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.

Gretchen stood under the freezing spray of the shower until her skin turned numb.

She stepped out and opened the massive oak wardrobe in the guest room.

Inside hung a row of brand-new, perfectly tailored Chanel suits.

She slipped into a sharp black blazer and skirt, the fabric hugging her curves flawlessly.

She slid her feet into a pair of black stilettos.

She pulled her shoulders back, keeping her spine perfectly straight.

Like a queen stepping onto a bloody battlefield, she walked out of the room.

She descended the grand, carpeted spiral staircase of the estate.

Just as she reached the landing of the first floor, she turned the corner.

She nearly collided with Barnett, who was walking toward the wine cellar.

Barnett stopped dead in his tracks.

The moment his eyes landed on her, the calm expression on his face shattered, replaced by a thick layer of frost.

Gretchen's heart gave a violent, involuntary squeeze.

She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced her lips into a flawless, plastic smile.

"Good morning, Barnett."

She spoke first, her voice crisp and entirely steady.

Barnett did not return the greeting.

He looked her up and down with a gaze dripping with absolute revulsion.

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a folded legal document and slammed it down onto the antique side table next to them.

"This is a warning letter for a Restraining Order. My lawyers drafted it overnight."

Barnett's voice was devoid of any human warmth.

The fake smile on Gretchen's face stiffened.

Her eyes dropped to the glaring black text on the paper.

"I don't know how you snuck past the gates into this estate," Barnett said, taking a threatening step toward her.

"But you will pack your things and get the hell out. Now."

He leaned closer, his jaw tight.

"Do not try to use your fabricated lies about our past to ruin my marriage. Women like you, desperate to climb into wealth, make me sick."

Every word was a poisoned dagger straight to her chest.

A wave of dizzying nausea hit Gretchen.

Six years of deep, passionate love had just been reduced to a gold-digger's lie.

Before she could speak, the soft patter of bare feet echoed down the hall.

Joslyn appeared at the end of the corridor.

She was wearing an oversized men's dress shirt-clearly Barnett's-that hung loosely off her small shoulders.

"Barnett? Is everything okay?"

Joslyn rubbed her eyes, looking like a terrified little rabbit as she scurried over to Barnett's side.

Barnett instantly dropped his aggressive posture.

He reached out and wrapped a protective arm around Joslyn's waist, pulling her close.

"It's nothing. Just a crazy woman who doesn't matter."

Joslyn buried her face in Barnett's chest.

But as she peeked out, she shot Gretchen a look filled with arrogant provocation and victory.

That single look acted like a match dropped into a pool of gasoline.

The suffocating pain in Gretchen's chest evaporated.

It was instantly replaced by a raging, violent need to win.

Gretchen let out a sharp, mocking laugh.

She raised her left hand, making sure the five-carat pink diamond caught the hallway lights.

She reached out, picked up the restraining order from the table, and ripped it straight down the middle.

The loud, crisp sound of tearing paper echoed off the walls.

Barnett's forehead creased deeply.

"You have a death wish, Miss Valentine."

"It's Mrs. Spencer."

Gretchen corrected him smoothly.

She tossed the torn halves of the legal document into the air, letting the pieces flutter to the floor like snow.

She leaned forward, staring directly into Barnett's shocked eyes.

"Or, if you prefer, you can call me... sister-in-law."

The words detonated in the narrow hallway like a bomb.

Barnett's pupils violently contracted.

His face twisted in absolute disbelief.

Joslyn sucked in a sharp breath of cold air.

The smug look on her face shattered, her skin turning a sickly, pale white.

"You will not use this insane excuse to stay in my house!"

Barnett roared, the veins bulging against the skin of his neck.

"Whether it's insane or not, you can go ask your dear brother."

Gretchen watched their faces fall apart, a dark, twisted thrill of revenge warming her blood.

She stepped around the two frozen figures.

Her stilettos clicked sharply against the hardwood floor.

"Oh, by the way," Gretchen stopped and glanced back over her shoulder.

Her eyes landed on the oversized shirt Joslyn was wearing.

"That shirt is custom-made. I flew with him to Milan three years ago to pick the fabric."

She offered a pitying smile.

"You look like a clown playing dress-up in adult clothes."

Before the humiliated tears could spill from Joslyn's eyes, Gretchen turned her back.

She walked toward the dining room without a single ounce of hesitation, leaving a suffocating silence in her wake.