Harper POV

The red silk gown was tight enough to cut off my circulation-exactly the way Bennet liked it.

He had chosen it, of course.

"Red is the color of passion," he had murmured as he zipped it up my spine, his knuckles grazing my skin.

"Red is the color of blood," I had thought, staring into the vanity mirror.

We swept into the ballroom of the Crosby-owned hotel for the Anniversary Gala, a space that was dripping with crystals and gold.

Five hundred of New York's elite had gathered to celebrate a marriage that didn't exist outside of photo ops.

Bennet's hand was a steel vise on my lower back, steering me through the crowd.

He paraded me around like a prize pony he was considering putting down.

"Smile, Angel," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "Everyone is watching."

I forced my lips upward.

It felt like chewing on broken glass.

That was when I noticed the waitresses.

They were all wearing elaborate Venetian masquerade masks, obscuring half their faces.

"Why the masks?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice light.

"A theme," Bennet said dismissively, tightening his grip. "So no one outshines you, my dear."

Liar.

It was so he could hide her in plain sight.

I scanned the room, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I saw her near the champagne tower.

The platinum blonde hair was unmistakable, even beneath the feathers and lace.

She was watching us.

Her eyes were burning holes into my dress, dissecting me.

She moved with a predatory grace, carrying a tray of crystal flutes.

As she passed a group of older Dons, she stumbled.

It was theatrical.

Fake.

The tray crashed to the floor. Glass shattered, and champagne soaked the polished shoes of a Capo.

The room went silent.

Bennet released me instantly.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "I need to handle this incompetence."

He marched over to the masked waitress.

He grabbed her upper arm-hard enough to bruise.

"My office," he growled, loud enough for the surrounding guests to hear. "Now."

He dragged her out of the ballroom, playing the part of the perfectionist host.

The guests whispered behind their hands.

I waited ten seconds, then followed.

I knew the layout of this hotel better than anyone. I had designed it, after all.

I slipped into the service corridor.

When I reached the executive meeting room, the door was slightly ajar.

I didn't need to see to know what was happening.

I heard the soft, desperate moans.

I peeked through the crack.

Bennet had her pressed against the mahogany conference table, her legs wrapped around him.

Her mask was off, discarded on the floor.

They were devouring each other.

"You bad girl," Bennet groaned, his voice thick with lust. "You embarrassed me on purpose."

"Punish me," Gianna begged, arching into him.

I turned away.

I didn't feel jealousy.

I felt a cold, heavy disgust.

I returned to the ballroom just as Bennet walked back in, adjusting his tie with practiced ease.

He looked flushed, energized.

He took the stage, commanding the room.

"My friends," he announced, raising a glass. "Tonight, I honor my wife. To celebrate five years, I am gifting her the deed to this very hotel."

Applause erupted, deafening and hollow.

He handed me a leather folder.

It was a prop.

Just like me.

As I stepped down from the stage, Gianna appeared from the shadows near the stairs.

She was still in her waitress uniform, but her mask was gone, her lipstick smeared.

She walked straight at me.

She didn't slow down.

As we crossed paths, she slammed her shoulder into my chest.

"Oops," she sneered, her voice a venomous whisper.

I stumbled back, the heel of my shoe catching on the hem of my gown.

Bennet was there instantly.

But he didn't catch me.

He reached out and steadied Gianna.

"Watch where you are going," he snapped at me.

The shove from his rejection hit harder than the physical blow.

Thrown off balance, I fell backward.

My head cracked against the sharp marble corner of a pillar.

Pain exploded behind my eyes.

Black spots danced in my vision.

The last thing I saw was Bennet holding Gianna's waist, looking down at me with cold annoyance, before the darkness took me.

Harper POV:

I woke to the sterile sting of antiseptic masked by the cloying scent of expensive lilies.

I was in a private suite at the Family hospital.

My head throbbed with a dull, heavy rhythm, like a drum beating behind my eyes.

Bennet was sitting in the chair next to the bed.

He was holding my prosthetic hand, kissing the plastic fingers with a reverence that made my stomach turn.

"You're awake," he said.

His voice was thick with a performance of concern.

"I was so worried. You were clumsy, Angel."

Clumsy.

He pushed me.

"Where is she?" I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Who?"

"The waitress."

Bennet's face hardened, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second.

"She is gone. I fired her. I told you I would handle it."

"Did you?" I asked, searching his gaze. "Did you ruin her?"

"Completely," he lied.

He stood up and poured me a glass of water.

"Drink. You have a concussion. The doctor says you need rest."

He played the role of the doting husband perfectly.

He fed me soup.

He read to me from a glossy magazine.

He charmed the nurses who came in to check my vitals, flashing them his signature disarming smile.

Then, his phone rang.

Two sharp chimes.

"I have to take this," he said, standing up abruptly. "Urgent Family business."

He walked into the hallway, closing the door but not fully latching it.

I fished the ring from the fold of my hospital gown.

I had managed to palm it and hide it before the nurses stripped me of my clothes.

I pressed the button.

"Is she dead?" Gianna asked, her voice tinny through the tiny speaker.

"No," Bennet whispered. "Just a concussion."

"Good. I want her to see me take her place."

"Gianna, you were reckless at the gala."

"The gala was suffocating. Listen, I have an idea. The doctor said she needs help at home, right?"

"She needs monitoring."

"Let me come to the Villa."

Bennet paused.

"As what?"

"A maid. A nurse. Whatever. Tell her it's for her therapy. Tell her I am there to serve her as penance for breaking her hand. She is pathetic enough to believe it."

I gripped the ring so hard the metal cut into my skin.

"Exposure therapy," Bennet mused, the cruelty evident in his tone.

"The psychologist did suggest facing her trauma."

"Exactly. Let me be close to you, Bennet. In your house. In your bed when she is asleep."

"Fine," Bennet said. "Pack a bag. But you wear the uniform. And you call her Ma'am."

"I will call her whatever you want, as long as I can spit in her food."

Bennet laughed, a dark, low sound.

"Good girl."

The line went dead.

Three days later, Bennet drove me home.

He swept me up bridal style and carried me into the foyer.

The staff was lined up, heads bowed in respect.

And there, at the end of the line, stood Gianna.

She was wearing a black maid's uniform with a crisp white apron.

Her blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun.

She looked demure.

She looked the picture of repentance.

Bennet set me down.

"Harper," he said, his voice gentle. "Dr. Evans suggested that having Gianna here, under your command, would help you heal. She is here to serve you. To beg for your forgiveness through labor."

He looked at me, expecting gratitude for his cruelty.

Gianna curtsied.

She looked up through her lashes, and her eyes were shining with unadulterated malice.

"At your service, Ma'am," she said.

I looked at Bennet.

I looked at the woman who wanted to destroy me.

I didn't scream.

I didn't cry.

I let my shoulders slump in feigned defeat.

"Okay, Bennet," I whispered. "Whatever you think is best."

He kissed my temple.

"That's my good girl."

He didn't see the fire in my eyes.

He didn't know that he had just let the wolf into the hen house.

But he had calculated without one variable.

I wasn't a hen cowering in the coop anymore.

I was a lioness, silently waiting for the cage door to swing open.

Harper POV

The villa sat in a heavy silence, the kind that precedes a scream.

Gianna haunted the hallways in her maid's uniform, a spectre of resentment. She dusted surfaces that already gleamed, her gaze snapping to Bennet like a magnet every time he entered a room.

For his part, Bennet played the benevolent king to perfection.

A hand on my shoulder as he passed. A solicitous inquiry about my comfort. He acted as if bringing his mistress into our home to scrub floors was an act of medical mercy for my fragile mind.

"Drink this, Angel," Bennet said that evening, setting a mug of warm milk on the nightstand. "It will help you sleep. You look pale."

The steam curling from the ceramic carried the scent of nutmeg masking something chemical.

A sedative.

He wanted me unconscious.

"Thank you, Bennet," I whispered, keeping my lashes lowered.

He kissed my forehead, his lips lingering a second too long, before he disappeared into the bathroom.

The moment the shower spray hit the tiles, I moved.

I poured the milk into the potted fern by the window, the soil drinking the white poison instantly.

I wiped the rim of the mug with my thumb, leaving a smudge to mimic use, and placed it back on the coaster.

By the time Bennet emerged, a towel slung low around his hips, I was curled under the duvet, breathing in the slow, rhythmic cadence of deep sleep.

He stood over me.

I felt his gaze like a physical weight pressing down on my skin.

"Sleep well," he murmured.

Then he turned and walked to the balcony doors.

The latch clicked softly.

A rush of cool night air invaded the room, followed immediately by the cloying scent of her perfume.

She was waiting out there.

I opened my eyes to mere slits.

Through the sheer curtains, their silhouettes cut sharp shapes against the moonlight.

Gianna was pressed back against the stone railing. Bennet crowded her space, his hands gripping the stone on either side of her, boxing her in.

"Is she out?" Gianna's voice drifted in, hushed but sharp with impatience.

"Like a light," Bennet replied.

He didn't hesitate. He didn't look back at the wife lying in his bed.

He kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle thing. It was hungry, violent-a release of the tension he kept tightly coiled around me.

I watched his hands roam over her body, claiming her in the open air of my home.

I waited for the sting of tears, but they didn't come.

Instead, I felt the cold, hard click of a lock turning in my chest.

The next day, Bennet left for the city before dawn.

The house felt suffocating in his wake.

I locked myself in my office, sketching with my left hand, refining the lines of a building that would soar away from the earth, defying gravity.

I avoided the kitchen. I avoided the living room.

But the confrontation was inevitable.

Dinner time approached.

My door handle turned.

Gianna walked in without knocking, balancing a silver tray on one hand.

"Dinner, Ma'am," she said, the honorific dripping with acid.

She set the tray on my drafting table, dropping it directly onto a sketch.

Grease from the plate bloomed across the paper.

"Oops," she said, her smile toxic.

"Get out," I said, my voice steady.

Gianna laughed. She circled the desk, trailing her fingers possessively over my supplies.

"You think you're so special," she hissed. "Sitting in here, drawing pictures like a child while the adults run the world."

She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear.

"I know you saw us last night. I checked through the curtains. Your eyes were open."

My pulse spiked, but I kept my face a mask of indifference.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar," she spat. "You watched him fuck me. And you did nothing. Because you are weak. You are a cripple, Harper. Bennet needs a queen, not a broken bird."

She grabbed the tray again.

"He's going to replace you. Fully. Legally. And I'm going to be the one wearing that ring."

She lifted the heavy silver tray high above her head.

Then she hurled it to the floor.

The crash was deafening. Porcelain shattered, sending shards flying like shrapnel. Gravy splattered across the Persian rug.

Gianna immediately dropped to her knees, burying her face in her hands, and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

"Help! Please! Don't hit me!"

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

Bennet burst into the room, his gun drawn, eyes scanning for a threat.

He saw Gianna cowering on the floor amidst the wreckage. He saw me standing behind the desk, motionless.

"What happened?" Bennet roared.

Gianna looked up, tears streaming down her face with impressive speed.

"She... she threw it at me, Bennet! She said I was trying to poison her! She tried to hit me with the tray!"

Bennet holstered his gun.

He looked at the mess. He looked at Gianna.

Then he looked at me.

I braced myself for the blow. I braced myself for his rage.

But Bennet's eyes were cold, calculating.

He walked over to Gianna, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her to her feet.

"Get out," he growled.

Gianna stopped crying instantly, confusion fracturing her performance. "What?"

"I said get out," Bennet shouted, shoving her toward the door. "You upset my wife. You caused a scene. Pack your things. You are leaving this house tonight."

Gianna's jaw dropped. "But Bennet-"

"Now!"

He slammed the door in her face.

He turned to me, his chest heaving.

"I am sorry, Angel," he said, stalking toward me. "I thought she could handle it. I thought she learned her place. I will remove her. You won't see her again."

He pulled me into a hug.

I stood stiff in his arms.

Why?

Why defend me?

Later that night, I found the answer.

I was in the walk-in closet, pretending to organize my shoes. I had the ring pressed to the wall, listening.

Bennet was in the hallway, on the phone.

"Stop crying, Gianna," his voice filtered through, distorted but clear.

"You kicked me out!" she wailed. "You chose her!"

"I chose peace," Bennet snapped. "She was getting suspicious. If she snaps, she becomes a liability. I need her docile until the divorce papers are signed and the assets are transferred."

My blood ran cold.

"So I am really leaving?" Gianna asked, her voice small.

"You are going to the townhouse," Bennet said, his tone dropping to a manipulative purr. "Think of it as freedom. No more sneaking around. Just you and me, whenever I can get away. We are the real couple, Gianna. She is just the signature I need."

I lowered the ring.

He hadn't saved me.

He was just managing his assets.