Everyone said I was worthless when Timothy Gibson threw the divorce papers at my face.

He didn't even look at me as he packed his bags to accompany Esther Hayes abroad for her recovery.

I begged him in the freezing rain outside the Diamond Estate, but he just sneered.

He told me not to use underhanded tactics to keep him around.

Seven years later, he blocked my car with his Maybach.

He looked at me with that same arrogant superiority.

He demanded I come back, behave myself, and give birth to an heir for his dying grandfather.

He promised I would still be Mrs. Gibson.

Timothy still thought my entire world revolved around him.

He had no idea that I married someone else the exact day after he signed those papers.

I stepped out of the car, my heels clicking on the pavement.

I gently touched my stomach, which wasn't even showing yet.

I smiled at the man who ruined my past.

"Mr. Gibson, I'm afraid I'm going to disappoint you."

"I am having a baby, but it definitely isn't yours."

***

The heavy metal door of the underground parking garage slammed shut behind me. I pressed the button on my key fob. The matte-black Porsche chirped, its headlights flashing briefly in the dim concrete cavern.

I turned toward the elevator.

A shadow detached itself from the concrete pillar ahead.

"You took your time."

The voice was unmistakable. I stopped.

Timothy Gibson stepped into the harsh fluorescent light. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, looking exactly as he had seven years ago—arrogant, immaculate, and entirely convinced the world revolved around him.

"What are you doing here, Timothy?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

He closed the distance between us in three long strides. Before I could step back, his hand shot out, his fingers clamping down on my wrist like a vise.

"You're coming back with me," he said. It wasn't a request. It was a command, handed down from on high.

I yanked my arm, but his grip held firm. "Let go of me."

"Grandpa Gibson is dying," Timothy stated, his eyes boring into mine. "He wants to see you. He wants things settled."

"Things were settled seven years ago," I shot back.

"Don't be difficult, Naomi. It's a simple arrangement. You return to the country. We remarry. You give the Gibson family an heir, and you get to keep the title of Mrs. Gibson. It's more than you deserve."

His tone dripped with the same repulsive charity he used to offer me.

"A simple arrangement?" I scoffed. "Like the simple arrangement of you throwing the divorce papers in my face while Esther waited in the car?"

Timothy's jaw tightened. "That was the past. This is about the future of the Gibson estate. You should be grateful I'm even giving you this opportunity."

"Grateful?"

I stared at the man who had left me standing in the pouring rain, his signature already drying on the documents that ended our marriage, all because his precious Esther had shed a single tear.

I pulled my arm again, this time putting my whole body into it. My wrist slipped free from his grasp. I took a deliberate step backward, putting distance between us.

"You really think you can just snap your fingers and I'll jump?" I asked.

"I know you, Naomi. You've always wanted this."

"I wanted a husband," I corrected him. "Not a sperm donor who treats me like a breeding mare for his dying grandfather's peace of mind."

Timothy's eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth. You're still a Vance. Your family could use the Gibson connection right now."

"My family is doing just fine without you."

"Are you really going to throw away the Gibson fortune out of spite?" he demanded, his voice rising, echoing off the concrete walls.

I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I let my hand drift down. My fingertips rested lightly against my flat stomach.

I looked up at him, a cold smile forming on my lips.

"You're too late, Timothy."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm already pregnant."

Silence sealed the garage. I watched the realization hit him, watched the arrogant certainty crumble from his features.

"You're lying," he snapped.

"Am I?" I kept my hand on my stomach, my smile widening. "I guess you'll just have to find someone else to provide your precious heir."

His face drained of color, then flushed a dark, angry red.

"Who is it?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Who's the father?"

"That is none of your business."

"You're my wife—"

"I was your wife," I interrupted. "Seven years ago. Before you threw me away for Esther."

"I am offering you everything!" he yelled.

"And I'm telling you I don't want it. I wouldn't have your child if you were the last man on earth."

Timothy's hands clenched into fists at his sides. The veins in his neck stood out.

"You think you can play games with me?" he snarled.

He lunged forward, his hand shooting out toward the collar of my silk blouse.

He lunged forward, his hand shooting out toward the collar of my silk blouse.

I twisted my torso sideways. His fingertips grazed empty air, catching nothing but a ghost of my perfume. The momentum carried him half a step past me.

"Keep your hands to yourself," I said, smoothing the lapel of my jacket.

Timothy caught his balance. A harsh, barking laugh erupted from his chest. The sound bounced off the concrete pillars, loud and jagged in the empty garage.

"Pregnant?" he mocked, turning back to face me. "You really expect me to buy that?"

"Your belief isn't required."

"You are lying, Naomi." He took a step closer, his leather shoes scraping against the pavement. "It is a pathetic bluff. You think claiming you have some imaginary bastard in your belly will make me jealous? Make me fight for you?"

"You flatter yourself."

"I know exactly who you are," he sneered. "You are the same desperate girl who sobbed on the driveway of the Diamond Estate."

The name of the property hung in the damp air between us.

"Do you remember that night?" Timothy asked.

I kept my face still.

"The thunderstorm," he continued, his voice dropping into a cruel, taunting rhythm. "You were on your knees in the mud. You ruined that expensive white dress."

"Stop talking."

"You begged me not to go," he pressed on, stepping closer until I could smell the sharp mint of his cologne. "You clung to my trousers. You screamed that you couldn't survive without me, without the Gibson name. You offered to accept Esther. You offered to look the other way. Anything, just to keep the ring on your finger."

I watched his mouth move, forming the ugly words.

"I left you shivering in the dirt," he said, a twisted smile forming on his lips. "I drove away. And you stayed there, crying until you passed out. You crawled to me then. You will crawl to me now."

"You have an excellent memory for your own cruelty," I replied.

"I have an excellent memory for your pathetic nature," he shot back. "A woman like you does not survive outside our circle. You are weak. No one else wants the Gibson family's discarded trash."

I stared at him. Seven years ago, those words would have hollowed out my chest. The memory of the freezing rain, the taste of mud and tears, the sight of his taillights disappearing into the dark—it used to haunt my nightmares.

Now, looking at the sharp lines of his face and the arrogant tilt of his chin, I felt nothing.

"Are you finished?" I asked.

My utter lack of reaction made a muscle twitch in his jaw. He wanted tears. He wanted the broken girl from the Diamond Estate. He expected me to shatter.

"You think this stoic act fools me?" he demanded.

"It isn't an act. You just don't matter to me anymore."

"I am your only way out!" he yelled, his composure finally cracking. "Your family's business is bleeding money. Your father is desperate. I am throwing you a lifeline. All you have to do is get in the car, smile for the old man, and give me a son."

"I would rather starve."

"You will do as you are told."

"Why isn't Esther giving you an heir?" I asked, tilting my head. "You threw me away for her. You gave her the house, the cars, the jewelry. Why isn't she sitting by your grandfather's bed?"

Timothy's face darkened. "Do not bring Esther into this."

"Ah," I smiled, a genuine, cold smile. "Grandpa Gibson never accepted her, did he? He threatened to cut you out of the will if you married her. That is why you are here. You need me to secure your inheritance."

"Shut your mouth."

"You don't want me, Timothy. You want the estate. And you are terrified your cousins will take it from you."

"I said shut up!"

Timothy lunged again. This time, he didn't miss. His fingers clamped around my upper arm. His grip bruised the skin right through my sleeve.

"Release me, Timothy."

"We are going to see my grandfather," he gritted out, yanking me toward the exit lane. "You will tell him we are reconciling. And you will drop this ridiculous pregnancy lie before I make you regret it."

I dug my heels into the epoxy floor. I twisted my arm, trying to break his hold, but his fingers only dug deeper.

"Security!" I shouted.

"Scream all you want," he spat, dragging me another two steps. "No one is coming to help you. You belong to me."

"I belong to no one."

"You are a Gibson!"

"I am a Vance. And you are trespassing."

He laughed again, a dark, ugly sound. "Trespassing? I own half this city. I own you."

He yanked me harder, pulling me off balance. My shoulder flared with pain. I raised my free hand, ready to strike his face.

"You hit me, and I will ruin your father's company by morning," he threatened, catching my wrist in mid-air. "I will bankrupt your entire family. Get in the car."

"I will kill you first."

"You do not have the spine for it."

The screech of tires ripped through the garage.

A massive black Rolls-Royce tore around the corner. The engine roared, echoing like a beast in a cage. It didn't slow down. It barreled straight toward us.

Timothy froze.

The car slammed on its brakes. The tires smoked against the concrete, leaving thick black streaks. The heavy vehicle stopped exactly two feet away, wedging itself between Timothy's parked Porsche and my body.

High-beam headlights flared to life.

The blinding white glare hit Timothy square in the face. He dropped my arm instantly, throwing his hands up to shield his eyes.

"What the hell is your problem?" Timothy yelled, squinting into the blinding light.

I rubbed my aching arm, stepping back into the shadows. The Rolls-Royce sat idling, its engine a low, powerful hum. The license plate gleamed in the harsh light. Five identical eights.

The tinted rear window began to slide down.

The glass lowered with a soft, mechanical hum. The interior of the car remained cloaked in shadows, but the air around us seemed to drop ten degrees.

A man's voice cut through the heavy silence of the garage. Deep, freezing, and carrying an authority that made the concrete walls vibrate.

"Take your hands off my wife."

Timothy froze. His fingers went slack against my bruised skin. He raised a hand to block the piercing glare of the high-beam headlights, his eyes narrowing as he tried to pierce the gloom of the tinted rear window.

"Who the hell are you?" Timothy demanded.

His voice cracked slightly under the sudden pressure of the stranger's tone. The window hummed, lowering just an inch further. No answer came from the dark interior. Only the low, vibrating purr of the massive engine filled the silence. The air in the garage felt heavy, thick with an unspoken threat that made the hairs on my arms stand up.

I seized the gap in his attention. I ripped my arm from his loosened grip, the friction burning my skin.

"Get back here, Naomi," he snapped, reaching for me again.

I stepped backward, putting myself safely beside the heavy, polished door of the Rolls-Royce. The metal felt cool against my back, a solid wall between me and the man who had ruined my twenties.

"Did you not hear him?" I asked, keeping my voice level. "He told you to take your hands off me."

Timothy scoffed. He dropped his hand, adjusting his tailored cuffs with a sharp tug. His gaze flicked from me to the massive vehicle, then back to my face. A sneer twisted his lips.

"Your wife?" Timothy repeated the stranger's word, spitting it onto the concrete. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"It is a fact."

"You are lying." He took a step toward the car. "You think I don't know your financial situation? You think I don't know exactly what happened after I left?"

"You know nothing."

"I know you were dependent on the Gibson family," he countered. "You had no money. You had no connections. You expect me to believe some billionaire swooped in to rescue you?"

"I do not need you to believe anything." I leaned slightly against the car door. "But since you are so obsessed with the past, let me clarify the timeline for you."

Timothy crossed his arms. "Go ahead. Spin your little fairy tale."

"Seven years ago, you threw the divorce papers at my feet." I watched his eyes track my movements as I smoothed the front of my silk blouse. "You forged my signature. You left me in the rain. You were so eager to move Esther into the master bedroom, you didn't even wait for the ink to dry."

"I did what had to be done. The Gibson family needed a proper heir, and you were failing."

"And so did I." I met his stare head-on. "The very next day, I married him."

Timothy barked a laugh. "The next day? You really expect me to buy this garbage? You were a weeping mess on the driveway."

"Tears dry quickly when you realize what you actually lost," I said. "Which was nothing but a coward."

His jaw clenched. "Watch your tone."

"My new husband did not ask me to beg in the mud," I continued, letting the words strike him like stones. "He did not hide me from his family. He did not threaten to bankrupt my father. Instead, he gave me a bride price."

Timothy rolled his eyes. "A bride price. How archaic. What did he give you? A new purse? A leased condo?"

"Fifty million dollars."

The number echoed off the concrete walls.

Timothy stopped breathing for a fraction of a second. His arms dropped to his sides. He stared at me, his eyes wide, processing the figure.

Then, his face flushed a violent, mottled red.

"Fifty million," he repeated, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper.

"Transferred directly into my personal account," I confirmed. "Before the marriage certificate was even stamped."

"You are insane." He pointed a shaking finger at me. "You are delusional."

"You can check the banking records yourself. Oh, wait. You do not have the clearance."

"There is no fifty million dollars!" Timothy yelled, his voice echoing loudly. "Your family's company is drowning in debt right now! If you had that kind of money, your father wouldn't be begging the banks for an extension."

"My husband's money is mine. My father's company is his own problem."

"Liar!" Timothy closed the distance between us, stopping just outside the reach of the headlights. "This is a setup. You hired this car. You paid some street thug to sit in the back and play the tough guy."

"You think I rented a custom Rolls-Royce?"

"I think you are desperate!" he shouted. "You knew I was coming. You knew my grandfather was dying. You orchestrated this entire theater to drive up your price."

"I did not know you were in the country until ten minutes ago."

"You want me to beg," Timothy sneered, his confidence returning in an ugly, twisted wave. "You want to punish me for Esther. So you invent a phantom husband. You invent a phantom pregnancy. You invent fifty million dollars."

"Your arrogance is genuinely a medical condition."

"I am calling your bluff right now."

Timothy marched forward. The heavy soles of his leather shoes smacked against the pavement. He bypassed me, his eyes fixed on the tinted window of the Rolls-Royce.

"Let's see this imaginary billionaire," Timothy taunted.

"Step back, Timothy," I warned.

"Why? Are you afraid I will expose your little actor?"

He reached the rear passenger door. He raised his hand, his fingers curling aggressively toward the polished chrome handle.

"Hey, buddy," Timothy called out to the dark glass. "Show is over. Get out of the car."

His fingertips brushed the cold metal.

Two towering figures materialized from the shadows behind the concrete pillar.

They moved in absolute silence. Dressed in identical black suits, they crossed the space in a blur of motion.

Before Timothy could pull the handle, heavy hands clamped down on both his shoulders.