The echo of her father's footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving Amelia alone in the cold stillness of the Reynolds estate once again.
Her fingers grazed the folder tucked beneath her sweater—now hidden beneath layers of coats in her closet. The forged signature. The liquidation plans. The truth.
It wasn't just a marriage anymore.
It was a ticking bomb.
And Andrew Reynolds had lit the fuse.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she stood by her bedroom window, watching the moonlight wash over the frost-covered gardens. Her thoughts wouldn't quiet. She kept replaying Andrew's words from earlier.
"Stay out of things you don't understand."
As if she was too stupid to recognize betrayal when it stared her in the face.
By morning, she was out of her gown, out of her grief, and dressed in a tailored navy-blue blouse and high-waisted pants that gave her the illusion of control.
Downstairs, Andrew was already at the dining table, coffee in hand, reading a newspaper like the man wasn't actively destroying lives for sport.
She didn't bother greeting him.
She simply walked past him and grabbed a croissant from the silver tray.
"No good morning?" he asked, voice dry.
She paused. "Good implies something pleasant."
His brow arched, but he said nothing more.
They ate in silence.
But Amelia wasn't the same woman who sat beside him days ago, trembling in a wedding gown.
Now, she was a woman with a weapon.
And secrets burned hotter than vows.
After breakfast, she followed the housekeeper's directions to the gallery room—an empty space Andrew mentioned she could use to "occupy herself."
He thought she'd play house.
Instead, she brought the folder.
Locked the door.
Opened her laptop.
And began digging.
For the next several hours, Amelia traced every acquisition Andrew's company made in the months leading up to her father's downfall. And what she found made her blood run cold.
Shell companies.
Hidden transfers.
A name kept popping up—Reynolds Holdings Sub A—on every deal that stripped Donovan Enterprises of assets.
And every trail led back to Andrew.
This wasn't just business.
It was sabotage.
A calculated dismantling of her family's legacy.
When she finally leaned back in her chair, her spine ached and her heart pounded, a mix of triumph and terror. She had proof now—enough to make headlines. Enough to destroy him.
But exposing Andrew came with a price.
Her father's deal—the very one that kept him out of prison—would unravel.
And if the public knew the marriage was a cover-up?
The Donovans wouldn't just fall.
They'd be obliterated.
She was halfway through writing everything down when the door burst open.
She jumped, nearly dropping the folder.
Andrew stood in the doorway, eyes sharp and furious. "You locked the door?"
Her pulse spiked. "You gave me the room. I assumed privacy came with it."
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him. "You don't get privacy in this house. Not when you're snooping around."
"I wasn't snooping—"
His gaze dropped to the papers on the table. His expression shifted from fury to something darker.
"Where did you get that?"
Amelia stepped in front of the desk protectively. "You know where."
He moved closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator cornering prey. "You went into my study."
She didn't deny it.
He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You have no idea what you've done."
"Oh, I think I do," she snapped. "You didn't just offer to save my father—you're the reason he needed saving in the first place!"
Andrew's jaw tightened. "You're in way over your head, Amelia."
"Then explain it to me." She stepped toward him. "Explain why you bought my family's destruction piece by piece and then offered me a lifeline like some twisted savior."
Silence.
He didn't deny it.
Didn't look away.
Didn't even blink.
Which somehow hurt more.
"Why?" she whispered.
Andrew studied her. "Because your father was never going to survive this market. His empire was already crumbling. I just made sure it crumbled on my terms."
"Your terms included forging his signature?"
He finally looked away, jaw clenched. "That wasn't supposed to happen the way it did."
"Oh, so it was just a little forgery? A minor legal crime?" Her voice shook. "And you still stood at that altar like nothing was wrong?"
Andrew's eyes locked on hers again, unreadable. "You think I wanted to marry you?"
That was the slap.
Not his hands—his words.
She staggered back like he'd physically hit her.
He swore under his breath and raked a hand through his hair. "This wasn't supposed to involve you like this."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "But it did. And now I know everything."
"No," he said, voice low and dangerous. "You know just enough to get hurt."
The silence thickened.
Neither of them moved.
Then Andrew crossed the room and yanked the folder off the desk before she could stop him.
"Hey!"
He didn't look at her. "You shouldn't have gone digging."
"You don't get to tell me what to do," she snapped, lunging for the papers.
He held them above his head, easily out of reach.
"I mean it, Andrew. I'll go public with this."
He lowered the folder, his voice turning ice-cold. "If you go public, your father goes to jail."
She faltered.
"And you'll be dragged through every tabloid from here to Tokyo. Do you want that?"
"I want the truth."
"No, you want revenge. But you're not built for war, Amelia. You're still clinging to some fantasy that people like me play fair."
Her hands curled into fists. "Maybe I am. But I'd rather burn everything down than live under your roof like some purchased doll."
Andrew stared at her, something flickering in his eyes—regret, maybe. Or maybe just calculation.
"You want to play dangerous?" he murmured. "Fine. Just don't cry when it gets bloody."
He turned and walked out.
This time, he locked the door behind him.
Amelia stood there for a long moment, breath heaving, body shaking.
She had thought marrying him was the worst part.
She was wrong.
Living with him, knowing the truth, hiding it every day behind a forced smile—that was worse.
She picked up the shattered remains of her resolve and whispered to herself, "If I can't escape yet… then I'll play his game."
But on her terms.
Not his.
Not anymore.
Hours later, Amelia crept into the library with a burner phone she found in one of her old handbags.
She dialed the number of the one person who might still be on her side.
"Hello?"
"Lena," she whispered. "I need your help. And I need you to promise—no questions."
There was a pause.
Then her best friend's voice came back, calm and sure.
"I'm listening."
But what Amelia didn't know—on the other end of the line, Lena wasn't alone.
And the man beside her?
Was the last person Amelia ever wanted to see again.