The word "Okay" brought Heaven no joy. A flicker of disgust crossed her face. This was not a victory. It was the first shot in a war.

She walked through the penthouse, eyes cataloging every trace of Hartwell. Golf clubs by the door. Custom suits in the closet. The fountain pen on the study desk. She grabbed a cardboard box from the utility closet and, expression blank, began tossing his things inside—one by one, like contaminated waste.

With each thud, another piece of their shared past severed.

When the box was full, the apartment air felt cleaner. Lighter.

The next morning at eight-thirty, Hartwell arrived flanked by his lawyer and his mother, Constance Finley.

Hartwell looked like hell—eyes shadowed, jaw tight with barely leashed rage. His mother, effortless old-money arrogance in a perfect chignon and triple-strand pearls, surveyed Heaven with flat hostility.

Heaven, by contrast, was control incarnate. White power suit. Flawless makeup. An aura that pressed the room silent.

She gestured to her lawyer, David. The two legal teams bent over the share-transfer agreement. Paper rustled.

Constance couldn't contain herself. "Ms. Johnston," she began, condescension dripping, "this is all so unseemly. Hartwell simply made a mistake—one any man might make."

Heaven let her finish. "Mrs. Finley, decency is for decent people. When your son used my meticulously planned wedding to marry another woman, he forfeited any claim to it."

Constance's powdered face paled. She pivoted, tone softening to patronizing sympathy. "We know you're hurt. But Jessi's situation is so delicate... You're young, beautiful. You'll find someone better..."

"Mrs. Finley," Heaven cut in, sharp. "I'm not interested in platitudes. I'm interested in the contract."

David confirmed the documents. He handed them to Heaven.

She didn't read. Flipped to the last page. Signed with a flourish.

Hartwell, under his mother's glare, snatched the pen. He'd sign. Let her have the paper. His lawyers would tie it up in court for years— The thought barely finished before he scrawled his signature.

Papers exchanged. Done. Heaven Johnston now held controlling interest in Finley Group.

She passed her copy to David. Then glanced at Hartwell, as if a thought just struck.

"Oh, and one more thing."

Both Finleys tensed.

"My wedding dress. Vera Wang custom. Eighteen months. One million dollars. Since I'm no longer the bride, I assume the Finley family covers it?"

Hartwell flushed blotchy red. "Heaven, don't push it!"

"Push it? I can push further. I could let all of New York know the Finley heir not only jilts his bride—he can't afford the dress."

Constance stepped in instantly. "One million is no problem. We'll pay." She would not let the family be embarrassed over a sum this small.

She conceded with a tight smile, as if to say: that's all you're worth.

"Now that we're clear," Constance's voice sharpened, "I trust you'll return our family heirloom. The Morning Star set. After all, you're no longer going to be mistress of the Finley house."

The priceless diamonds Hartwell had proposed with. The symbol passed to every Finley bride.

Constance's smile was smug. She thought this the final humiliation—publicly stripping Heaven's stolen status.

David slid a clause across the table. "The marriage license was filed thirty days ago, which means that even though the wedding ceremony never took place, you are already legally husband and wife. This agreement references the existing marital estate. Sign here to acknowledge."

Heaven's pen didn't hesitate. "Noted."