They Hurt My Wife.
We were getting close to the destination, heading toward a neighborhood Marcus would absolutely hate to be seen in.
"How is your friend?" I asked, watching the city lights blur past the tinted window.
"Henry does alright for himself. Crypto, tech startups. That kind of noise," Sloane said, staring out the window.
"And you house-sit?"
"I fix his vintage bikes. He lets me crash here when things get... loud."
I repeated the word. "Loud. Like finding a stray heiress in a rainstorm and marrying her?"
She glanced at me, a shadow of a smirk crossing her striking face. "Exactly like that."
A few minutes later, the luxury car pulled up to the curb of a massive, sleek high-rise.
"Good evening, Ms. Cr—" the doorman started.
Sloane coughed once, sharply. The man took one look at Sloane's grease-stained shirt and my ruined clothes, and snapped his mouth shut.
"Just dropping off the keys, Henry. For the owner," Sloane said loudly.
The doorman froze. He looked at Sloane, then at me—shivering in my ruined silk—then back to Sloane. The man was a pro. He rebooted instantly.
"Ah. Right. Of course. The keys. Right this way... ma'am."
I narrowed my eyes as we walked into the pristine lobby. Ma'am? With that level of deference? For a mechanic?
"Friendly staff," I noted. The air smelled like white tea and old money.
"I fixed Henry's toaster once," Sloane lied without blinking. She was terrifyingly good at this.
We stepped into the elevator. Top floor. Penthouse. Naturally.
When we stepped out, Sloane placed her thumb on a biometric scanner beside the door.
"Wow. Your buddy is pretty cautious," I muttered.
"Guess that's what having a lot of money does to you," she replied smoothly.
The lock hissed. The heavy door swung open.
I stepped inside and stopped dead in my tracks.
It was massive. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the glittering Manhattan skyline. The furniture was low, Italian, and matte black. There were no photos. No clutter. No warmth. It looked like a museum exhibit titled The Lonely Billionaire.
"Nice. Henry has great taste," I said, kicking off my ruined designer heels. I walked across the polished concrete, leaving wet footprints behind me.
Sloane locked the heavy door. "I'll tell him you said that."
I wrapped my arms around myself. The adrenaline was finally crashing, and the deep chill of the rain was setting into my bones. My teeth clicked together.
"Shower?" I asked.
"Down the hall. Master suite," she pointed. "Robes are in there. Use whatever you need."
Glorious.
A few minutes later, my ruined silk dress lay in a wet, sad pile on the pristine bathroom floor.
"Sloane?" I called out, cracking the heavy bathroom door open.
"Yeah?" Her voice came from the hallway.
"Wardrobe malfunction. Unless Henry leaves women's couture lying around, I'm stuck."
A moment later, a hand appeared around the doorframe, holding a crisp, black dress shirt.
"Mine. Clean. Might fit you like a tent," she said, her voice a little rough.
I took it. "Thanks."
I slipped it on. It smelled exactly like her—sandalwood, motor oil, and rain. It swallowed me whole, the dark hem hitting my mid-thigh. I rolled up the sleeves.
Mrs. Cross, I thought. It sounded heavy. Like a weapon.
I walked out. Sloane was standing by the kitchen island.
She turned.
Her dark eyes widened a fraction. Her gaze traveled slowly from my bare legs up to her oversized black shirt. She cleared her throat, extending a crystal glass toward me. "Whiskey. Found it in the cabinet."
"Medicinal," I said, taking it.
Our fingers brushed. Static. Pure heat.
I took a sip. Fire. Smooth. Absolute top-shelf.
"So, sleeping arrangements? I assume there's one bed," I said, wandering over to the massive glass window.
"Three guest rooms," she said.
"Oh." I felt a strange pang in my chest. Relief? Disappointment?
"But they're locked. Renovations. Dust," she added, the words coming out just a little too fast.
I turned around. She was swirling the amber liquid in her glass, pointedly looking at the floor.
I smirked. "So there is one bed."
"The couch is Italian leather. Supposed to be comfortable. I'll take it," she offered.
"No need. I'll take the sofa."
"No." Her voice dropped. That tone was back—the one that sounded like it commanded corporate armies, not engine transmissions. "You take the room, wife."
I looked at her. Beneath that sharp jawline and unbothered facade, she looked wrecked. She was carrying something heavy. Just like me.
"Fine. But if you try to sneak in, I know Krav Maga," I warned.
She smirked. "I'm trembling."
I downed the rest of the drink. "Goodnight, wife."
"Goodnight, wife."
I walked into the bedroom and climbed into the massive king bed. The sheets were cold silk. I lay there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, before throwing the covers off and standing up.
I walked back to the doorway. Sloane was trying to get comfortable on the couch, her long legs hanging awkwardly off the edge.
"Wife?"
She sat up fast. "What? Are you okay?"
"Get in here," I said, leaning against the doorframe.
She froze. "Sienna..."
"We aren't strangers anymore. We're legally married. The bed is vast. That couch is torture. We're smart adults; we know where the lines are," I reasoned.
She stared at me, stunned.
"I won't bite. Unless you snore," I added.
She looked at me for a long beat. Amusement danced in her dark eyes. "I won't cross the line. That's a promise," she said slowly.
"Me neither."
She smiled. A real, genuine smile. "Give me a minute."
I went back to bed. For the first time in years, I didn't need pills to sleep. The sheets were warm.
I would let my Aunt and her twisted family enjoy the empire they had betrayed everything to steal. As long as they didn't strike first, they were safe. The choice was theirs now. But if they refused to let me go? If they came at me? I would collect the debt. Every single drop of it.
Luxury. Or ruin.
Out in the living room, before heading to the bedroom, Sloane waited until the apartment fell completely silent. She reached under the leather sofa and pulled out a high-tech, satellite-secure phone.
As soon as it connected, the voice on the other end nearly wept with relief.
"Boss! Your grandmother is roasting us alive. We need you. How can we operate without you?"
"I already arranged everything before I left," Sloane replied coldly, her lazy mechanic persona vanishing instantly. "There is no actual work for you to panic about. My grandmother just wants to see me. Tell her I'll be back soon."
The person on the other side remained silent, terrified to say the wrong thing.
Sloane's dark eyes drifted toward the hallway leading to the master bedroom. A genuine, incredibly dangerous smile rose on her lips.
"I'm currently being the perfect partner. I need you to give me all the details on Vane Media. Every little and tremendous secret they wish to bury."
"What happened, ma'am?"
"They're currently waiting for their judgment," My wife murmured. "They hurt my wife. So I'm going to burn their kingdom to the ground."