Araminta waited until 2:00 AM. She knew the patrol schedules of the Doyle estate better than anyone.

She scaled the trellis on the east wing, her muscles screaming in protest. She slipped through the window she had escaped from the night before-the curtains were gone, but the window was still boarded up with plywood. She pried the wood loose with a rusted garden trowel she found.

She crept into her old room. It had been tossed. Drawers were pulled out, clothes slashed.

She went to the closet. Behind the loose floorboard in the back, the small metal box was still there. Javen hadn't found it.

She grabbed the passports and birth certificates.

The door to the bedroom kicked open.

Light flooded the room from the hallway. Javen stood there, swaying slightly. He held a bottle of whiskey in one hand. A bandage was wrapped around his other hand where she had stabbed him.

"I knew it," he slurred. "I knew the rat would come back for her cheese."

Araminta backed up against the wall. "These are mine, Javen. Let me go."

"You cost me a billion-dollar contract today," Javen snarled. He dropped the bottle. It didn't break; it rolled on the carpet.

He lunged at her.

His hands closed around her throat. He slammed her head back against the wall. Stars exploded in her vision.

"Is it Alfonse?" he shouted, spit flying into her face. "Are you screwing him? Is that how you got the intel?"

Araminta clawed at his bandage. He screamed but didn't let go. His thumbs dug into her windpipe. Black spots danced in her eyes.

"I'm going to kill Griffin," he whispered. "Slowly."

Panic, primal and overwhelming, surged through her.

Her hand flailed out, searching for a weapon. Her fingers brushed cold metal on the dresser.

It was the "Young Entrepreneur of the Year" trophy. A heavy, bronze eagle. A fraud award for a fraud man.

She gripped the wings.

With a guttural cry, she swung it.

CRACK.

The heavy bronze base connected with Javen's shoulder, not his head. The sound was a sickening crunch of bone. He screamed, a raw, animal sound, his grip on her throat vanishing as he staggered back, clutching his now useless arm.

Blood began to pool dark and fast on the carpet.

Araminta gasped, sucking in air. She dropped the trophy. It landed with a dull thud next to his body.

She stared at him. Was he dead? His chest rose shallowly. Not dead. But out cold from the shock and pain.

"Oh god," she whispered.

She stepped over his body. She grabbed the metal box.

She ran.

She didn't care about noise now. She sprinted down the stairs, past the startled night maid, and out the front door.

She ran until her lungs burned, until she was blocks away in a dark alley.

She pulled out her phone. She clutched the Black Card in her pocket. Using it would be like sending up a flare, instantly revealing her location to Alfonse. She was a fugitive now, and she couldn't be sure if he saw her as an asset to protect or a liability to cut loose. She was a fugitive now. Assault with a deadly weapon.

She needed a shield. A legal shield that even the Doyles couldn't penetrate.

Marriage. The trust fund. If she married, the trust unlocked. She could hire the best defense lawyers in the city.

But Alfonse had said no.

She scrolled through her contacts. Harper Lee. Her college roommate.

"Harper," she sobbed when the call connected. "I... I think I killed him. No, I broke his arm. I need to get married. Tomorrow."

"What?" Harper shrieked. "Where are you? I'm coming to get you."

Araminta sat on the floor of Harper's tiny apartment, holding a bag of frozen peas to her bruised neck.

Harper was swiping furiously on an iPad. "Okay, so we need a guy who is desperate for cash, has no criminal record, and is willing to sign a prenup without reading it."

"I have ten hours before Javen wakes up or the police put out a warrant," Araminta said, her voice raspy.

"Gym trainer... no, too dumb. Poet... too emotional," Harper muttered. She sighed, tossing the iPad on the couch. "This is impossible. We're not going to find a suitable puppet in a few hours. There has to be another way."

Araminta stared at the wall, her mind racing through every legal document, every conversation she'd ever overheard. A memory surfaced, a boring lecture from her family's lawyer years ago about the construction of her trust.

"Wait," she said, sitting up straight. Harper looked at her, surprised by the sudden energy in her voice.

"There's an old, obscure state law," Araminta said, thinking aloud. "A 'declaration of intent' for heirs of legacy families under duress. To protect the bloodline from hostile takeovers. You don't need a groom present, just a formal declaration before a judge and proof of the original trust's intent. It's almost never used, but my mother's lawyers were paranoid. They built it in."

Harper's eyes widened. "So you can essentially marry your own trust? That's insane... but brilliant. You go to City Hall, file the paperwork, and boom-you're a bride with no groom, but full access to your funds."

"It's my only shot," Araminta said, a flicker of hope igniting within her. "Help me get the documents ready."

Harper sent a message.

Ping.

"I have a cousin who clerks at City Hall," Harper gasped. "He says the specific judge who handles these archaic filings is in tomorrow at 9 AM. It's a long shot, but it's a shot."

Araminta didn't sleep. She spent the night scrubbing the blood from under her fingernails.

At 8:30 AM, she stood on the steps of City Hall. She wore a simple white dress Harper had lent her. She wore oversized sunglasses to hide her bruised eyes.

She clutched the documents.

She waited.

9:00 AM passed.

9:15 AM.

People walked by, happy couples holding hands. Araminta stood alone, the wind whipping her hair.

"Where is he?" she whispered, meaning the judge.

A black sedan pulled up to the curb. It wasn't a taxi. It was sleek, armored, and familiar.

The back window rolled down.

Elena Vance looked out. Her expression was pitying.

"Get in, Miss Donaldson."

Araminta's stomach dropped. "The judge...?"

"That legal loophole was closed an hour ago," Elena said, her voice flat and final. "Mr. Wolfe's lawyers are very efficient."

Araminta felt the trap snap shut. Alfonse had been watching. He had anticipated her every move.

"I'm not going with you," Araminta said, backing up.

Elena held up her phone. "Javen filed a police report twenty minutes ago. Assault with a deadly weapon. The squad cars are two minutes out."

Araminta froze.

"Mr. Wolfe is offering sanctuary," Elena said. "But the window is closing."

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Araminta opened the car door and slid in.

The car didn't go to the manor. It went to the Wolfe Corp tower in the financial district.

The elevator ride to the penthouse floor was silent. Araminta smoothed the skirt of her white dress. It felt like a shroud.

Elena opened the double doors to the CEO's office.

Alfonse was at the head of a long conference table. Twelve executives in suits sat around him. They stopped talking as Araminta entered.

She looked like a wreck-bruised neck, borrowed dress, terrified eyes.

Alfonse waved a hand. "Out. Everyone."

The executives scrambled to leave, gathering their papers. They cast curious glances at Araminta, but no one dared to speak.

When the door clicked shut, Alfonse stood up. He walked around the table, leaning against it.

"Dressed for a wedding with no groom?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You thought a dusty legal loophole could protect you from an attempted murder charge?"

"I need the trust fund," Araminta said, lifting her chin. "Marriage unlocks it. Since you refused, I found a substitute."

"You tried to use my name against me," Alfonse said. He walked closer. "I admire the audacity. But it was stupid."

"I have no other choice!" Araminta shouted. "Javen will hunt me down."

Alfonse reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded document. He tossed it onto the table.

"Marriage License," it read.

Araminta stared at it. "You refused."

"That was before you became a fugitive," Alfonse said. "I like high-risk investments."

He was lying. He wasn't doing this for risk. He was doing it because the thought of her tying her fate to anyone or anything else-even a legal fiction-had ignited a rage in him he couldn't control.

"Two years," Alfonse said. "A contract marriage. I give you protection from the police and the Doyles. You give me the Donaldson assets to manage."

"I want access to the Swiss vault. Today," Araminta bargained.

"Agreed."

"And Griffin. I want him moved to a private facility under your security."

Alfonse nodded. "Done."

Araminta picked up the pen. Her hand hovered over the paper. This was it. She was selling herself to the predator to escape the scavenger.

She signed. Araminta Donaldson.

Alfonse pressed a button on his intercom. "Send Judge Miller in."

A judge in robes walked in from the side office. He looked bored.

The ceremony took two minutes. No vows of love. No rings. Just a legal binding of assets and liabilities.

"I now pronounce you man and wife," the judge mumbled.

Alfonse didn't kiss her. He reached out and brushed a stray hair from her forehead, his fingers lingering on the bruise Javen had left.

His eyes darkened. "Go to the bank. Get your money. Then we deal with Javen."