Vivian leaned against the doorframe of the Lincoln. A flawless, entirely fake smile was plastered across her face.

Behind her, Leo kicked the expensive tire of the car with his dirty sneaker. His eyes darted into the cabin, fixing on Serena with a mean, predatory glint.

"Hazel, darling," Vivian cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "The paparazzi outside City Hall are absolute animals. It's much too dangerous for a little girl. Why don't you let Leo take Serena to the playroom?"

Hazel's breath caught in her throat.

A violent, bloody memory crashed into her brain. In her past life, Leo had pushed Serena down a flight of marble stairs. The sickening crack of her daughter's arm breaking echoed in Hazel's ears.

Her lungs stopped working. Her hands, resting on her lap, curled into tight fists. Her knuckles turned bone-white.

While Vivian was talking, Leo suddenly lunged forward. He shoved half his body into the car, his hand reaching out aggressively to pinch Serena's cheek.

Serena shrieked, scrambling backward against the leather seat, her eyes wide with panic.

The memory was a jagged shard of ice in Hazel's gut, instantly extinguishing every rational thought except for a cold, murderous rage. Never again. Not in this lifetime.

Hazel moved on pure, violent instinct.

Her hand shot out like a whip. She caught Leo's wrist in mid-air. Her fingers clamped down on his bones with the force of a steel vice.

Leo let out a sharp yelp of pain. He yanked his arm, trying to pull away, but Hazel's grip was immovable.

Vivian's fake smile vanished instantly. "Let go of my son!" she shrieked, stepping forward.

Hazel's eyes were black with rage. She didn't let go. Instead, she slowly, deliberately twisted Leo's wrist outward, applying a sharp, agonizing pressure to the joint.

She leaned in close, her face inches from the boy's ear. "If you ever touch her again," Hazel whispered, her voice a terrifying, raspy hiss, "I will break your fingers."

Leo, who was used to terrorizing the entire household without consequence, froze. The raw, murderous intent in Hazel's eyes paralyzed him. He started to tremble uncontrollably.

Satisfied the message was received, Hazel released her grip. She shoved his chest hard, pushing him backward out of the car.

Leo stumbled, falling back into Vivian's legs. He immediately burst into loud, theatrical wails. "She's crazy! The crazy lady hurt me!"

Vivian dropped to her knees, clutching her son. She glared up at Hazel, her face contorted with hatred. "You piece of trash! How dare you assault a child!"

Hazel calmly reached into her designer bag. She pulled out an antibacterial wet wipe. She slowly, meticulously wiped the fingers that had touched Leo, her face a mask of absolute disgust.

"I am simply teaching the young master basic social boundaries," Hazel said, her voice crisp and cold. "Consider it a favor so he doesn't embarrass the family in public."

Vivian choked on her rage. She spun her head toward the Maybach parked ahead, hoping to scream loud enough for Karson to intervene.

The tinted windows of the Maybach remained rolled up. Karson didn't even turn his head. He was completely ignoring the chaos.

Realizing she had no backup, Vivian stood up, her chest heaving. "You will pay for this," she hissed. "Watch your back in this house."

Hazel tossed the used wet wipe perfectly into the small trash receptacle built into the car door. She smiled, a cold, empty expression.

"Thank you for the offer, Vivian, but my daughter doesn't need a babysitter."

The butler, sensing the escalating disaster, stepped between them. "Madam Vivian, please step back. We are on a strict schedule."

Vivian shot the butler a venomous look, grabbed the crying Leo by the arm, and dragged him up the front steps.

Hazel pressed the button on the armrest. The heavy, bulletproof door glided shut, sealing with a solid, reassuring click.

The moment the door locked, the tension drained from Hazel's shoulders. She exhaled a long, shaky breath and pulled Serena tightly into her chest.

Serena wrapped her arms around Hazel's neck. "Mommy, you were like a superhero," she whispered, her voice still a little shaky.

Hazel kissed the top of her daughter's head, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "I will always protect you," she promised silently.

The Lincoln lurched forward, following the Maybach out of the iron gates, merging onto the highway toward Manhattan.

The convoy of black vehicles slowed to a crawl as they approached the Manhattan City Clerk's office.

Outside the window, a sea of bodies surged against the barricades. Dozens of camera lenses flashed aggressively, reflecting off the tinted glass of the cars.

Arthur's voice crackled through the intercom. "Mr. King, there are at least fifty media outlets out here. It's a mob."

In the lead car, Karson pinched the bridge of his nose. He despised this. He hated the cheap, vulgar spectacle of his private life being consumed by the masses.

In the back of the Lincoln, Hazel took a deep breath. She smoothed the fabric of her skirt, ensuring not a single crease was out of place.

She reached her hand down under her skirt and pinched the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She pinched hard, twisting the flesh until a sharp, burning pain shot through her nervous system.

Tears immediately welled up in her eyes, pooling perfectly along her lower lashes.

The bodyguards stepped out first, using their massive frames to physically shove a narrow path through the screaming crowd toward the marble steps.

The Maybach door opened. Karson stepped out.

The noise was deafening. Flashes erupted like a strobe light, blinding and relentless.

Reporters shoved microphones attached to long poles over the bodyguards' shoulders. "Mr. King! Is it true she trapped you with a baby?" "How much did the surrogacy cost?"

A second later, the door to the Lincoln opened. The roar of the crowd hit Hazel like a physical wave. Serena screamed, burying her face in Hazel's chest.

Hazel didn't hesitate. She ripped off her beige trench coat and threw it over Serena, completely covering the child's head and face. She hunched over, wrapping her arms protectively around the bundle, and stepped out into the chaos.

A particularly aggressive paparazzi broke through the line. He shoved a camera inches from Hazel's face. "Hey gold digger! Enjoying the billionaire's money?"

Karson stopped on the steps. His eyes darkened. He raised a hand, ready to signal his security to throw the man onto the pavement.

But Hazel moved first.

She didn't flinch away from the lens. She slowly raised her head. A single, perfect tear slipped down her cheek, catching the light of the flashes.

She leaned toward the nearest cluster of microphones. Her voice trembled, thick with raw emotion. "I don't want his money. I don't want any of this. I just... I just wanted my daughter to have her father."

The screaming crowd went dead silent for a fraction of a second. The camera shutters went into overdrive.

Hazel turned her tear-streaked face toward Karson, who was standing a few feet away. "Falling in love with someone you can't have is a punishment," she choked out, her voice breaking perfectly. "But I would do it all again for her."

It was a masterclass in manipulation. In ten seconds, she had rewritten the narrative from a sleazy corporate scandal to a heartbreaking, modern-day Cinderella tragedy.

A female reporter in the front row lowered her microphone, her eyes softening with genuine pity.

Karson stood frozen on the steps. His dark eyes locked onto Hazel. He saw the tears. He heard the tremor in her voice.

And he knew it was entirely, one hundred percent fake.

He remembered the feral, violent look in her eyes back at the estate. This woman was a chameleon.

But his analytical brain immediately recognized the genius of the move. She was handing him the perfect PR victory on a silver platter.

Karson didn't expose her. Instead, he turned around. He walked back down the steps, moving against the flow of his security detail, straight toward Hazel.

The crowd parted for him, gasping as the icy Wall Street titan approached the crying mother.

Karson stopped right in front of her. His broad chest blocked the worst of the blinding flashes. He looked down at her teary face.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing near her ear. "Good acting," he whispered, his voice dripping with absolute ice.

Hazel smiled under the cover of her coat. She leaned forward, pressing her body against his chest, playing the part of the exhausted, relieved lover.

Karson's muscles instantly locked. His entire body went rigid at the contact, but with fifty cameras firing, he forced his arm to lift. He loosely wrapped his hand around her shoulder.

The image of the billionaire shielding his fragile, crying fiancé was immortalized in a thousand photographs.

The bodyguards pushed forward, rushing the couple up the remaining stairs.

They stepped inside the City Clerk's office. The heavy brass doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the flashes and the screams instantly.

The heavy thud of the brass doors sealing shut echoed through the empty marble lobby of the City Clerk's office.

The silence inside was absolute, broken only by the low hum of the central air conditioning.

The millisecond the latch clicked, Karson recoiled. He ripped his arm away from Hazel's shoulder as if her skin were made of burning acid.

He took a massive step backward, putting three feet of physical distance between them.

His face was a mask of pure revulsion. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a perfectly folded, pure white silk handkerchief.

He kept his head down, slowly and meticulously wiping the palm and fingers of the hand that had touched her shoulder. Every swipe of the fabric was precise, radiating an overwhelming, silent disgust. He rubbed the silk against his skin until he was satisfied the phantom taint was gone.

When he was finished, he didn't throw it away like a petulant child. Instead, he folded the contaminated silk with rigid, calculated movements and slid it into a separate, isolated pocket of his coat, his dark eyes fixed on her with absolute revulsion.

In her past life, watching him throw away something he used to touch her had felt like a knife twisting in her stomach.

Now, Hazel just watched him, her breathing perfectly calm. She adjusted the collar of her shirt and set Serena down on her feet, holding her small hand.

"Just a transaction, Mr. King," Hazel said. Her voice was flat, carrying no emotion whatsoever. "There's no need to overreact."

Karson's hand stopped mid-air. He turned his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied her face.

He had expected her to cling to the fake intimacy they had just performed outside. He expected her to try and leverage it.

"Remember your place," Karson warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Leave the theatrics outside. Do not attempt to bring that garbage into my private life."

Hazel met his glare with absolute indifference. "I have zero interest in your private life. As long as the monthly checks clear the trust account, I will be a ghost."

Their eyes locked in a silent, freezing battle of wills. The air between them crackled with hostility. Arthur, standing near the metal detectors, held his breath, terrified of the tension.

A nervous clerk in a cheap suit scurried over, breaking the standoff. "Mr. King, Miss Rose, right this way to the VIP room, please."

Karson scoffed. He adjusted his tie, turned his back on them, and strode down the hallway, not bothering to see if they were following.

Hazel walked at her own pace, her heels clicking softly against the floor. She watched his broad, tense back, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at how easily she had irritated him.

Inside the VIP room, the clerk pushed two marriage registration forms across a polished wooden table, along with a heavy silver pen.

Karson didn't sit down. He snatched the pen, leaned over the table, and slashed his signature across the paper with violent, aggressive strokes. It looked like he was signing a hostile takeover document.

He threw the pen down. It hit the wood with a sharp clack.

Hazel sat down gracefully. She picked up the pen, her grip relaxed. She signed the document with neat, precise letters.

Hazel Rose.

She did not add the name King.

The clerk stamped the documents with a heavy embosser. "Congratulations. You are legally married."

Karson didn't reach for his copy. Arthur stepped forward, quickly sliding the paper into his briefcase.

Hazel took her copy with both hands. She stared at the raised seal. A massive weight lifted off her chest. Serena was legally protected.

"Arthur, get the car to the back alley," Karson ordered, already walking toward the exit. "I am not dealing with those animals out front again."

Ten minutes later, they were standing in a dark, damp alley behind the building. A black SUV idled quietly, a bodyguard holding the rear door open.

Karson got in first. He slid all the way to the far side, pressing himself into the corner of the leather seat. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, radiating a clear message: Do not speak to me.

Hazel lifted a sleepy Serena and climbed into the cabin. She sat as far away from Karson as physically possible, pressing her shoulder against the opposite door.

The heavy door slammed shut. The SUV pulled out of the alley, carrying the newly minted, entirely hostile husband and wife back toward Long Island.