Anissa stood in front of the carved wooden doors of the VIP suite. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands were steady.

Two men in black suits stepped in front of the door, blocking her path.

"Mr. Harding Snow is in a closed-door meeting with Mr. Aurthur Snow," the guard said, his voice devoid of emotion. "No interruptions."

Anissa looked him dead in the eye. She recited a specific sub-clause number. It was a highly classified emergency loophole regarding the Snow family trust fund succession-a closely guarded secret she had overheard Connor drunkenly bragging about.

The guard's jaw tightened. He pressed two fingers to his earpiece and whispered into his hidden microphone.

Three seconds passed. A heavy mechanical click echoed from inside the wood. The door unlocked. The guards stepped aside.

Anissa walked into the dimly lit room. The air was thick with the sharp scent of black coffee and expensive cigar smoke.

Harding Snow sat in a single leather armchair. His long legs were crossed. He was casually flipping through a thick stack of merger documents.

Aurthur Snow sat opposite him. The old man's face was purple with rage. He already knew about his grandson's disgraceful exit.

Harding looked up. His deep, gray-blue eyes locked onto Anissa through his gold-rimmed glasses. His gaze was an abyss, giving absolutely nothing away.

Aurthur gripped his cane. "Are you here to cancel the ceremony, Anissa? I am deeply sorry for what Connor did."

Anissa straightened her spine. She looked at the two most powerful men on Wall Street and dropped the bomb.

"The wedding proceeds as planned," Anissa said clearly. "But the groom's name changes."

Aurthur gasped. His knuckles turned white around his cane. "Are you insane? Do you want to drag a random groomsman to the altar?"

Anissa shifted her gaze. She looked directly at the silent man in the armchair. "I am marrying Harding Snow."

The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Aurthur sucked in a sharp breath. Harding's fingers stopped turning the page.

Harding slowly closed the folder. He leaned forward. "Do you have any idea what you are saying right now?"

Anissa took a step closer. "The mutual benefit agreement we briefly discussed at the gala last year."

She looked at him with absolute, unwavering certainty. "You need a wife to pacify the board and handle the family's pressure regarding your succession. I need a fortress to survive the fallout of today. Your name is the only one strong enough to shield me, and I am the only woman in New York desperate enough to sign away my freedom without asking questions. It's a win-win."

A dark, imperceptible ripple crossed Harding's eyes. He stood up. His massive frame instantly swallowed the light in the room, radiating pure dominance.

He walked until he was inches from her face. He looked down, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "If you sign this contract, Anissa, there is no backing out. Ever."

She didn't flinch. She tilted her chin up. "I have nothing left to lose. I am not afraid of the dark."

Aurthur suddenly stood up, his cane trembling. "Do it, Harding! This saves the family face. And it completely cuts that ungrateful bastard Connor out of the trust fund succession!"

"If you agree, Harding," Aurthur breathed heavily, "I will have the lawyers alter the documents and the church screens immediately."

Harding stared into Anissa's unwavering eyes. The silence stretched for ten agonizing seconds. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod.

He turned to his executive assistant standing by the wall. "Initiate Plan B. You have five minutes to replace all physical and digital materials."

A sudden commotion erupted outside the door. Ashlee shoved past the guards, stumbling into the room.

She saw Anissa standing dangerously close to Harding. "What are you doing?" Ashlee shrieked. "Are you trying to seduce your elder? You are disgusting!"

Anissa didn't say a word. She closed the distance between them, raised her hand, and delivered a brutal backhand across Ashlee's face.

The sharp crack echoed off the walls. Ashlee crashed to the floor, clutching her stinging cheek, screaming in shock.

Harding didn't blink. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and handed it to Anissa.

"Don't dirty your hands," Harding said softly.

The corridor leading to the main hall was dark and narrow. Harding bent his arm, offering it to her.

Anissa slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. Her fingers brushed against the bespoke fabric of his suit. The sudden, intense heat of his body radiated through the material.

The warmth hit her like a physical blow. Her brain misfired. A violent wave of PTSD crashed over her.

The dim wall sconces blurred. The hallway twisted, morphing into the freezing, snow-covered streets of New York from her past life.

She remembered the agonizing cold. Ashlee had framed her. The Roy family had thrown her out without a dime. The temperature was twenty below zero.

She remembered dialing Connor's number with frostbitten fingers. She remembered hearing Seraphina's sweet, giggling voice on the other end before the line went dead.

She remembered Lorraine's voice on the voicemail. Die in the street, Anissa. Just don't bleed on my carpets.

The phantom ice clawed at her lungs. Her chest tightened. She couldn't breathe. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled forward.

Harding's arm shot out. His large hand clamped around her waist, gripping her tight. He pulled her flush against his solid chest, stopping her fall.

"Are you afraid?" his voice rumbled right against her ear, deep and incredibly grounding.

Anissa looked up. She stared at the sharp, perfect lines of his jaw. The memories shifted again.

She remembered floating above her own dead body.

She saw Harding. The ruthless tyrant of Wall Street, standing in a sterile morgue. He had taken off his own wool coat and draped it over her frozen corpse.

She saw his private armed security storming the Roy estate, taking her ashes by force.

She saw him standing alone in a private cemetery in Long Island, hosting a funeral for a woman he barely spoke to in life.

She remembered the suffocating weight of the dirt, the terrifying finality of death. She remembered the sheer, incomprehensible shock of waking up today, breathing, her heart beating in her chest. Why was she back? How was she back? The universe had given her a second chance, a miraculous reversal of fate that defied all logic. And in this new life, the only man she knew she could trust was the one who had shown her mercy when she was nothing but a memory. He had stood in that freezing cemetery, a solitary figure of absolute power, giving her the dignity in death that her own blood had denied her.

In the present, Anissa's fingers dug into his arm. Her knuckles turned stark white.

She took a ragged breath. She shoved the vulnerability deep into her stomach and shook her head. "I just realized it's too late."

"Too late to see them for who they are," she whispered, her voice hardening into steel. "But early enough to destroy them."

Harding looked down at her. His eyes dropped to the faint redness at the corners of her eyes. A violent, terrifying darkness flashed in his pupils.

His assistant's voice crackled over the radio. "Sir. The main hall screens are rebooted. The press is in position."

Harding lifted his hand. He gently adjusted the edge of her lace veil. The softness of his touch completely contradicted the lethal aura surrounding him.

"Once we push these doors open," Harding said in a low gravel, "you are the hostess of Manhattan. No one will ever make you lower your head again."

The organ music abruptly stopped. A second later, the grand, imposing chords of a royal wedding march shook the walls.

The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall were slowly pulled open by two ushers. Blinding white light from hundreds of camera flashes spilled into the dark corridor.

Anissa straightened her spine. She lifted her chin, her eyes turning into chips of ice. She looked like a queen stepping onto a battlefield.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Uncle," she whispered.

Harding heard the word. His jaw twitched. A dark, possessive smirk touched his lips.

"According to the legal documents being drafted right now," Harding corrected her, "you will call me husband."

The doors opened completely. A thousand eyes and camera lenses snapped directly onto them.

Inside the main hall, hundreds of Upper East Side elites whispered furiously. The buzzing sound of gossip almost drowned out the organ.

Lorraine sat in the front row. Her face was pale and tight. She leaned over to her husband, Harold, frantically whispering about how to handle the PR nightmare.

Ashlee sat next to them. She held a tissue to her face, pretending to cry, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward in a victorious smile.

The reporters from Vanity Fair and Page Six had their telephoto lenses aimed at the altar. They were hungry for the shot of the abandoned, weeping bride.

Suddenly, the twelve massive LED screens lining the church walls went pitch black. A collective gasp echoed through the pews.

Three seconds later, the screens flared back to life. The scrolling gold letters that read Connor & Anissa were gone. In their place, massive, bold text read: Harding & Anissa.

Near the altar, the million-dollar custom ice sculpture had been altered. Harding's crisis team had swiftly draped a velvet cloth over the original piece and wheeled out a pre-prepared, sleek silver plaque that perfectly covered the old base, displaying a sharp, immaculate H.

A guest in the third row read the screens and let out a piercing scream of disbelief.

Lorraine's head snapped up. She stared at the LED screen. All the blood drained from her face. She blinked rapidly, convinced she was having a stroke.

Harold's phone began to vibrate violently. Wall Street board members were spamming him, demanding to know if a hostile takeover of the Snow empire was happening.

The main doors groaned open. The blinding backlight framed two tall silhouettes standing shoulder to shoulder.

The flashes exploded like a violent thunderstorm. The shutter clicks sounded like machine-gun fire.

As the cameras focused, the entire church stopped breathing. A dead, horrifying silence crashed over the room.

The man walking Anissa down the aisle was not a groomsman. It was Harding Snow. The phantom emperor of Wall Street, a man who despised public appearances.

He wore a bespoke Tom Ford suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His presence was so suffocatingly powerful that the front-row guests instinctively shrank back in their seats.

Anissa wore a diamond tiara. Her chin was high. There was no grief in her eyes. She looked down at the crowd with absolute disdain.

Ashlee jumped to her feet. Her ankle rolled in her high heels, and she nearly collapsed into the aisle. Her mouth hung open in pure shock.

As Harding and Anissa walked down the red carpet, the guests began to stand up. It wasn't out of respect for the wedding. It was pure, instinctual fear of Harding's power.

Lorraine lunged forward, trying to run into the aisle to stop them. Harold grabbed her wrist and yanked her down, hissing at her not to provoke Harding.

They reached the altar. The priest was sweating profusely. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped his Bible.

He stammered, looking at Harding in terror, completely unsure of which script to read.

Harding shot the priest a freezing glare. "Skip to the core."

The priest swallowed hard. He raised his voice, though it cracked. "Do you, Harding Snow, take Anissa Roy to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

The crowd leaned in. Everyone assumed Harding was just standing in to save his nephew's face. A fake ceremony.

He leaned toward the microphone. "I do. This vow is legally and personally binding, effective immediately and without exception."

The vow dropped like a bomb. The media section lost their minds. The shutter noise became deafening.

The priest turned to Anissa. Before he could finish the sentence, Anissa looked straight into Harding's eyes. "I do."

Harding reached out. His assistant handed him a velvet box. Harding pulled out a ring. It was a massive, flawless blue and pink diamond heirloom.

He took Anissa's left hand. He slid the ring-the ultimate symbol of the Snow family matriarch-onto her ring finger.

Harding stepped closer. He lowered his head, and right through the thin tulle of her veil, he pressed his lips against hers in a deeply possessive, claiming kiss.