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.

Daphne sat in the back of the SUV. The leather was soft, the air conditioning was cool, and the windows were tinted dark enough to block out the world.

She was safe. But she was shaking.

She pulled out her phone and dialed the one person she knew would answer.

Dr. Fiona Fu. Her best friend. Her psychiatrist.

Fiona picked up on the first ring.

"Where are you?" Fiona's voice was sharp. "I'm coming with a bat. I don't care who I have to hit."

Daphne let out a laugh. It was a choked, wet sound.

"I'm safe, Fi. I'm... with Charlton."

Silence on the line. Heavy, pregnant silence.

"The Charlton Bernard?" Fiona asked slowly.

"I slept with him, Fi," Daphne blurted out. "And he proposed."

Fiona screamed. It was so loud Daphne had to pull the phone away from her ear.

"Proposed marriage? Or proposed a round two?"

"Marriage. A contract. To save my reputation."

Daphne quickly explained the deal. The trust fund. The one year. The reality show.

Fiona hummed. The sound of her switching into doctor mode.

"Let's diagnose Campbell first," Fiona said clinically.

"Campbell is a classic Narcissist. Textbook. He discarded you because you ran out of 'supply'. You were too stable, too boring for his ego."

"He expects you to crawl back," Fiona continued. "He expects you to be destroyed. Marrying Charlton? That destroys his narrative. It destroys his ego."

"So you think I should do it?" Daphne asked. "Is it crazy?"

"Charlton has been orbiting you for years, Daph," Fiona said, her voice softer now. "He's a playboy, yes. He sleeps around. But has he ever hurt you?"

"No," Daphne whispered. "Never."

"Campbell hurt you deliberately. He planned it. Charlton is offering a nuclear weapon."

Fiona paused.

"Use the weapon, Daphne."

"But is it fair to Charlton?" Daphne asked, looking at the partition between her and the driver. "I don't love him. Not like that."

"He's a big boy with a two billion dollar trust fund. He'll survive," Fiona deadpanned.

Daphne felt a weight lift off her chest. The sadness that had been drowning her began to recede, replaced by a cold, hard anger.

The car slowed down. They pulled up to a nondescript building in SoHo.

"Where are you?" Fiona asked.

"A boutique. Charlton sent me."

"Go get your armor, honey," Fiona said. "And delete Campbell's number."

Daphne hung up. She felt validated.

She looked at the boutique. There was no sign. The windows were frosted. It was closed to the public.

The door opened. A woman in all black stepped out.

"Ms. Flynn? Mr. Bernard called ahead."

Daphne stepped out of the car. The decision was forming in her gut, solidifying like concrete.

She checked her phone one last time.

A text from Campbell.

Stop making a fool of yourself. Come to the apartment. We can talk.

The audacity. He thought he could snap his fingers and she would come running. He thought he still owned her.

Daphne stared at the name on the screen.

She swiped left.

Delete Conversation.

She walked into the boutique, her chin held high.