Aryanna swiped the screen to answer.

Before she could even breathe a greeting, Damian Garza's voice exploded through the speaker.

"Get your ass back to the Long Island estate. Right now."

The raw, unhinged fury in his tone made Aryanna's stomach twist into a tight knot. He didn't wait for a response. The line went dead.

She didn't bother cleaning up the shredded check on the rug. She grabbed her Porsche keys from the console and walked out.

At 2:00 AM, Aryanna's Porsche tore up the gravel driveway of the Garza family's North Shore estate. The massive iron gates clanged shut behind her, sounding like a prison door locking into place.

The head butler met her at the entrance. He wouldn't look her in the eye. As he led her down the long, dimly lit hallway toward the study, every maid they passed quickly lowered their heads, staring at the floorboards. The butler's averted gaze, the maids' sudden deference tinged with pity-a cold knot of dread formed in Aryanna's stomach. This wasn't just about a late-night summons. Something was fundamentally broken.

Aryanna pushed open the heavy oak doors of the study.

Damian and her adoptive mother were sitting rigidly on the leather sofa. Their faces were pale and twisted with rage.

On the mahogany coffee table between them sat a torn medical envelope. The logo for the Mount Sinai DNA Testing Center was stamped in bold blue ink on the front.

Damian stood up. He grabbed the thick stack of papers and hurled them directly at Aryanna's feet.

"You are a fake," Damian spat, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "A pathetic, worthless fraud who stole someone else's life."

Aryanna's breath hitched. Her trembling fingers reached down and picked up the scattered pages.

Her eyes scanned the bold text at the bottom of the first page. 99.9% exclusion of biological relationship.

The air was sucked out of her lungs. The room started to spin.

Her mother looked at her with pure disgust. "A nurse at the hospital swapped you. She wanted revenge against the rich. She took our real daughter and left us with a nobody. An orphan with dirty blood."

"Mom..." Aryanna whispered. She took a step forward, reaching out her hand to seek the warmth she had known for twenty-four years.

Her mother slapped her hand away so hard it stung. "Don't touch me."

Damian stepped into Aryanna's personal space, his shadow towering over her.

"We found her," Damian said coldly. "We found our real daughter. We are bringing her back to New York society where she belongs."

Aryanna's throat burned. "And what about me? What about the last two decades?"

"You?" Damian sneered. "You are going to keep your mouth shut. The Montgomery family cannot know about this scandal. Your only value to this family now is keeping Branden in your bed until the yacht merger is signed."

The reality crashed down on her, crushing her chest. She had just lost her bloodline. She had lost the only leverage she had in her marriage.

She forced her spine to straighten. She looked Damian dead in the eyes.

"And what if Branden is already cheating on me?" she asked, her voice a hollow rasp.

Damian's hand flew through the air.

The slap sounded like a gunshot in the quiet study.

Aryanna's head snapped to the side. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded her mouth.

"Even if he brings his whore into your bedroom, you will smile and play the perfect Mrs. Montgomery!" Damian roared. "Do not ruin this deal!"

The burning pain in her cheek cleared the fog in her brain. She looked at the two people she had called parents. They were monsters. They only cared about the money.

She didn't say another word. She turned on her heel and walked out the door, shutting Damian's screaming behind her.

The autumn wind bit through her thin clothes as she walked out of the main house. She was shivering uncontrollably.

She climbed into the driver's seat of her Porsche. Before she could start the engine, her phone lit up again.

Eleonora Montgomery. Her mother-in-law.

Aryanna closed her eyes. She took a deep, jagged breath, swallowing the blood in her mouth. She pressed answer.

"Hello, Eleonora," Aryanna said, forcing her voice into its usual sweet, polished tone.

"Sending condoms to my son's office via courier?" Eleonora's crisp London accent dripped with absolute disdain. "How incredibly vulgar."

Aryanna gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white.

"The Montgomery family does not need a daughter-in-law who acts like a jealous streetwalker," Eleonora warned coldly. "If you cannot handle your husband's little distractions with grace, we will find someone who can."

The double blow of losing her family and being threatened by her mother-in-law made Aryanna's vision go dark at the edges. She bit down on her lower lip so hard it bled again.

Normally, she would apologize. She would beg for forgiveness to keep the peace.

Not tonight.

"I will handle my marriage exactly how I see fit," Aryanna said. Her voice was dead flat.

She hung up the phone.

She dropped her head against the steering wheel. A low, guttural sob ripped from her throat, sounding like a dying animal. She cried until her ribs ached.

When she finally lifted her head, the tears were gone. Her eyes were completely empty.

She turned the key, slammed her foot on the gas pedal, and tore out into the dark night, heading straight back to Manhattan.

The tires of the Porsche squealed against the polished concrete as Aryanna whipped into her reserved spot in the underground garage of the Central Park penthouse. The first hints of dawn were breaking over the East River when she finally returned.

She killed the engine.

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. Three rapid text messages from JPMorgan Chase.

She picked it up. The bright screen burned her tired eyes.

Notice: Your family trust account has been frozen.

Notice: Black Card ending in 4091 declined.

Notice: Black Card ending in 8823 declined.

A second later, an email notification popped up from the Garza Family Legal Department. Her 2% shares in the family corporation had been forcibly revoked.

Aryanna stared at the "Insufficient Funds" warning on her banking app. A dark, mocking smile curled her lips. Damian moved fast. He was making sure she had absolutely nothing left to run with.

She pushed the car door open and walked to the private elevator. She pressed the button for the penthouse. The mirrored walls of the elevator reflected her face. Her left cheek was swollen and bright red from Damian's hand.

The doors slid open.

The penthouse was pitch black. The moment she stepped into the foyer, a smell hit her. It was the sharp, clinical scent of hospital disinfectant mixed with the heavy, floral notes of Chanel No. 5.

She slammed her hand against the wall switch.

The massive crystal chandelier flared to life, flooding the living room with blinding light.

Branden was sitting on the center of the leather sofa. His tie was pulled loose, his top button undone. Deep exhaustion lined his face, but his blue eyes were wide awake.

He squinted against the sudden light. His gaze swept over Aryanna's messy hair and pale face.

He stood up. His massive frame instantly dominated the room.

"Where the hell have you been all night?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

The smell of Kaylen's perfume on his clothes made Aryanna's stomach heave. She felt physically sick.

She ignored him. She walked straight past him to the marble wet bar, grabbed a glass, and filled it with ice water to wash down the nausea.

Branden's jaw tightened. He hated being ignored. He closed the distance between them in three long strides and grabbed her wrist. His grip was entirely too tight.

"The condom stunt was over the line," Branden warned, his voice dropping an octave. "I will not let you turn this marriage into a joke for your socialite friends."

Aryanna violently yanked her arm out of his grip.

The ice water sloshed out of the glass, splashing directly onto his custom suit jacket, leaving a dark, spreading stain.

She tilted her head up, meeting his furious blue eyes with pure, unfiltered disgust.

"You want to talk about a joke?" Aryanna sneered. She pointed a shaking finger at his collar. "You have another woman's lipstick on your neck. If you're going to cheat, at least learn how to wipe your mouth."

Branden froze. His hand instinctively went to his collar.

His face darkened. The lipstick was from a medical emergency with Kaylen at the hospital, a situation so complex and classified he was forbidden to speak of it. But he couldn't say that. The NDA locked the words in his throat.

His silence felt like a physical knife twisting in Aryanna's chest. He wasn't denying it. He was protecting the other woman.

Aryanna took a slow step backward, putting physical space between them.

She looked at the man she had desperately loved for two years. The man she thought she could warm up. He looked like a total stranger. She was just so tired.

Branden's eyes suddenly dropped to her face. He finally noticed the angry red welt on her left cheek.

His eyebrows pulled together. Without thinking, he reached his hand out, his fingers brushing the air near her bruised skin.

Aryanna flinched violently. She jerked her head away as if his touch carried a deadly disease.

Branden's hand stopped in mid-air. A sharp, unfamiliar pain pricked his chest, but he quickly buried it under a layer of annoyance.

He dropped his hand. He adjusted his silver cufflink in a sharp, jerky motion.

"Go wash your face and go to sleep," Branden ordered coldly. "You need to look presentable for the charity gala tomorrow night."

Aryanna stared at his arrogant posture. A laugh bubbled up from her throat. It started small, then grew into a loud, hollow sound that echoed terribly in the empty apartment.

She stopped laughing abruptly. Her eyes were dead.

"I am not playing pretend with you anymore, Branden."

Branden sighed heavily. He assumed this was another one of her dramatic tantrums, perhaps over some perceived slight from the night before.

"I'm not dealing with this tonight," he muttered, ripping his tie completely off. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom.

Aryanna stood in the dim light of the living room, watching his broad shoulders disappear down the hall.

Her nails dug into her palms one last time. She knew exactly what she had to do.

The morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, casting harsh lines of light across the expensive bedding.

Branden woke up with a dull ache behind his eyes. He rolled over.

Aryanna was already awake. She wasn't in her silk pajamas. She was wearing a sharp, tailored black business suit. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun.

Branden frowned, propping himself up on his elbows.

Aryanna walked to his side of the bed. She slammed a thick manila folder down onto the mahogany nightstand. The heavy thud echoed in the quiet room.

Branden barely glanced at it. He assumed it was another stack of ridiculous jewelry invoices she wanted him to pay since her cards were declined. He reached past the folder to grab his morning coffee from the tray.

"Make a choice," Aryanna said. Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. "It's me or Kaylen."

Branden's hand paused over the coffee cup. His blue eyes snapped up to her face, turning instantly hostile. He hated ultimatums. He felt she was pushing his boundaries just to get attention.

"Kaylen needs me right now," Branden said, his voice a smooth, icy blade. "The position of Mrs. Montgomery is already yours. Don't get greedy, Aryanna."

The words hit her stomach like a lead weight. Don't get greedy. He wanted the wife for the image, and the lover for his heart.

Aryanna took a deep breath. She reached out and pushed the folder directly into his line of sight.

Printed in bold, black ink across the cover were three words: Divorce Settlement Agreement.

Branden's eyes locked onto the letters. His pupils contracted violently. A muscle in his jaw feathered.

He quickly masked the reaction with a cruel smirk. He tossed the folder back onto the nightstand like it was trash.

"You're really pulling out all the stops for attention, aren't you?" he mocked.

He was absolutely certain she was bluffing. Aryanna was a spoiled socialite. Without her family trust and his black cards, she wouldn't survive a week in Manhattan. She didn't have the spine to actually leave.

Aryanna didn't scream. She didn't cry.

She calmly unzipped her black leather bag. She pulled out a heavy Montblanc fountain pen, popped the cap off, and held it out to him.

"Sign it, Branden," she said. Her voice was so quiet, so terrifyingly calm. "I'm letting you go."

Branden stared at the silver nib of the pen. A sudden, unfamiliar wave of cold dread washed over him, an unwelcome sensation he immediately crushed with raw annoyance.

He smacked her hand away. The pen clattered onto the hardwood floor.

"I don't have time for your psychotic episodes," he snapped. He threw the blankets off, stood up, and marched straight into the master bathroom.

The heavy door slammed shut. The shower turned on, the rushing water physically blocking her out.

Aryanna stood frozen for a second. A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched her lips.

She bent down, picked up the pen, and put the divorce papers back into her bag. She turned around and walked out of the bedroom without looking back.

In the living room, she pulled out her phone. She dialed the number for the most ruthless divorce law firm in New York.

"I need an afternoon consultation," she told the receptionist, her tone strictly business. "I am initiating litigation for a contested divorce."

She hung up. She looked around the massive, cold penthouse one last time. Her eyes hardened.

Half an hour later, Branden walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a sharp navy suit. He adjusted his tie as he walked toward the dining room, expecting to see Aryanna sitting there, ready to apologize over warm coffee.

The dining room was empty.

He frowned. He walked to the foyer. Her favorite coats were gone. Her car keys were missing from the silver tray.

The front door opened. Reid stepped inside to deliver the morning briefing.

"Where is my wife?" Branden interrupted him, his voice tight with irritation.

Reid quickly checked the GPS tracker on his tablet. He swallowed hard. "Sir... the tracker shows Mrs. Montgomery's Porsche is currently pulling into the Montgomery Group headquarters."

Branden's tight jaw instantly relaxed. A smug, arrogant breath escaped his nose.

Of course. She was going to his office. She realized she had pushed too far with the fake divorce papers and was coming to surrender on his turf.

"Perfect," Branden said, shooting his cuffs. He stepped into the private elevator. He was ready to accept her tearful apology.