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.

Gretchen stepped into the sprawling, French-style living room.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she stopped.

Two estate maids were carrying massive cardboard boxes toward the front door.

The boxes were overflowing with the physical evidence of her past six years in this house.

She saw her favorite velvet throw pillows.

She saw her heavily annotated ballet scripts and worn-out pointe shoes.

Barnett stood by the massive marble fireplace, his hands shoved into his pockets.

He looked at Alistair, the head butler, with cold, hard eyes.

"Throw all of this garbage into the incinerator. I don't want to see any of it again."

Gretchen's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that she felt the skin break.

She forced herself to swallow the bitter lump of acid rising in her throat.

She stood frozen, watching the destruction of her life.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Dixon walked slowly down from the second floor.

His sharp eyes swept over the cardboard boxes.

A dark, violent shadow flickered in his gray-blue eyes for a fraction of a second.

Barnett saw Dixon and immediately marched toward him.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Barnett demanded, his voice shaking with rage. "You actually married this crazy woman?"

Dixon stopped on the bottom step.

He casually tucked one hand into his pocket, his lips curling into a look of absolute disdain.

"What? Are you upset that I'm taking out the trash you didn't want?"

The words felt like a rusty saw dragging across Gretchen's heart.

The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy.

She pressed her lips together, refusing to let him see her break.

Barnett let out a harsh sneer.

He pointed at the heavy boxes.

"If she's trash, then clean up the rest of her garbage while you're at it."

Dixon slowly turned his head.

He looked at the top box.

Resting on top of the pile was an antique wooden music box.

It was the only thing Gretchen had left from her dead mother.

Dixon looked at the butler, his voice flat and entirely bored. "Pack all of this away. I don't want to see it anywhere in my house."

As the butler reached for the box, Dixon's long fingers casually intercepted the antique wooden music box. He slipped it silently into his deep overcoat pocket before turning away.

Gretchen's eyes widened in sheer horror.

She stared at Dixon, her chest tightening so hard she couldn't pull in oxygen.

She thought, surely, he would at least stop them from burning her mother's memory.

Dixon didn't even glance in her direction.

He walked right past her, heading for the front door.

"Mrs. Spencer, if you don't want to stand around watching them burn garbage, follow me."

Gretchen took a ragged breath.

She blinked back the burning tears, straightened her spine, and followed him out of the suffocating house.

The second the heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut and the car rolled down the driveway, Gretchen snapped.

"Those were my personal belongings!"

She screamed, her voice shaking with raw fury. "You had no right to let them throw that away!"

Dixon kept his eyes on the road, casually turning the steering wheel.

"If you are going to be my wife, you don't keep your ex's garbage. I will buy you new things."

His voice was terrifyingly cold.

Gretchen's entire body shook with anger at his ruthless, dictatorial cruelty.

She turned her head, staring blankly out the window, refusing to speak another word to him.

The car finally pulled up to a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side.

Gretchen yanked the door handle and sprinted into the building without looking back.

When the door to her parents' apartment swung open, her mother, Helena, gasped.

Seeing her daughter's red, swollen eyes, Helena pulled Gretchen into a tight hug.

Her father, Julian, sat stiffly on the living room sofa.

On the glass coffee table in front of him sat the morning edition of the financial times.

The front page screamed the headline of the Spencer family's second son's sudden marriage.

"Gretchen, is what the papers are saying true?"

Julian's voice was stern and tight with fear. "Did you really marry that notorious bastard, Dixon?"

Gretchen pulled back from her mother's arms.

She wiped her face, her eyes hardening.

"Yes, Dad. We registered at City Hall yesterday."

Helena covered her mouth in horror.

"Oh, God! Have you lost your mind? Didn't Barnett hurt you enough? Why are you jumping into another fire pit?"

"It's not a fire pit. It's a transaction."

Gretchen sat down on the edge of the armchair, keeping her back perfectly straight.

"I need the Spencer family title to protect myself."

"Protect?" Julian slammed his hand onto the newspaper. "A bloodsucking capitalist like Dixon Spencer will protect you?"

"We signed an agreement. We both get what we need."

Gretchen carefully avoided mentioning the fifty-million-dollar penalty.

"He wants the shares. I want my dignity back."

Helena reached out, grabbing Gretchen's freezing hands.

"Baby, you can't control a billionaire family's internal war. I'm terrified you'll be eaten alive."

"I won't lose."

Gretchen squeezed her mother's hands, her eyes burning with absolute resolve.

Suddenly, the phone in her purse vibrated.

She pulled it out.

It was a text message from Dixon.

[I will be at your studio at 3:00 PM to pick you up. Prepare to move.]

Gretchen stared at the commanding, arrogant text.

She took a deep breath and pressed the power button, plunging the screen into darkness.

She knew the real war was just beginning.