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.

The black SUV hummed smoothly as it crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Inside the cabin, the silence was suffocating, thick enough to choke on.

Karson sat rigidly in his corner. He had placed noise-canceling headphones over his ears, piping in a dry, monotonous Wall Street financial brief. He kept his eyes shut, deliberately building a sensory wall to block out the woman sitting three feet away.

On the other side of the seat, Hazel was fighting a losing battle against her own body.

Serena had fallen fast asleep, her head resting heavily against Hazel's chest. The adrenaline that had kept Hazel going through the confrontation with Ermina, the paparazzi, and Karson was finally crashing.

A deep, physical exhaustion seeped into her bones.

The dead weight of the sleeping child pulled constantly at Hazel's arms. Her bicep muscles began to tremble involuntarily. The dull ache started in her wrists and slowly crept up to her shoulders, turning into a sharp, burning sensation.

She adjusted her grip, trying to relieve the pressure, but it only made the muscles spasm.

The SUV hit a sudden, harsh speed bump. The heavy vehicle bounced.

Serena shifted in her sleep, whining softly as she threatened to wake up.

Panic flared in Hazel. She didn't want Serena waking up in this tense, hostile environment. Instinctively, Hazel clamped her arms tighter around her daughter, absorbing the shock of the bump with her own body.

The sudden, violent contraction of her exhausted muscles was too much.

A sharp, breathless groan slipped past Hazel's tightly pressed lips. It was a tiny sound, barely a whisper of pain.

But in the dead silence of the car, it was enough.

The tiny sound was completely swallowed by the active noise cancellation of Karson's headphones. But as he reached up to adjust the volume dial, he caught a sharp, erratic flicker of movement in the polished reflection of the privacy divider.

His brow twitched. He snapped his eyes open, turning his head sharply, expecting to catch her putting on another pathetic act for his benefit. Instead of a performance, his eyes landed on her trembling frame.

Hazel wasn't looking at him. Her face was pale, her skin slick with a thin layer of cold sweat. She was biting her bottom lip so hard it was turning white, her arms shaking violently as she stubbornly held the heavy child.

The passing streetlights flickered through the tinted windows, casting harsh shadows across her face. She looked fragile, exhausted, and incredibly stubborn.

Karson stared at her trembling arms.

Suddenly, a violent spasm seized his chest.

It wasn't an emotion. It was a physical strike. His heart hammered against his ribs, skipping a beat before racing out of control.

Without warning, a jagged, terrifying image flashed across his retinas.

A crushed car. Shattered glass glittering in the rain. Hazel, her face covered in dark, wet blood, her eyes staring blankly into nothing.

The image vanished as fast as it appeared, leaving Karson gasping for air. A phantom pain ripped through his sternum, so sharp he instinctively raised his hand to press against his chest.

His breathing turned shallow and erratic. What the hell was that?

Hazel felt his gaze. She snapped her head toward him. Her eyes were wide, fierce, and highly defensive, like a mother leopard ready to attack if he dared to criticize her.

The raw hostility in her stare acted like a bucket of ice water. Karson's rational brain violently rebooted.

He dropped his hand from his chest. He ripped his gaze away from her, staring blankly out the window at the passing traffic.

It's just stress, he told himself frantically. Sleep deprivation. The board meetings. It's a hallucination.

He refused to acknowledge the bizarre urge he had just felt-the urge to reach across the seat and take the heavy child from her shaking arms. It was absurd.

To prove his indifference, Karson reached up and aggressively cranked the volume dial on his headphones to the maximum. He squeezed his eyes shut.

But the physical distance couldn't save him. The faint, clean scent of baby powder mixed with chamomile drifted across the leather seats, invading his lungs with every breath he took.

Hazel watched him practically vibrating with tension and rolled her eyes. She shifted her weight, gritting her teeth against the burning in her shoulders.

For the next thirty minutes, neither of them moved.

Finally, the massive wrought-iron gates of the Long Island estate appeared in the window. The SUV rolled up the long driveway and stopped at the base of the main steps.

The bodyguard pulled the door open.

Karson practically bolted from the vehicle. He stepped out into the cold night air, desperate to escape the suffocating, confusing atmosphere of that cabin.

Hazel slowly slid across the seat, her arms screaming in protest as she carried Serena out into the dark, bracing herself for whatever the King family had waiting for her inside.