Holly sat at the dusty wooden workbench in her Lower East Side art studio. She carefully trimmed a piece of haute couture fabric with a pair of heavy tailoring scissors.

The cheap backup phone on her desk started vibrating violently. The screen flashed with her adoptive mother Barbra's name.

Holly's stomach tightened. She pressed answer. Barbra's shrill voice immediately blasted through the speaker.

Barbra screamed that the family allowance had not hit her account this month. She accused Holly of pissing off her rich husband.

Holly cut her off with a voice like ice. She stated clearly that she was divorced and there would be no more allowance.

Barbra cursed loudly into the phone. She threatened to come down to the studio and smash her sewing machines.

Holly did not back down. She warned Barbra that if she took one step into the Lower East Side, she would call the cops and file a restraining order.

Holly ended the call. She slammed the phone face down on the desk. Her chest heaved with anger.

A harsh screech of tires echoed from the street outside. A black Maybach parked aggressively in the narrow alley.

Holly walked to the blinds. She peeked through the cracks and saw men in black suits blocking the street.

The car door opened. Crawford stepped out with a dark expression. His expensive custom leather shoes stepped right into a puddle of dirty water.

Holly's heart skipped a beat. She spun around and ran toward the rusted iron door of the studio. She reached for the chain to pull down the rolling gate.

Crawford was faster. A large hand wearing a Patek Philippe watch slammed against the metal gate just as it started to drop.

Metal scraped against metal. Crawford shoved the gate up by force. His massive frame blocked the doorway.

He looked around the rundown room. Disgust flashed in his eyes. He mocked her, asking if this was her idea of independence.

Holly forced herself to stay calm. She took two steps back to create distance. She told him to get out of her private property.

Her tone angered Crawford. He reached back and locked the iron door. He stepped forward, forcing her to back up against the edge of the workbench.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was so tight it felt like he was going to crush her bones. He demanded to know what kind of tantrum she was throwing.

Holly sucked in a sharp breath of pain. She struggled hard, but the difference in physical strength made it impossible to break free.

Crawford used his weight to press her against the workbench. Sketches and fabric scraps spilled onto the floor.

He lowered his head. His hot breath hit the crook of her neck. He tried to use his usual physical dominance to claim ownership.

A wave of intense nausea hit Holly. Her free hand searched the desk and grabbed the heavy tailoring scissors.

Holly did not hesitate for a fraction of a heartbeat. Driven by pure survival instinct, she pressed the sharp metal tip directly against the expensive fabric of Crawford's suit, aiming right over his stomach. Her eyes, usually calm and detached, were now absolutely lethal.

The cold, undeniable danger of the sharp metal pierced through the thin wool fabric, pressing dangerously close to his skin. Crawford froze instantly, his muscles locking up in mid-air.

A jolt of genuine shock short-circuited his anger. In all their years together, she had never raised a finger against him, let alone a weapon. He stared in absolute disbelief at the woman trembling yet standing firm in front of him. Her hair was messy, her chest heaving, and she looked exactly like a defensive, cornered leopard ready to draw blood. This single act of violent rebellion completely shattered her usual submissive, obedient image, leaving him entirely disoriented.

Holly gritted her teeth. She warned him that if he touched her again, she would make him bleed right there.

They stood locked in the dim light. The air was thick with dangerous tension and fatal hostility.

Crawford let out a dark laugh. He slowly released her wrist. He raised his hands in a mocking surrender, but his eyes remained aggressive.

He took a step back. He adjusted his messy tie. He coldly declared that she would be crying and begging him to take her back soon enough.

Right at that moment, the private phone in Crawford's pocket rang loudly, breaking the suffocating standoff.

Crawford pulled out his phone. The screen showed the emergency contact number for the private nurse.

The hostility vanished from his face. He turned his back and answered the call. His voice dropped low, carrying a trace of panic.

Holly's hand holding the scissors shook slightly. She heard him ask about Delphine's vital signs.

His back radiated a kind of tension she had never seen before. A cold, ironic sadness washed over Holly.

He hung up the phone. He turned back to face Holly. The aggressive predator was gone, replaced by a cold corporate negotiator.

He straightened his suit jacket. His voice was stiff as he announced that the divorce hearing had to be postponed.

Holly frowned. She tossed the scissors back onto the desk. She demanded to know why he was breaking the agreement.

Crawford used his father as the excuse. He said Arthur Morris had a heart condition and could not handle the shock of a family scandal right now.

Holly let out a dry laugh. She tore right through his lie. She pointed out that he was just terrified the divorce would crash the Morris Group's stock price this quarter.

The truth hit a nerve. Crawford's eyes darkened. He warned her not to act too smart.

He ordered Holly to attend a major charity gala with him tonight. They needed to maintain the illusion of a loving couple.

Holly crossed her arms. She refused flat out. She told him she was no longer his free PR prop.

Crawford lost his patience. He ripped a blank check from his checkbook and slapped it on the table. He told her to fill in the number.

The act of throwing money at her made Holly's blood boil. But then she remembered the massive final payment due for her studio's fabric order.

Holly changed her mind. She picked up the tablet on her desk and typed rapidly.

She pulled up a basic electronic contract and handed it to Crawford. The title read PR Appearance Service Agreement.

Crawford glanced at the screen. The billing rate was set at ten thousand dollars an hour.

He let out a harsh laugh. He mocked her, saying she finally showed her greedy true colors, just like her trailer park mother.

Holly kept her face blank. She replied that this was the market rate. If he didn't want to pay, he could get out.

Crawford ground his teeth. For the sake of the bigger picture tonight, he snatched the tablet and signed his name aggressively with his finger.

He tossed the tablet back to her. He viciously told her to dress like a proper Mrs. Morris tonight.

Holly checked the screen. The notification for the deposit pinged. A professional, fake smile touched her lips.

She gestured toward the door, kicking him out like a plague.

Crawford got back into the Maybach. He stared through the tinted window at the rusted iron gate rolling down. He yanked his tie loose.

At eight o'clock, a bulletproof SUV parked outside the studio.

Holly walked out. She wore a black, backless evening gown she had designed herself. The cut was sharp and aggressive.

The car window rolled down. Crawford looked at her wild, striking appearance. A flash of shock and deep displeasure crossed his eyes.

He coldly criticized the dress for being too revealing and against the family's conservative standards.

Holly slid into the backseat. She pressed herself against the far door. She coldly reminded him that the contract did not include a dress code.

The car pulled away, heading toward the Hamptons. The air inside the cabin grew heavy with their deliberate distance.

The SUV rolled onto the gravel driveway of the Hamptons estate. The massive iron gates closed slowly behind them.

Holly stepped into the foyer covered in Persian rugs. The butler immediately eyed her backless dress with a critical stare.

Crawford noticed the butler's look. His possessiveness flared. He took off his suit jacket and forced it over Holly's shoulders.

Holly tried to shake it off. Crawford lowered his voice and warned her that she was on the clock now and needed to cooperate.

They walked into the lavish dining room. At the far end of the long oak table sat Eleanor, his mother. She was taking a slow sip of red wine.

Eleanor set the glass down. Her cold eyes swept over Holly. She did not offer her a seat.

Crawford pulled out a chair for Holly. He sat down right next to her, trying to keep up the fake harmony.

Dinner began. The sound of silver forks hitting porcelain plates echoed sharply in the quiet room.

Eleanor wiped her mouth. She cut straight to the point. She demanded to know why there was no heir after three years of marriage.

She stated harshly that the prenuptial agreement had a strict heir clause. Holly was in breach of contract.

Holly's fingers tightened around her knife and fork. The mental pressure from the family matriarch felt suffocating.

Crawford took a drink of water. He tried to change the subject, mentioning the recent Wall Street mergers keeping him busy.

Eleanor cut him off without mercy. She threw a stack of tabloid photos onto the long table.

The photos scattered. They all showed Crawford frequently visiting the private rehab center to see Delphine.

Eleanor yelled at Crawford for being stupid. She accused him of dragging the family name through the mud for a crippled widow.

Crawford's face turned pale with rage. He slammed his hand on the table. He growled at his mother to stop insulting Delphine.

He lost his mind and argued back. He claimed Delphine was perfectly healthy. He said her medical reports showed she was completely fit to have children.

Those words hit the table like a bomb. The room went dead silent.

Holly felt her heart get crushed by an invisible hand. He was actually studying another woman's fertility reports.

Eleanor stared at her son in shock. Her body shook with anger. She told him he was out of his mind.

Holly suddenly let out a soft laugh. The sound was full of desperate mockery. It broke the frozen air.

She looked at Eleanor, her chin raised in defiance. Her voice was dead calm as she delivered her counterattack. "I am not a breeding machine," she stated coldly. "Perhaps the lack of an heir is simply nature's way of rejecting a completely loveless marriage."

Crawford heard those words. His jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. A flash of complex, dark emotion-something heavily guarded and deeply buried-crossed his eyes, replacing his initial shock with a sudden, volatile burst of defensive fury.

He grabbed Holly's arm. His grip was brutal enough to snap her bone. He ordered her to shut her mouth.

Eleanor caught her son's unnatural reaction. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

Holly ignored the blinding pain in her arm. She stared right back at Crawford. Her eyes were full of defiance.

She stood up abruptly. She ripped her arm out of his grip and threw her napkin on the table.

She stated coldly that her stomach was cramping and she could not sit through this absurd trial anymore. She turned and walked out of the dining room.

Crawford tried to go after her. Eleanor's sharp voice stopped him dead. She ordered him to sit down and explain himself.

Holly walked alone down the cold, dark hallway of the estate. Her stomach twisted in violent knots from the emotional crash. She leaned against the wall, breaking out in a cold sweat.