The rain in New York doesn't wash things clean; it just makes the grime slicker.

Isa stood on the sidewalk outside the Faulkner estate, water soaking through her blouse. Her suitcase-the only thing she had left-sat in a puddle next to her.

Twenty minutes ago, her father, Boyce Faulkner, had slapped her. Her ear was still ringing.

"You ungrateful bitch! You tanked the merger with Holden's family!"

Kylee had sat on the sofa, filing her nails, hiding a smile behind her hand. "Don't worry, Daddy. I can take over Isa's board seat. I'm sure Holden needs a shoulder to cry on."

Isa had walked out before he could hit her again. She took nothing but her clothes and the one thing that mattered: a broken pearl bracelet wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Her mother's.

She shivered, hugging her arms around herself. She had no cards. Her accounts were frozen. Her friends weren't answering.

A sleek black car glided to the curb, cutting through the rain like a shark. A Maybach.

The rear window rolled down.

Gerhardt Phillips sat in the shadows. He looked dry, warm, and impossibly expensive. He was reading a file on a tablet. He didn't look up.

"Get in," he said.

"I'm wet," Isa said, her teeth chattering. "I'll ruin your leather."

"The leather is replaceable. My patience isn't."

The door clicked open automatically.

She hesitated. Getting into that car was admitting defeat. It was accepting that she had nowhere else to go.

But the cold was seeping into her bones. She threw her suitcase into the trunk and slid into the backseat.

The warmth of the car hit her instantly. It smelled of him-cedar and ice.

"Sterling," Gerhardt said to the driver. "Drive."

The partition slid up, sealing them off.

Gerhardt handed her a towel. A thick, white, fluffy thing that probably cost more than her car. "Dry your hair. You're dripping on the upholstery."

She rubbed the towel over her head aggressively. "If you're here to offer me money to go away, save it. I tore up your check, remember?"

"I remember." He finally looked at her. His eyes scanned her face, lingering on the red mark on her cheek where Boyce had struck her. His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "Who did that?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters if you're going to be my wife. I can't have damaged goods walking down the aisle."

Isa froze, the towel halfway down her hair. "Your grandmother was serious?"

"Helena is always serious when it involves the family trust." He tapped the tablet. "I need a wife to secure my position as CEO. The board thinks I'm... volatile. A wife stabilizes the image."

"And what do I get?" she asked, dropping the towel. "Besides the honor of being your nursemaid?"

"Protection," he said simply. "Access. Money. And revenge."

He turned the tablet toward her. It showed a live feed of the Faulkner stock price plummeting.

"You want to hurt them," Gerhardt said softly. "Boyce. Kylee. Holden. You want to burn their little kingdom to the ground."

He was right. God, he was right.

"I can give you the matches, Isa. And the gasoline."

She looked at him. Really looked at him. He was offering her a deal with the devil. But right now, the devil was the only one offering her a seat at the table.

"I have conditions," she said, her voice steadying.

"Name them."

"I want access to the Phillips logistical network." (She needed it for Aeon Group, but he didn't need to know that). "And I want complete autonomy over my schedule."

"Done," he said, bored.

"And," she leaned in, "I want fifty percent of the Faulkner Group shares once we acquire them."

Gerhardt raised an eyebrow. "Greedy."

"You said it yourself. Everyone has a price."

He extended his hand. For a moment, she stared at it. The hand that shouldn't be able to touch anyone.

She reached out and shook it. His skin was warm. His grip was firm.

"Deal," he said. "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Phillips."

"We're not going to the hotel," Isa said as the car bypassed the turn for the Pierre.

"No," Gerhardt replied, not looking up from his phone. "We're going to Teterboro. The jet is waiting."

"Jet? Where are we going?"

"Las Vegas."

Isa blinked. "You're joking. A drive-thru wedding?"

"New York has a twenty-four-hour waiting period. I don't have twenty-four hours. The board meets Monday morning."

Two hours later, they were at 40,000 feet. The interior of the Gulfstream was cream and gold. A team of three lawyers sat on one side of the table. Isa sat on the other, a fresh change of clothes-a white power suit provided by his assistant-draped over her frame.

A document the size of a phone book landed in front of her.

"The Prenuptial Agreement," the lead lawyer, a weasel-faced man named Sterling, announced. "Standard terms. In the event of divorce, you leave with what you came with. Which, currently, is a suitcase of wet clothes."

Isa opened the document. She pulled a red pen from the holder.

"Clause 4.2," she said, circling a paragraph. "Infidelity. If he cheats, the NDA is void, and I get twenty percent of his liquid assets."

Sterling scoffed. "Mr. Phillips does not cheat."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem to sign it," she countered, flipping the page. "Clause 12. Section B. 'Wifely Duties'." She looked up at Gerhardt. "Define duties."

Gerhardt signaled the lawyers to leave. They filed out into the cockpit cabin, looking offended.

"Sleep," Gerhardt said.

"Excuse me?"

"You are required to sleep in my bed. Every night."

Isa felt her face heat up. "I'm not a sex doll, Gerhardt. If you want sex, that's a separate negotiation."

He looked at her with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "Not sex, Isa. Sleep. Actual sleep. Unconsciousness."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I have... difficulty sleeping. Last night, with you, was the first time in ten years I slept more than two hours without medication. You are a biological anomaly. My anchor."

Isa stared at him. "You want me to be your teddy bear."

"Call it what you want. But if you aren't in the bed, the deal is off."

She tapped the pen against her chin. This was bizarre. But it was also leverage.

"Fine," she said. "But I have one more addition."

"Go on."

"The Phillips Auction House. I know you have a private vault of unlisted items. I want first right of refusal on any items originating from the Burke estate."

Gerhardt's eyes narrowed slightly. "Burke? Your mother's family?"

"Yes."

"Sentimental?"

"Something like that."

"Fine." He signed the last page and slid it to her.

They landed in Vegas at sunset. They went straight to a chapel off the strip. It wasn't the Elvis one, thank god, but it was sterile and smelled of lilies and desperation.

The officiant droned on. They said "I do" like they were agreeing to a business merger.

As soon as they signed the license, Gerhardt's phone buzzed.

"It's Helena," he said. He hit the video call button.

His face transformed instantly. The cold mask melted into a look of adoration that was terrifyingly convincing. He pulled her into his side.

"Grandmother," he beamed. "We did it. Isa couldn't wait."

Isa forced a smile, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Hi, Helena. I'm just so happy."

"Let me see the ring," Helena demanded from the screen.

Isa froze. They didn't have rings.

Gerhardt didn't miss a beat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He flipped it open.

Inside sat a pink diamond the size of a quail egg.

He slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

"Beautiful," Helena crooned. "Welcome to the family, dear. Try to survive."

The call ended. Gerhardt dropped his arm immediately.

"Nice acting," he muttered.

Isa looked down at the ring. It was heavy. It felt like a shackle.

"Whose was this?" she asked.

"My mother's," he said, walking toward the exit. "She died wearing it. Don't lose it."

The Phillips Estate in Long Island wasn't a house; it was a fortress disguised as a French chateau.

The helicopter touched down on the south lawn. The rotors kicked up a storm of grass clippings. Gerhardt helped her out, his grip firm on her elbow.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice low enough that the awaiting staff couldn't hear. "Inside that house are sharks. My father, Christopher. My stepmother, Alida. My half-brother, Ashton. They will try to eat you alive."

Isa smoothed her skirt. "I've been swimming with sharks since I was born, Gerhardt. I'm not afraid of teeth."

"Good. Because they smell blood."

They entered the dining hall. It was a cavernous room with a table long enough to land a plane on.

Christopher Phillips sat at the head. He didn't stand. He looked like an older, crueler version of Gerhardt.

"So," Christopher said, cutting into his steak. "This is the internet sensation."

"Isa," Gerhardt corrected, pulling out a chair for her.

Alida, a woman whose face was pulled so tight she looked permanently surprised, smiled thinly. "We were just watching your video, dear. Very... dramatic. Was the crying real, or was that for the followers?"

Isa unfolded her napkin. "It was market research, Alida. Engagement is up forty percent. Unlike the Phillips stock this quarter."

Ashton, the younger brother, choked on his wine. He looked at Isa with new interest. "She bites."

"Only when provoked," Isa said sweetly.

The first course was served. Silence hung heavy over the table, broken only by the clinking of silver.

"I hear your father cut you off," Christopher said. "A pity. The Faulkner trust was a substantial asset."

"Assets can be rebuilt," Isa said. "Reputations are harder to fix. Isn't that right, Christopher? I heard the SEC is looking into your offshore accounts again."

Christopher's knife screeched against the china. "Watch your tongue, girl."

"She's right," Gerhardt said calmly. He reached over and took Isa's plate. He began cutting her steak into perfect, bite-sized pieces.

The table went dead silent. Even the servants stopped moving.

"Gerhardt," Alida whispered. "What are you doing?"

"My wife had a long day," Gerhardt said, not looking up from his task. "She needs her energy."

He slid the plate back to her.

Isa looked at him. His face was impassive, but his ears were slightly red. He was using her to piss them off. And it was working beautifully.

After dinner, Helena summoned them to the library.

"As the newest Phillips, you must be made aware of our holdings," she announced. Jenson, the butler, placed a sleek, encrypted tablet on the table. "This is a direct link to the family vault inventory. For insurance and estate purposes. Your access is read-only, of course."

Isa took the tablet, her fingers cool and steady. Later that night, in the sterile silence of their guest suite, she went to work. His family had underestimated her. 'Read-only' was a suggestion, not a barrier. It took her less than ten minutes to bypass their firewalls and access the archived, off-ledger acquisitions. The ones they didn't want anyone to see.

She scrolled past smuggled artifacts and blood diamonds. Her heart was a cold, steady drum.

And then she saw it. Item 734.

An emerald necklace with a unique filigree setting.

Her mother's necklace. The one she was wearing the night she died. The one the police said was lost in the fire.

The acquisition date was one day after the fire. The seller was listed as 'Anonymous.'

Her blood ran cold. Her hand trembled, hovering over the screen. They didn't just have it; they had logged it. The sheer arrogance was breathtaking.

She slammed the laptop shut. She couldn't let them know she'd seen it. Not yet.

She found Gerhardt on the balcony, staring out into the darkness.

"I've been thinking about your grandmother's offer," she said, her voice carefully modulated to sound greedy and ambitious. She had to create a reason for her future actions.

He turned, one eyebrow raised.

"The family vault," she said. "Access to it. Full access. As the future mother of the Phillips heir, I believe it's my right."

Gerhardt looked at her with a flicker of disgust. "You want it all?"

"Every last carat," she said, meeting his gaze without flinching.

He didn't know she was lying. He didn't know she would trade every diamond in that vault for that one piece of green glass and the truth it held.