Daphne stood under the hot spray of the shower. She scrubbed her skin with a loofah until it turned pink, trying to wash away the feeling of the gala, the alleyway, and the confusion of the morning.

The steam filled the shower stall, thick and white.

It triggered a memory.

Flashback. Eight years ago.

The library at St. Jude's Prep. It was raining then, too.

Young Daphne sat hidden behind a stack of encyclopedias, sobbing. She was sixteen. She had just been cut from the terrifyingly competitive summer intensive at the Royal Ballet.

Footsteps approached.

She curled into a tighter ball, expecting a teacher to scold her.

"You're getting snot on the Britannica," a voice drawled.

She looked up. It was Charlton. He was wearing his blazer carelessly, tie askew.

He didn't ask why she was crying. He didn't offer empty platitudes.

He just handed her a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief.

"Dry your eyes, Flynn. Red isn't your color."

He sat down next to her on the floor, opening a comic book, acting like sitting on the dusty library floor was the most natural thing for a Bernard heir to do.

A few minutes later, Campbell walked by the aisle. He saw Daphne crying.

He paused. He looked at his watch. Then he saw the headmaster talking to a donor near the entrance.

Campbell turned and walked toward the donor, flashing his winning smile, leaving Daphne in the dust.

End Flashback.

Daphne snapped back to the present. She turned off the tap.

She realized with a jolt that Campbell had always been transactional. Even back then. She had just been too blind to see it.

She dried off and put on Charlton's shirt. It was huge on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. She rolled up the sleeves.

She lifted her arm to smell the collar. It smelled like sandalwood and safety.

She hated that she liked it.

She walked out into the living area.

Charlton was standing by the kitchen island, talking on his phone. He was speaking rapid-fire French.

"Non, c'est inacceptable. Bloquez tout," he commanded.

He hung up as she entered.

"Lawyers," he explained briefly.

He didn't smile. He slid an iPad across the marble counter toward her.

"Campbell gave an exclusive to 'The Daily Look' this morning. It went live ten minutes ago."

Daphne felt her stomach drop. She walked over and looked at the screen.

The headline screamed in bold black letters:

BROCK HEIR CHOOSING DUTY OVER RECKLESS ROMANCE

She read the first paragraph.

Sources close to the couple say that Campbell Brock ended the engagement due to Flynn's increasing emotional volatility and erratic behavior. Rumors of infidelity on her part have plagued the couple for months...

"Infidelity?" Daphne gasped. "I never looked at another man!"

"Read the next line," Charlton said.

Flynn was seen leaving the gala with notorious playboy Charlton Bernard, confirming suspicions of a long-standing affair.

"He's spinning the narrative," Charlton said, his voice hard. "He's using last night against you. He's making you the villain so he looks like the noble victim who had to choose the 'good girl' Kandice."

"How did he know?" Daphne asked. "About us leaving together?"

"He didn't," Charlton said. "He guessed. And we just gave him the proof he needed."

Daphne sank onto a barstool. She felt weak.

"My career," she whispered. "ABT has a morality clause. They won't keep a scandal-ridden principal dancer who is cheating on America's Golden Boy."

"They won't," Charlton agreed brutally. "You're already trending as a 'Gold Digger' and a 'Cheat'."

Daphne felt the walls closing in again. The panic from the night before returned, sharper this time.

"I have nothing," she said. "No family. No fiancé. No job. I'm going to be cancelled."

Charlton walked around the island. He stood directly in front of her.

He placed both hands on the counter, one on either side of her, boxing her in.

"You have me," he said.

He held her gaze. His eyes were intense, demanding she believe him.

"But I'm the 'reckless playboy', remember?" Daphne laughed bitterly. "Being with me just confirms the rumor. It proves Campbell right."

"So I'm doomed," she concluded, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

"Not if we change the narrative," Charlton said, a glint appearing in his eye. A gambler's glint.

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a thick document bound in blue paper.

He dropped it on the counter next to the iPad.

"Have you ever heard of the Bernard Family Trust Marriage Clause?"

Daphne stared at the document. The words "Last Will and Testament" were embossed in gold on the cover.

"Marriage Clause?" she repeated.

Charlton walked to the coffee machine. He poured two cups, his movements precise and deliberate.

"My grandfather was old-fashioned," he said, bringing the mugs over. "He didn't trust me. He thought I was too wild."

He set a black coffee in front of her.

"I don't get access to the two billion dollar principal of my trust until I marry," he lied.

Well, it was a partial lie. He could access the money at thirty. But he wasn't going to tell her that.

"And stay married for at least one year," he added.

Daphne laughed nervously. It was a jagged sound.

"You? Married? You're allergic to commitment. You break out in hives if a girl leaves a toothbrush at your place."

"I'm allergic to boring," he corrected, taking a sip of his espresso. "And right now, I need that capital. There's a hostile takeover I want to execute."

He slid the contract closer to her.

"I need a wife. You need a shield."

Daphne looked at the paper, then at him.

"If you marry me," Charlton said, "you become a Bernard. The Rose family can't touch you. The tabloids will have to respect you."

"And Campbell?"

"Campbell will look like an idiot," Charlton said, a dark satisfaction coloring his tone. "He dumped you for a merger, and you upgraded to a bigger fortune the next day."

Daphne hesitated. She traced the rim of her coffee mug.

"It's transactional," she said quietly. "Just like Campbell."

Charlton flinched internally. The comparison stung like a whip. He kept his face impassive.

"It's a partnership," he said. "Honest. Transparent. Unlike Campbell, I'm putting my cards on the table."

He tapped the document.

"We help each other. One year. Then we divorce. You get a ten million dollar settlement."

Daphne choked on her coffee.

"Ten million?"

"Hazard pay," he smirked. "Being Mrs. Charlton Bernard is a full-time job. The press, the events, the family dinners."

He leaned in closer.

"Plus, we go on 'Love in the Limelight'."

Daphne blinked. "The reality show? The one Campbell and Kandice just signed onto?"

"Exactly," Charlton smiled. It was a predatory smile. "We crash their party."

"We go on the show as the newlyweds," he continued. "We show the world you're not the sad ex. You're the happy, adored wife of a billionaire."

Daphne imagined it. She imagined Campbell's face when she walked onto the set. The temptation was sweet. It tasted better than the coffee.

"But... last night," she whispered, looking down. "The sex."

Charlton shrugged, feigning indifference.

"Part of the act. Or not. Your call."

Daphne stood up. She began to pace the kitchen, the oversized shirt billowing around her.

She looked out the window at the city that had chewed her up and spit her out less than twelve hours ago.

"I need to think," she said. "This is crazy."

"Crazy works," Charlton said. "Sensible got you dumped on a stage."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a black card. It was heavy, made of titanium. The Centurion Card.

He held it out to her.

"Buy some clothes. Get some food. Think about it."

"I can't take this," she refused, stepping back.

"Consider it a retainer fee," he said, pressing it into her hand. His fingers brushed hers, sending a jolt of electricity up her arm.

"If you decide no, you can cut it up."

Daphne looked at the card. It felt heavy in her hand. The weight of a decision that could change everything.

"I'm going for a walk," she said.

"Take your time," Charlton said.

She headed for the elevator.

Charlton watched her go. As soon as the doors slid shut, his shoulders slumped. The confident mask fell away.

He ran a hand through his hair, anxiety tightening his chest. He was betting everything on this.

Daphne exited the building. She was wearing a pair of sunglasses she found in the foyer and a baseball cap Charlton had left on the counter.

The doorman, usually friendly, looked at his shoes as she passed.

She stepped onto 5th Avenue.

The air was humid and oppressive. The rain had stopped, leaving the city steaming like a sauna.

She kept her head down.

A group of teenagers walked by. They were glued to their phones.

One of them looked up. She stopped. She pointed a manicured finger at Daphne.

"That's her," the girl whispered loud enough for Daphne to hear. "The meltdown girl."

The group giggled.

Paranoia set in. Daphne pulled the cap lower. She felt like every set of eyes on the street was a laser burning into her skin.

She walked past a newsstand.

Her face was on the cover of a tabloid. It was a photo from years ago, distorted to make her look crazy.

Headline: ROSE REJECT: FROM HEIRESS TO HOT MESS.

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of the shirt.

She checked it. Another text from an unknown number.

Gold digger slut. Leave Campbell alone.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket, her heart racing.

She needed aspirin. Her head was splitting.

She ducked into a pharmacy on the corner. The fluorescent lights were harsh.

She grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of aspirin. She went to the self-checkout to avoid human interaction.

She scanned the items. She inserted her personal debit card.

Beep.

DECLINED.

Daphne stared at the screen. She tried again.

Beep.

DECLINED. CONTACT ISSUER.

"Insufficient funds," the machine droned in a robotic, humiliatingly loud voice.

Daphne froze.

The Rose family. They had frozen her accounts. They had cut her off completely.

"Come on, lady," a man behind her groaned. "Move it."

Humiliation washed over her, hot and prickling.

She remembered the heavy black card in her pocket.

She hesitated. Using it felt like accepting the deal. It felt like selling her soul.

"I... sorry," she mumbled.

She put the aspirin back on the shelf. She walked out of the store, her headache pounding a rhythm against her skull.

Outside, hunger pangs hit her. Sharp and cramping. She hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours.

She walked to Central Park and sat on a bench.

She watched a couple walking a dog. They looked happy. Normal.

She replayed Charlton's words. Sensible got you dumped.

She realized she had zero agency right now. She was a victim. She was a punchline. She was broke.

A rustle in the bushes made her jump.

A man with a massive camera lens jumped out from behind a hydrangea bush.

Click click click.

The shutter sound was like gunfire.

"Daphne! Did you sleep with Charlton for the money?" the paparazzi shouted, getting closer.

Daphne covered her face with her hands, curling inward.

"Leave me alone!"

"Just one comment! How much did he pay you?"

Suddenly, a shadow blocked the sun.

A large hand grabbed the camera lens and shoved it down.

"Back off," a deep voice growled.

Daphne looked up.

It was a mountain of a man in a black suit. He had an earpiece.

"Ms. Flynn?" the man said, his voice changing to something gentle. "Mr. Bernard sent me."

He gestured to a black SUV idling at the curb.

"He said you might need a ride."

Daphne looked at the paparazzi, who was now retreating, intimidated. Then she looked at the secure, tinted windows of the SUV.

She realized Charlton had been watching her. Protecting her. Even when she walked away.

She stood up. Her legs were shaky.

"Take me away from here," she said.