Two weeks later

"Dave Wilson, do you take Layla Corbett to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"Yes, I do." Dave's voice was steady, his gaze never wavering from Layla's face.

"Layla Corbett, do you take Dave Wilson to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Layla looked up at him, a cold shiver racing down her spine. She felt as though she were signing her soul over to the devil, even if the devil did look breathtaking in a custom-tailored tuxedo. It had been only fourteen days since that night in the alley, and she still knew next to nothing about the man standing across from her.

The silence stretched. Dave's expression shifted, a questioning glint in his eyes that snapped her back to the altar. Her fingers tightened around her bouquet until the stems bit into her palms.

"I, yeah. Yes, I do," she stammered.

The priest didn't miss a beat, moving forward as if Layla hadn't just spent two minutes teetering on the edge of a panic attack. "I pronounce you husband and wife."

Layla's first instinct was to hike up the hem of her lace gown and bolt for the exit. But there was no escape. She had made a vow in front of God and a hall full of people. This was a contract, a cold-blooded business arrangement, yet Dave had still not disclosed his true endgame. 'I just need a wife,' he had told her that night.

As they walked down the aisle, Dave's hand was firm on hers. He looked every bit the victor. He was easily one of the most powerful men in the city, with dark, wavy hair and piercing light-brown eyes that seemed to read her every jagged thought. At six foot four, he towered over her, forcing her to tilt her head back just to catch the edge of his chiseled jawline.

While Dave was a picture of serene satisfaction, a storm was howling inside Layla.

At the reception, the performance continued. Dave was the perfect gentleman, pulling out her chair and leaning in close to whisper pleasantries that meant nothing. At one point, he fed her a small piece of cake with his mouth, his teeth grazing her lower lip in a move so practiced, so delicately romantic, that Layla felt her breath hitch.

Was it a show for the guests? Or was there a flicker of something real behind those light-brown eyes?

The drive home was a different story. The "doting husband" vanished the moment the car door clicked shut. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the luxury sedan. Dave sat as far from her as possible, his jaw tight, fidgeting as if her very proximity irritated him. Layla stared out the window at the grand architecture of this part of the city she rarely had the opportunity to see, the exclusive region for the ultra-wealthy. She was entering a world of gold and glass, but it felt like a prison.

When they arrived at the estate, Dave didn't wait for the driver to open the door. He surged out of the car and disappeared inside before Layla could even gather her train of dress.

By the time she stepped into the grand foyer, the wedding was officially over. Dave was sprawled on a navy velvet sofa, his tie discarded and a tumbler of amber whiskey gripped in his hand. He was staring at his phone, the flickering light of the screen casting sharp shadows across his face.

"When were you planning on telling me you usually have mood swings like a lady about to start her menstrual cycle?" Layla asked, her voice echoing in the vast, marble hall. She crossed her arms, tapping her foot against the polished floor.

A soft snort came from the shadows. Layla turned to see a woman in a crisp uniform watching them.

"That is Linda, the head housekeeper," Dave said, not looking up from his screen. "She'll show you to your room. If the decor isn't to your taste, you can go ahead to hire someone to change it tomorrow."

Layla felt the sting of his indifference. He had been the one to hunt her down. He had been the one to offer the deal: 'Marry me, and your father's debts vanish.' "Dave," she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more dangerous register. He finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "Why me? Why did you really want this? Why did you choose to marry me?"

He shrugged, a cold, elegant movement. "You are a means to an end, Layla. You read the contract. Don't waste my time with silly questions."

Before she could retort, the front doors swung open. A redhead woman swept into the foyer, her heels clicking like gunfire on the marble. Behind her, a middle-aged man struggled under the weight of several designer trunks.

"Be careful with those!" the woman snapped, spinning around so quickly the porter nearly tripped. "Nothing you own could ever pay for what's in those boxes."

The redhead turned to Linda, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Are you waiting for an invitation to carry those boxes or what?"

Linda didn't hesitate. She scurried toward the man struggling with the heavy boxes, her head bowed as she assisted him. Ingrid watched the head-maid's frantic retreat with a look of smug satisfaction. Without so much as a glance at Layla, she walked past her toward Dave.

Dave, who formerly looked so composed, was now beaming like a child who had been given his favorite candy. "Ingrid," he called out, his British accent smoothing over the name with practiced affection.

Layla stood frozen as the lady she now knew as Ingrid climbed onto Dave's lap, draping her arms around his neck. Dave's hands found her waist instantly, pulling her against him. They sat there, framed by the expensive upholstery, giving Layla a front-row seat to their display. 

"Hi, Dave," Ingrid said like someone who was out of breath. Then, she leaned in to kiss him. 

It wasn't a brief kiss on the lips. It was a conquest. Their lips met in a feverish, desperate tangle, an intense display of tongue and lips that seemed to go on forever. Layla watched, her mouth slightly agape, her mind reeling. 'What on earth is happening?'

Watching her husband's lips tango with another woman's triggered memories of an ex she thought she had buried years ago. She blinked twice, forcing herself back to the brutal reality of the present. 

"What on earth is going on here?" Layla finally found her voice, her scream echoing off the high ceilings.

The pair broke apart slowly, looking more irritated than guilty. It was as if Layla were a fly buzzing around their heads, a nuisance they had forgotten was even in the room. Ingrid wiped the corner of her mouth where there once was bright red lipstick, but was now all smeared across Dave's mouth.

She shifted on his thigh and sneered, "What does it look like, dummy?"

Dummy? The word stung like a physical slap. 'Did she just call me a dummy?' Layla asked herself, turning her gaze to Dave, expecting and hoping for a shred of remorse. But he only smirked.

"Dave, I think I deserve an explanation," Layla said, her voice trembling. "I am your wife, for goodness' sake."

Ingrid and Dave looked at each for a split second before the room became filled with the sound of their mocking laughter. It lasted for two agonizing minutes before Dave lifted Ingrid from his body and rose from the sofa. He sauntered toward Layla, his presence suffocating.

"You don't deserve shit," he hissed, stopping inches from her face. "You are my wife only on paper and nothing, absolutely nothing will ever make this marriage real."

Ingrid slithered up beside him, and Dave instinctively snaked an arm around her. Layla could feel her heart thumping frantically against her ribs.

"Ingrid is staying as long as she likes," Dave declared, lifting Ingrid's hand to his lips. He kissed her knuckles, his eyes locked onto Layla's with cold defiance. "And there is nothing you can do about it."

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Layla standing in the wreckage of her dignity. She wanted to scream, to fly at Ingrid and claw that smirk off her face, but she refused to fight dirty for a man who had just embarrassed her in front of the help.

She caught Linda and the driver's eyes. They looked away instantly, fumbling with the boxes in a desperate attempt to be invisible. Layla clenched the fabric of her dress, her knuckles white. She wouldn't break. Not here. Not in front of her.

Ingrid stepped closer, the height of her heels allowing her to look down her nose at Layla. "Don't let those few moments of affection Dave showed you get to your head," she whispered venomously. "That man is mine. Get that through your thick skull."

She turned toward the staff and barked, "What are you waiting for? Get my bags to the master suite!"

As the room emptied, the strength that had held Layla upright evaporated. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the cold floor. The tears she had fought so hard to suppress began to sting her eyes.

'This is going to be hell on earth.' She told herself.

Memories of the night they met played in her head like a cruel joke. He had saved her from thugs, but in exchange, she had given him what was left of her. She thought of the documents explicitly stating her late father owed him ten million dollars. She remembered her mother's wailing, the hollow stare of her twenty-one-year-old sister, and the innocence of her fifteen-year-old sister reading the legal paperwork.

She had sold herself to save them. She had married a demon to pay off their debt. A soft tap on her shoulder startled her. She wiped her eyes and looked up to see the driver. He was holding out a silver purse, a "wedding gift" Dave had sent earlier. As she took it, the phone inside began to vibrate.

She pulled it out, her hands shaking as she answered the unknown number.

"This is a reminder," a female voice said on the other end. "You have a doctor's appointment tomorrow at 1 p.m. Please don't be late."