By sunrise, I had learned two things: the Mafia boss waiting to marry me had already driven six wives out of his house, and if I refused to become number seven, my sick mother would lose her home

The interior of the Vale estate was a stunning combination of old-world stone architecture and modern, bulletproof luxury. High vaulted ceilings, dark oak paneling, and floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the stormy Hudson River below.

A quiet, efficient staff moved through the halls, but unlike the Aldridge household, there was no air of nervous terror here. The staff walked with purpose, greeting Cassian with respectful nods that were met with quiet, polite acknowledgments.

Marcus led me to a grand suite on the second floor. A massive king-sized bed sat against a feature wall of dark exposed brick, a marble fireplace crackled softly in the corner, and a walk-in closet was already filled with tailored clothes in my exact sizes.

"How did you get my sizes?" I asked, looking at the rack of silk blouses and tailored trousers.

"Your mother," Marcus replied with a brief, professional smile. "She insisted you stop wearing oversized hand-me-downs from the Aldridge donation boxes. A hot bath has been drawn in the master bath. Mr. Vale will meet you in the primary study at five o'clock."

Thirty minutes later, stripped of the stolen silk wedding dress and the heavy, uncomfortable makeup, I stepped out of the bathroom wearing a comfortable charcoal wool sweater and tailored black slacks. For the first time in my life, I felt the weight of physical comfort.

At precisely four-fifty-five, I walked down the carpeted hallway toward the primary study. The heavy oak door was slightly ajar.

Inside, Cassian was sitting behind a massive glass desk, surrounded by three lawyers in sharp grey suits. On a large wall-mounted monitor, a live news broadcast was playing on mute.

The ticker at the bottom of the screen read: "ALDRIDGE LOGISTICS UNDER FEDERAL INVESTIGATION FOR TARIFF FRAUD; STOCK PLUMMETS 40%."

"They're burning," one of the lawyers was saying. "Richard Aldridge tried to leverage his secondary lines of credit this afternoon, but the banks froze him out the moment the federal lien was registered."

Cassian didn't look pleased; he looked focused. "What about Evelyn?"

"Our contacts in Miami confirmed her flight landed two hours ago," the lawyer replied. "She checked into a luxury resort in South Beach using an alias. She's currently using her father's corporate black card."

"Cancel the card," Cassian instructed calmly. "Leave her with fifty dollars."

"Understood, sir."

Cassian looked up, his eyes meeting mine as I stood in the doorway. He gestured for the lawyers to leave. They gathered their leather folders, offered me respectful bows as they passed, and shut the heavy oak doors behind them.

"You look more like yourself," Cassian said, leaning back in his leather chair.

"I feel less like a prop," I replied, walking over to the glass desk and sitting in the chair opposite him. "What happens to Evelyn now?"

"Evelyn thought she was escaping a forced marriage to enjoy her father's stolen wealth," Cassian said, sliding a thick manila folder across the desk toward me. "She doesn't realize her father was bankrupt six months ago. The money she took was borrowed from my syndicate."

I opened the folder. Inside were receipts, wire transfers, and forged shipping manifests bearing Richard Aldridge's signature.

"They didn't just borrow money from you," I said, scanning the numbers. "They were using your shipping routes to move unregistered cargo."

"Precisely," Cassian said. "Which means if the federal authorities bust Richard Aldridge, my organization's name gets dragged through the dirt unless we prove we were the victims of their fraud."

I looked up from the files, my mind instantly jumping to a memory from three weeks ago when I was cleaning Richard Aldridge’s private library.

"There's a second ledger," I said quietly.

Cassian froze. The dark eyes locked onto mine with intense focus. "Where?"

"Behind the mahogany bookcase in his private study," I revealed. "He has a floor safe built into the wall behind a painting of the Hudson Valley. He keeps a red leather journal inside. I saw him writing in it late at night whenever his CFO left the house."