war.

"At the same time, you will play the perfect wife in front of the old man. Help me take control of the board. Once it's done, I will give you the freedom you want."

Gretchen's rapid breathing slowly began to steady.

The panic faded, replaced by the cold, hard logic of survival.

She stared at the ruthless businessman standing across from her.

She had no way out.

"If I play along," Gretchen said, lifting her chin and straightening her spine.

The pride of a principal dancer returned to her eyes.

"What do I get out of this?"

"Aside from making Barnett's life a living hell?"

The corner of Dixon's mouth twitched upward in a satisfied smirk.

"The entire weight of the Spencer family's resources, at your disposal."

He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

He tossed it onto the soft duvet between her legs.

"Put it on. Come downstairs in ten minutes. Your ex-fiancé is currently enjoying his sweet, newlywed breakfast."

Dixon turned and walked toward the door.

Just as his hand touched the brass knob, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Don't disappoint me, partner."

He delivered the cold warning and pulled the door shut behind him.

The room fell into a dead silence.

Gretchen reached out and flipped open the velvet box.

Inside sat a flawless, five-carat pink diamond ring.

The facets caught the sunlight, blindingly bright.

She stared at the heavy stone for a long time.

Then, she slowly slid the cold metal onto her left ring finger.

A fierce, burning desire for war ignited in her chest.