The waiting room of the law firm smelled of lemon polish and old money.

Jocelyn smoothed the fabric of her skirt for the tenth time. She sat on the edge of a plush leather chair, her spine rigid. The broker had been efficient. Mr. Vincent is looking for a candidate today. Be there at 9.

She checked her watch. 8:58 AM.

The heavy oak door swung open.

Jocelyn stood up instinctively.

A man walked in.

He wasn't what she expected. The tabloids usually showed Babe Vincent stumbling out of clubs, shirt unbuttoned, a blur of motion and vice.

This man was stillness personified.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit that fit him with architectural precision. His dark hair was neatly styled, not a strand out of place. He carried an air of authority that made the air in the room feel thinner.

Jocelyn's breath hitched. He was far more handsome in person. The blurry photos didn't do justice to the sharp line of his jaw or the intensity of his dark eyes.

The man paused when he saw her. His hand froze on the doorknob for a fraction of a second.

Gaston Collins stared at the woman standing by the chair.

It's her.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. The girl from the gala three years ago. The one in the blue dress who had hidden in the library to read while everyone else drank champagne. He had watched her from the balcony, captivated, but he had never approached. She was with Douglas.

Now, she was here. In a lawyer's office known for arranging sham marriages.

Jocelyn extended a hand, her fingers trembling slightly. "Mr. Vincent? I'm Jocelyn Wolfe."

Gaston looked at her hand. Then he looked at her face. She thought he was Babe.

He raised an eyebrow. He could correct her. He could tell her that he was Gaston Collins, the heir to the Collins banking empire, and that he was just here to fire his incompetent estate attorney.

But if he did that, she would apologize and leave.

"Please," Gaston said. His voice was deep, a smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. He took her hand. His grip was warm, firm, and dry. "Let's skip the formalities."

He decided in that split second. If being 'Babe' got him a conversation, he would be Babe.

They sat at the mahogany table. Jocelyn slid a blue folder across the surface.

"My proposal," she said. Her voice was steady, but he saw the pulse jumping in her neck. "One year. Strictly platonic. Separation of assets."

Gaston opened the folder. The header read Marriage Contract.

He fought the urge to smile. She wanted a business deal. He could work with that.

"I need access to my trust fund," Jocelyn explained, her tone blunt. "And you need... respectability? Or a cover?"

She glanced at him, her eyes searching his face. She was trying to be polite about the rumors. She thought he was gay. She thought he needed a woman to parade around to appease a conservative family.

"A cover," Gaston agreed, playing along. He leaned back in the chair, studying her. "My family is... demanding."

"I don't require love," Jocelyn added. Her voice wavered on the word love, a crack in her armor. "Just a signature."

Gaston looked at her. He saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the way she held herself like she was bracing for an impact. Someone had hurt her. Badly.

He uncapped a fountain pen from his pocket. It was a Montblanc, heavy and black.

"Done," he said.

Jocelyn blinked, stunned. "You haven't discussed the fee. Or the terms."

"I don't need your money, Ms. Wolfe." Gaston signed the paper with a flourish. He made the signature illegible, a sharp, jagged scrawl that could be anything.

He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. "We go to City Hall now."

Jocelyn stared at him. "Right now?"

"Unless you want to wait?" He challenged her, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "I assume time is of the essence."

Jocelyn grabbed her purse. "Let's go."

They exited the building into the biting New York wind. A black town car was idling at the curb.

The driver, a man named Henri who had been with the Collins family for thirty years, stepped out and opened the rear door. He looked at Gaston, then at Jocelyn, confusion flickering across his face.

Gaston shot him a look. A sharp, warning glance. Don't speak.

He gestured for Jocelyn to enter first.

Jocelyn slid onto the leather seat. The interior smelled of sandalwood and expensive conditioner. It didn't smell like stale cigarettes or cheap cologne, which is what she imagined Babe Vincent would smell like.

He's surprisingly gentlemanly for a degenerate playboy, she thought.

Gaston slid in beside her. The door clicked shut, sealing them in.

"City Hall, Henri," Gaston said.

The car merged smoothly into the chaotic morning traffic of Manhattan, carrying them toward a binding legal union built entirely on a lie.

The winter sun glared off the grey pavement outside the Marriage Bureau, making Jocelyn squint.

It was done.

She held the marriage certificate in her hand like a weapon. The paper was flimsy, but the power it held was immense. It was her key. Her shield. Her eyes scanned the document, but the words blurred. All she could focus on was the official seal and the single, beautiful word at the top: MARRIED. The details, the names... they were just static. The goal was achieved.

"It's done," she said, half to herself.

Gaston stood beside her on the concrete steps. He checked his phone, a frown creasing his forehead.

"I have to meet with my lawyers," he said. "I'll have a key sent to you."

Jocelyn looked up at him. "I'm not moving in yet. I have things to settle. I need to pack."

Gaston nodded. He didn't push. He seemed to understand that she needed space to dismantle her old life before she could step into this strange new one.

"As you wish," he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte black business card. It had no company name, no title. Just a phone number embossed in silver and a monogram in the center: GC.

Jocelyn frowned, taking the card. "GC? For... Babe?"

Gaston didn't blink. "It's a family name," he lied smoothly. "Gaston. 'Babe' is a nickname I'm trying to outgrow."

She accepted this. It made sense. If he was trying to clean up his image, dropping the ridiculous nickname was step one.

"Okay, Gaston."

He raised a hand, and a yellow cab pulled up instantly, as if summoned by his will alone. He opened the door for her.

"Call me," he said. It sounded like an order, but his eyes were soft.

Jocelyn nodded and slid into the cab. She watched him through the rear window as the taxi pulled away. He stood there, a dark statue against the bustle of the city, watching her until she turned the corner.

She turned back, her heart racing.

Step one: Done.

Step two: Scorched earth.

She pulled out her phone. She opened Instagram. Block. She opened WhatsApp. Block. She opened iMessage. Block.

She erased Kieran Douglas from her digital existence.

Then, she dialed.

Elouise answered on the second ring.

"Well?" Her mother's voice was smug. "Are you ready to accept Mr. Henderson's invitation? He's quite eager to meet you."

"I'm married," Jocelyn announced. Her voice was calm, steady, devoid of the trembling fear she used to feel when talking to her mother.

Silence. Absolute, stunned silence on the other end of the line.

Then, "What? To whom?"

"A businessman," Jocelyn said. "The certificate is filed. Release the trust."

"You ungrateful brat!" Elouise shrieked. The composure cracked. "Who is he? Did you pick up some waiter? I will have it annulled!"

"Someone with enough assets that I don't need yours," Jocelyn bluffed. She hoped Babe Vincent had money left. "I want the deed to the Wolfe Hamptons estate transferred by tomorrow."

"That house is Aspen's for the summer!" Elouise protested. "She's already planning her engagement party there!"

"It was my father's," Jocelyn cut her off. "It's in the trust. Transfer it, or my lawyers will audit the Schneider accounts."

The line went quiet again. The threat hung heavy in the air. The Schneiders lived lavishly, but everyone knew their liquidity was questionable. An audit would be catastrophic.

"Fine," Elouise spit the word out like poison. "Take the damn house. But don't expect a penny more from me."

"I don't want your money, Mother. I just want what's mine."

Jocelyn hung up.

A rush of adrenaline flooded her veins. It felt like oxygen. For the first time in years, she could breathe.

"Where to, lady?" the cab driver asked, eyeing her in the rearview mirror.

"Upper West Side," Jocelyn said. "The Penthouse on 72nd."

She had to go back. She had to pack.

When she arrived at Kieran's building, the doorman, a kind older man named Ralph, tipped his hat. He looked at her with sad eyes. He had probably seen the Page Six article too.

"Good morning, Ms. Wolfe," he said gently.

"Good morning, Ralph."

She took the elevator up, the numbers climbing steadily. 10... 20... 30...

She stepped into the penthouse. It was silent. Kieran wasn't back yet.

She walked to the guest room. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just worked.

She pulled her suitcases from the closet. She packed her clothes, her books, her expensive skincare. She stripped the bed sheets she had bought with her own money. It was petty, but she didn't care. She wasn't leaving him anything.

She walked to the kitchen. She placed her key on the marble counter, right next to a half-empty coffee mug Kieran had left days ago. Mold was starting to grow on the surface of the liquid.

She looked at her left hand. It was bare.

She realized she had forgotten to get a ring.

"Fake husband, fake marriage," she muttered to herself.

She dragged her suitcases to the elevator. The wheels rumbled loudly on the floor, a sound of finality.

The office of Elbert Collins occupied the entire top floor of the Collins Tower. It was a space designed to intimidate, filled with dark mahogany, leather, and the scent of aged scotch.

Gaston walked in, bypassing the three secretaries who jumped to their feet. He threw the marriage certificate onto his father's massive desk.

Elbert Collins, a man who looked like a lion in the twilight of its life-scarred, grey, but still dangerous-picked up the paper. He adjusted his spectacles.

"Jocelyn Wolfe?" Elbert read the name. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. "The girl from the Douglas mess? The one in the papers this morning?"

"She's the one," Gaston confirmed. He walked to the crystal decanter and poured himself a drink. He didn't offer one to his father.

"She thinks I'm Babe Vincent," Gaston added, taking a sip. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Elbert laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound, like sandpaper on wood. "You married her under a pseudonym? Is that legal?"

"I used my legal name," Gaston said. "Gaston Collins. She just... didn't read the fine print. She thinks 'Collins' is a common name. She doesn't realize which Collins."

"Douglas is going to lose his mind," Elbert mused, placing the certificate down. "Good. We need his market share. If he's distracted by a personal scandal, it makes the acquisition easier."

"Protect her," Gaston ordered. His voice dropped, losing its amusement. "No leaks about my identity until I say so. I want the legal team ready to bury anyone who bothers her."

Elbert nodded slowly. He looked at his son with a newfound respect. "Welcome to the family, Mrs. Collins."

Across the city, Jocelyn was dragging her life out of the penthouse.

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, entered the hallway just as Jocelyn was hauling the second suitcase toward the door.

"Ms. Wolfe?" Mrs. Higgins asked, her hands clutching a duster.

Jocelyn turned. "I'm leaving, Mrs. Higgins. For good."

The older woman's face softened. She looked relieved. "He doesn't deserve you, dear. I've been saying it to my husband for years."

"If he asks," Jocelyn said, pausing. "Tell him... actually, tell him nothing."

"My lips are sealed," Mrs. Higgins promised.

Jocelyn stepped into the elevator. The doors slid shut, cutting off the view of the apartment where she had wasted two years of her life.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Bank Alert: Credit Line Activated. Sponsored by Collins Capital Partners. Balance Available: $12,000,000.

Jocelyn stared at the number. She saw the word 'Collins' but dismissed it as the name of a generic financial firm her mother's lawyers used. The amount was what mattered. A wave of relief washed over her, so intense her knees almost buckled. She had resources now. She wasn't just a discarded girlfriend; she was a woman with capital.

She called a moving service to pick up the rest of her boxes and take them to storage.

Downstairs, she hailed a cab.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Jocelyn hesitated. The Hamptons house wouldn't be ready until tomorrow. The staff needed to open it up. She couldn't go there tonight.

"The Plaza Hotel," Jocelyn said. "Fifth Avenue."

She had money now. She could afford a suite.

As the yellow cab pulled away from the curb, merging into the traffic, a black SUV with tinted windows pulled up to the entrance of the building.

The door opened, and two large men in suits stepped out. Kieran's security detail. They were returning early to sweep the apartment before his arrival.

They missed her by thirty seconds.

Jocelyn watched the building recede through the rear window. She was homeless, technically. But for the first time, she felt free.