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.

The deafening sound of Tchaikovsky echoed off the mirrored walls of the massive rehearsal room at the Lincoln Center.

Gretchen launched herself into the air, executing a flawless, explosive Grand Jeté.

Sweat soaked through the thin fabric of her black leotard.

Her calf muscles screamed in protest from the sheer overuse, burning like hot coals under her skin.

She refused to stop.

Only the severe, blinding physical pain of ballet could drown out the memory of her mother's music box being tossed into the trash.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the room.

The heavy, soundproof double doors were violently shoved open from the outside.

Kian marched over to the sound system and yanked the auxiliary cord.

The music cut off instantly.

A dead, terrifying silence fell over the room.

Every dancer froze, their eyes wide with fear as they stared at the doorway.

Dixon stepped into the room.

He was wearing a long, black wool overcoat, bringing the freezing winter air in with him.

He walked across the sprung floor with the heavy, arrogant steps of a tyrant invading a foreign country.

The other dancers immediately began to whisper, recognizing the billionaire who had dominated the morning news.

Caught mid-jump by the sudden silence, Gretchen lost her footing and crashed hard onto the wooden floor.

She sat there, her chest heaving violently as she glared up at the intruder.

"Are you out of your mind? This is my private rehearsal time!"

Dixon ignored the terrified stares of the ballet company.

He walked straight up to her, stopping inches from her legs.

He looked down at the sweat dripping from her flushed cheeks.

"Three o'clock sharp, Mrs. Spencer. You are late."

He lifted his wrist, tapping the glass of his Patek Philippe watch. His tone left absolutely no room for negotiation.

"I still have to run the second act-"

Gretchen tried to push herself off the floor.

Before she could stand, Dixon reached down.

His large hand wrapped completely around her bare wrist.

With a single, effortless pull, he hauled her to her feet.

"Your rehearsal is over. Go change your clothes. Now."

Dixon's eyes slowly dragged down the tight, wet fabric of her leotard.

A dark, heavy heat flared in his pupils, but he quickly snapped his gaze back to her face, his jaw tight.

Feeling the burning stares of her colleagues boring into her back, Gretchen swallowed her pride.

She yanked her wrist out of his grip.

She spun around and marched into the locker room.

Ten minutes later, she emerged wearing her street clothes.

Dixon didn't say a word.

He simply wrapped his arm around her waist, his fingers pressing firmly into her side.

He half-walked, half-dragged her out of the Lincoln Center in front of everyone.

The Maybach did not head toward Long Island.

Instead, it pulled up to the curb on Fifth Avenue, stopping directly in front of Bergdorf Goodman.

The general manager of the luxury department store was already standing on the sidewalk, flanked by a row of personal shoppers.

They immediately escorted them to the VIP floor, which had been completely cleared of all other customers.

"Why did you bring me here?"

Gretchen frowned, looking at the endless racks of unreleased couture gowns.

"To arm you."

Dixon unbuttoned his overcoat and sat down on a plush velvet sofa.

He crossed his long legs, his posture lazy but suffocatingly dominant.

"You cannot walk back into my estate wearing last season's rags. It makes me look bad."

He used the cruelest, most arrogant words to mask the violent urge he had to bury her in everything she deserved.

He gave a slight nod.

The personal shoppers swarmed Gretchen like bees.

They began pulling dresses off the racks and holding them up against her body.

For the next two hours, Gretchen felt like a hollow plastic doll.

She was forced in and out of the dressing room, trying on dozens of outfits.

"The red one. Too cheap."

Dixon waved his hand dismissively.

"The black one. Looks like you're going to a funeral. Take it off."

He rejected everything.

Until Gretchen stepped out of the dressing room wearing a dark emerald-green silk slip dress.

The fabric clung perfectly to her dancer's waist, exposing the elegant, sharp lines of her collarbones and shoulders.

Dixon's eyes locked onto her.

His breath hitched.

His Adam's apple bobbed heavily in his throat.

The bored look in his eyes vanished, replaced by a raw, predatory hunger.

He stood up slowly.

He walked across the thick carpet until he was standing right behind her.

They faced the massive floor-to-ceiling mirror together.

He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

Dixon reached over to a velvet tray held by a trembling manager.

He picked up a heavy, blindingly expensive emerald necklace.

He raised his arms and draped the cold jewels around her neck.

As he fastened the clasp, the tips of his cold fingers brushed against the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck.

A violent, uncontrollable shiver shot straight down Gretchen's spine.

"This is the one."

Dixon stared at her reflection in the mirror.

His voice was terrifyingly low and raspy.

"Take every piece from the new collection in her size."

He turned his head slightly, giving the order to the manager.

"Have it all delivered to the master bedroom at the estate."

The words hit Gretchen like a bucket of ice water. The master bedroom. A cold dread, sharp and suffocating, seized her lungs. She stared at his broad back in the mirror, her mind racing as the terrifying reality of her contract finally settled in: tonight, she was sleeping in his bed.