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The pregnancy test was still warm in my pocket when I walked into Damien's office to surprise him for our anniversary. Two pink lines. After three years of marriage and two years of trying, I was finally pregnant. My hands hadn't stopped shaking since I'd seen the result in the bathroom of the restaurant downstairs, where our anniversary dinner reservation was waiting. I didn't knock. I never knocked. I was his wife. The door swung open, and the first thing I saw was her red-soled heels on his desk. Then her legs. Then the rest of her, perched on the edge of the mahogany surface I'd helped him pick out, her skirt hiked up to her hips. Damien stood between her thighs, his mouth on her neck, his wedding ring catching the light of his desk lamp as his hand gripped her waist. Serena. His executive assistant. The woman who'd smiled at me at every company event, who'd called me "Mrs. Cole" with that sweet, deferential voice while she complimented my dress. Time stopped. My body understood before my brain did—my lungs forgot how to work, my vision narrowed to a single, searing point. Damien looked up. The color drained from his face so fast it was almost comical. "Elena—" "Don't." The word came out broken, barely a whisper. Serena didn't even have the decency to look ashamed. She slid off the desk, smoothing her skirt with calm, practiced hands, and glanced at me with something worse than guilt—pity. "I'll give you two a moment," she murmured, slipping past me like a ghost. Her perfume—jasmine and something musky—clung to the air and made my stomach heave. Damien moved toward me, his hands raised like I was a wild animal he might spook. "It's not what it looks like." A laugh ripped out of me, ugly and raw. "It's not what it looks like? That's what you're going with?" "She means nothing. It was a mistake—" "How long?" He hesitated. That hesitation told me everything. "How. Long." My voice was ice now, the shock crystallizing into something sharp and dangerous. "Elena, please sit down. Let me explain—" "Eight months," said a voice from behind me. I turned to see Serena standing in the hallway, her arms crossed, her expression almost bored. "Eight months, Elena. Since the company retreat in Aspen. The one he told you was canceled." The Aspen trip. The weekend I'd spent alone, painting the nursery a soft yellow because I'd been so hopeful that month. The weekend I'd called him twelve times and he'd texted back: In meetings all day. Miss you. Damien's face contorted with fury—not at himself, but at Serena. "Shut your mouth—" "No," I said, and my voice didn't sound like mine anymore. It sounded like someone who had already left. "No, let her talk. Apparently she knows more about my marriage than I do." My hand found the pregnancy test in my pocket. I'd imagined this moment a hundred different ways—tears of joy, Damien lifting me off my feet, calling our parents together. Instead, I pulled it out and set it on his desk, right where Serena had been sitting. "Congratulations," I whispered. "You're going to be a father." Then I walked out. Behind me, I heard Damien's voice crack as he called my name, but I was already gone—past the glass offices, past the curious stares of late-working employees, into the elevator that carried me down forty-two floors while I held myself together through sheer willpower. The second the lobby doors opened, I shattered. I made it to the sidewalk before my knees buckled. The pregnancy test was still upstairs. My anniversary dinner reservation was still waiting. And somewhere above me, the man I'd built my entire life around was probably already rehearsing his next lie. My phone buzzed. Damien. I declined the call. It buzzed again. And again. I was sitting on the curb outside Cole Industries, mascara running down my face in the freezing November air, when a black car pulled up. The window rolled down, and a pair of steel-gray eyes regarded me with quiet intensity. "You look like you need to get out of here," said Adrian Blackwell—my husband's biggest rival, the man Damien hated more than anyone alive. I should have said no. I got in the car.

I caught my husband in our bed with my best friend on our first anniversary. So I walked next door and slept with his brother. If you won't honor our vows, I'll find someone who will. When my husband finally came crawling back the next morning, reeking of her perfume, he found me at the breakfast table — in his brother's shirt. "Sienna, what the hell are you doing here?" he snarled at me. As if I were the one who'd done something wrong. I sipped my coffee and smiled. "I live here now." His brother, Dominic, appeared behind me, shirtless, his hand resting casually on my shoulder. The hickey on his collarbone was impossible to miss. "Morning, little brother," Dominic said, his voice low and unbothered. "Coffee?" The look on Marcus's face? Priceless. Let me back up. I'm Sienna Cole, only daughter of the Cole banking dynasty. I married Marcus Ashford eight months ago in what the tabloids called "the wedding of the decade." Two hundred guests. A custom Vera Wang gown. A ten-tier cake that cost more than most people's houses. Everyone said we were perfect together — the golden couple of Manhattan's elite. Everyone was wrong. Marcus had been distant for months. Late nights at the "office." Canceled dinners. A phone he guarded like state secrets. I told myself I was being paranoid. I told myself that marriage takes work. I told myself all the pretty little lies women tell themselves when they already know the truth. Then came our anniversary. I'd planned everything — his favorite restaurant, a private room, a gift I'd spent weeks choosing. A vintage Rolex from 1962, the year his grandfather's company was founded. I thought it would mean something. But Marcus never showed. After waiting two hours at the restaurant alone, humiliated in front of the waitstaff, I drove home with a knot in my stomach. The house was dark except for our bedroom. I could hear them before I opened the door. My best friend, Chelsea. The woman who'd held my hand through every fight with Marcus. The woman who'd told me just last week, "He's so lucky to have you, Sienna." She was in my bed. On my sheets. On our anniversary. Marcus saw me first. His face went white. "Sienna — wait — this isn't—" "Isn't what it looks like?" I finished for him, my voice so calm it scared even me. Chelsea scrambled to cover herself with my duvet — the one I'd picked out, the one Marcus had said was "too expensive." Funny how he didn't mind using it now. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just stared at the two of them, memorizing every detail, burning it into my brain so I would never, ever forget what betrayal looked like. Then I turned around and walked out. I drove with no destination, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The city blurred past me — lights, buildings, strangers living their unbothered lives. My phone buzzed. Marcus. I declined the call. It buzzed again. Chelsea. I blocked her number. Then a third call came through. A number I hadn't dialed in months. Dominic Ashford. Marcus's older brother. The black sheep of the family. The one they whispered about at parties — too dangerous, too unpredictable, too intense. The one who had looked at me on my wedding day like I was making the biggest mistake of my life. I answered. "Sienna?" His voice was rough, like he'd been sleeping. "It's midnight. What's wrong?" "Can I come over?" A pause. Then: "Door's unlocked." I made a U-turn. And that's how, on my first wedding anniversary, I ended up at Dominic Ashford's penthouse — and didn't leave.

The marriage certificate had my name on it. My signature. My thumbprint. My photo. Married to: Damien Blackwell. I stared at the document, my hands trembling so violently the paper rattled like a leaf in a hurricane. "This isn't real." My voice came out hollow. "This can't be real." The nurse adjusted my IV drip and gave me a pitying smile. "Mrs. Blackwell, your husband stepped out to take a call. He'll be right back." Mrs. Blackwell. I wanted to vomit. Three days. I had been unconscious for three days after the car accident, and somehow in that window of darkness, I had become the wife of the most dangerous man in New York City. Damien Blackwell. Billionaire. CEO of Blackwell Industries. The man every tabloid called "The Devil in a Suit." The man whose enemies had a habit of disappearing. The man I had never spoken a single word to in my entire life. "There has to be a mistake." I tried to sit up but pain shot through my ribs and I collapsed back against the pillows, gasping. "Don't move too much, sweetheart. You have three fractured ribs, a concussion, and your left wrist is sprained." The nurse checked something on her clipboard. "Your husband made sure you received the best care. Private suite, top surgeons. He hasn't left this hospital in three days." My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it on the monitor beside me. The beeping accelerated, matching my panic. The door opened. And there he was. Damien Blackwell stood in the doorway like he owned the room — because he probably owned the entire hospital. Tall. Devastatingly handsome in a way that felt almost offensive. Dark hair pushed back from a face that belonged on the cover of a magazine, sharp jaw, cheekbones that could cut glass. His charcoal suit probably cost more than my apartment. But it was his eyes that stopped me cold. Steel grey. Calculating. Completely devoid of warmth. He looked at me the way a lion looks at something it has already decided belongs to it. "You're awake." His voice was deep, smooth, terrifyingly calm. He walked in and closed the door behind him. "Good. We have things to discuss." "Discuss?" I choked out. "You married me while I was unconscious!" Damien loosened his tie with one hand — casual, unhurried — and sat down in the chair beside my bed. He crossed one leg over the other and looked at me with an expression that was almost... bored. "Correct." "That's illegal!" "It's not." He reached into his jacket pocket and placed another document on my lap. "Your father signed the consent. Legal guardian authorization, given your incapacitated state. Everything is binding." My father. The air left my lungs. My father, who owed gambling debts to half the city. My father, who I hadn't spoken to in two years. My father, who apparently sold me to a billionaire while I was lying in a coma. "Why?" The word came out cracked, broken. "Why would you marry me? You don't even know me." Damien studied me for a long, suffocating moment. His grey eyes traced my face — the bruises, the bandages, the IV lines — with clinical precision. Then he leaned forward, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Cedar and smoke and something dangerously intoxicating. "I know everything about you, Aria." He said my name like he'd been saying it for years. "I know where you work, where you live, what you eat for breakfast. I know your mother died when you were fifteen and your father pawned her wedding ring three days after the funeral." My blood went cold. "I know you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear you." His voice dropped lower. "And I know that the man who ran your car off the road three nights ago wasn't a stranger." I stopped breathing. "He was sent by someone who wants you dead, Aria. And the only reason you're still alive right now is because you became my wife." The heart monitor was screaming now, beeping wildly. Damien leaned back, his expression unreadable. "So here's how this works. You stay married to me. You live in my house. You follow my rules." His jaw tightened, the first crack in his composure. "And in return, I keep you breathing." I stared at him, my chest heaving, tears burning behind my eyes. "And if I refuse?" Damien's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Then the people who tried to kill you will finish the job. And this time, I won't stop them."

Aria’s POV I signed my name on the agreement from the rival gang, agreeing to be delivered to them in five days as a hostage, until my family paid off the debt they owed. In five days, I would become a prisoner. I had no idea what awaited me—would they kill me? Or worse, humiliate me? After I signed the contract, I went to find my father and mother. They were sitting in the living room, discussing where they would go for spring break. Emily, our family’s adopted daughter, was sitting next to them. They didn’t seem affected by the rival’s threat at all. And why would they be? They had already found their solution. Me. Even though Emily was the one who caused this mess. She volunteered to oversee the drug transport but somehow got ambushed by another gang. Emily got hurt, broke a leg. And the entire shipment got stolen. Soon the Ricci demanded that we return the money. But father already spent it on acquiring another club and a house. So, the Ricci had offered another solution: deliver a Moretti as hostage until the debt was cleared. Normally, the person who caused the problem would take the fall. But my parents, as usual, softened the moment they saw Emily’s leg in a cast. So they decided I was the better choice to be sent over. Damian, my fiancé, agreed. “Emily’s already got hurt for the family. If you send her, it might as well be a death sentence. But you are different, Aria. You are completely fine of taking care of yourself right now. Besides, they won’t hurt you. They still count on you for the money.” They won’t hurt me? I almost laughed when they said it. Was my fiancé and my family really this naive, or were they just too blind to see the truth? Sure, they might not kill me. But humiliate me? Torture me? Degrade me? Who could guarantee that? Just because Emily so conveniently hurt her leg, I was the one who had to pay the price? As if her injury wasn’t debatable at best. And yet—I still signed my name. Because over the years, I’d learned exactly who my family was. Mother and Father were so blinded by Emily’s carefully crafted fragility that they couldn’t see anything else. So be it. I’d walk away from everything they’d ever given me, every shred I’d scraped together under their reluctant generosity. I’d become the hostage they needed me to be. Meanwhile I’d dig into what really happened with that shipment. If Emily wasn’t the innocent victim she pretended to be, then I’d make sure the evidence landed in my parents’s hands—my final gift—I wonder how they would feel when they realized Emily wasn’t nearly as innocent as they’d believed. Seeing me walking into the room, my father’s face darkened. “Don’t try to talk us into giving Emily to them. She already got hurt—she needs the family’s support now.” My mother hesitated, but still sided with father. “Aria, please, just do this for us this time. Emily had already contributed her part.” Emily began sobbing. “Sis, it was my fault. If it wasn’t for me, you and father wouldn’t be arguing. You wouldn’t have to go…” My mother comforted her. “Emily, darling, don’t blame yourself. You’ve carried that guilt since that day. You even insisted on leaving the hospital just to be with us. You’ve already done more than enough.” Emily was still sobbing. But in the briefest of moments, I swore I saw a grin flicker across her face—like she was bragging to me, relishing in her success. Even though she had cost our family a billion-dollar deal, she was still father and mother’s precious jewel. In the past, I would’ve argued. I would’ve said that father was biased, that he should punish the one who made the mistake no matter what. But now? I saw no reason to argue anymore. “Actually, that’s why I came to find you,” I spoke up, cutting through the tension. “I’ve signed the agreement, and I’ve decided to go instead.” Mother’s eyes widened, disbelief written all over her face. “Aria, are you sure?” “Yes.” Father gave a slow, approving nod, while Emily sat there stunned, clearly thrown by how easily I had agreed. “And also,” I added, meeting their eyes, “I’ve decided to give Emily the Grand Casino.” Father had wanted me to give her the casino for a long time. He’d said once, “Aria, Emily is our adopted daughter. We don’t want her to feel any less than you. I’ll give you the rest of the Moretti holdings when the time comes, but until then, could you give the casino to Emily? She’s been left out of the family business for so long.” Left out? She was left out because she couldn’t manage anything. And let’s not forget—Emily was never good with money. No matter how much Father or I handed her, she’d burn through it in days. What kind of business could ever thrive in her hands? But this time was different. I’d already made my choice. Once I left, I wasn’t coming back. Even if the debt was cleared, I was gone. So there was no point in holding the casino back from Emily any longer. Let Father see for himself what Emily was really capable of. Though, honestly? I wondered if there’d even be a casino left by the time she was done—or just another property sold off to cover the losses. “Really!?” Emily shot up from the sofa, her eyes wide with excitement. Then, realizing her reaction was too eager, she quickly sat back down. “No, sis, you can’t give the casino to me. I don’t deserve it…” “Nonsense,” Father cut her off, his voice firm. “You deserve everything. You’re a Moretti too.” I pulled out two contracts from my bag—one for the hostage agreement, the other for the casino’s transfer. I had already signed both. “Emily,” I said, pushing the casino contract across the table, “sign this, and the casino will be yours.” Emily signed without hesitation, while mother and father beamed with pride. I smiled too. For the first time, I felt relieved. I no longer had to shoulder the weight of holding this family together. Whatever happened to the casino from this day forward—it would never be my problem again.

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