Today was our third wedding anniversary.

I woke up early, bought a bouquet of white lilies, and slipped a handmade card into my coat pocket. Three years ago, I gave up my racing helmet and walked away from the track to become Cole Pierce’s wife. I used to love the roar of an engine. But Cole wanted a quiet home, so I gave it all up. I thought making myself small would keep him close.

Then his assistant called. Cole had been in a minor car accident and was resting at Cedars-Sinai.

I rushed there with the flowers, my heart pounding against my ribs. I hurried down the quiet hallway on the fourth floor and found Room 414.

The door was cracked open an inch.

I stopped.

Inside, Cole sat on the edge of the mattress. He wasn't alone. Jaycee Collins was curled in his arms, her face buried against his chest. Cole had his eyes half-closed. He was stroking her hair, whispering soft, soothing words into her ear. His broad shoulders were curved over her in total protection.

Then Jaycee moved. Her eyes fluttered open.

She looked straight past Cole’s shoulder, right at me through the gap in the door. She didn't look startled. Instead, the corners of her mouth curled up. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face.

I pushed the door open.

The latch clicked loudly in the quiet room. Cole turned his head. His expression tightened, but he didn't jump or look guilty. He gently eased Jaycee back onto the pillows, pulled the white blanket over her legs, and stepped out into the hallway.

He clicked the door shut behind him.

"What are you doing here, Leia?" he asked. His voice was smooth and even.

"It’s our anniversary," I said. My fingers were shaking around the stems of the lilies. "And you’re holding another woman."

Cole rubbed his temple. He looked mildly annoyed. "Jaycee had a medical crisis. The doctors had to monitor her heart. You’re being irrational. Go home."

"Irrational?" The word burned in my throat.

"We’ll talk tonight," he said. He didn't even glance at the flowers in my hands. "Go home, Leia."

Something inside me cracked. It was a cold, sharp sensation. A tiny voice that I had suppressed for three years finally broke through.

I didn't yell. I turned on my heel, threw the lilies into the nearest trash bin, and walked away.

I didn't go home to wait like an obedient wife. Instead, I drove straight to our villa in Malibu.

I walked into Cole’s private study. The room smelled of cedar and expensive scotch. The bottom drawer of his mahogany desk was always locked. Whenever I had asked about it, he told me it only held boring company contracts.

I picked up a heavy bronze letter opener from his desk tray. I jammed the tip into the gap above the lock and threw my weight against it.

The wood splintered. The lock popped open with a crack.

Inside lay a black leather folder. I opened it, and the air left my lungs.

There were two marriage certificates.

The first one had my name on it. *Leia Sanders and Cole Pierce.* But when I looked closely at the state seal, it was just flat, cheap ink. The registration number was blank. It was completely fake. A prop.

Underneath it lay the second paper. It was a real California marriage certificate, stamped with a raised gold seal.

*Cole Pierce and Jaycee Collins.* Legally registered two years ago.

My hands went entirely numb.

I took both certificates down to the dining room and laid them side by side on the long dark table. Then I called Cole.

"Come home," I said. "Now."

He arrived forty minutes later. He loosened his silk tie as he walked through the foyer, looking ready to lecture me for calling him away. But then his eyes landed on the table.

He froze.

He didn't panic. He walked over slowly, looked down at the two pieces of paper, and let out a quiet sigh.

"You broke into my desk," he said flatly.

"We aren't married," I whispered. My throat felt like sandpaper. "I gave up my entire life for you, Cole. And I'm not even your wife."

"Listen to me," Cole said, his voice entirely calm. "You don't understand the situation. Jaycee is bound to a conquest system. It's an app that controls her vitals. If she didn't get legally married, her system would penalize her. She would have died, Leia."

I stared at him. The words sounded completely insane. "You married her because of an app?"

"I saved her life," he said firmly. "That’s all it was. It’s just paper. It doesn't change what we have."

He took a step toward me. His eyes dropped to my bare wrist. Cole suffered from a tactile disorder—his skin broke out in burning hives whenever another woman touched him. My touch was the only thing that gave him relief. He reached out to grab my hand, craving my skin like he always did.

"You know I love you," he murmured. His fingers brushed against my knuckles.

A wave of nausea hit me.

He didn't love me. He never loved me. He just owned me. I was his medicine, his comfort, and his convenience.

I pulled my hand back.

His fingers caught empty air. His jaw clenched in surprise.

I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and turned toward the door.

"Leia, stop," Cole commanded. His voice went cold and sharp. "Don't be childish."

I didn't stop. I walked straight out into the damp ocean air.

Behind me, Cole didn't take a single step to chase after me. Instead, the loud ringtone of his phone cut through the foyer.

I glanced back once through the glass. The screen on the dining table was flashing bright.

The caller ID said *Jaycee*.

***

That night, rain drummed against the window of a cheap hotel room downtown.

I sat on the edge of the bed. The forged marriage certificate was resting on my lap.

In the dark room, three years played back in my head. Every late night Cole spent at the office. Every canceled dinner. Every time he rushed out because Jaycee had an "emergency." Every time he told me I was too jealous, too sensitive, too demanding.

And every single time, I had apologized to him.

I unlocked my phone and went to my photo gallery. There were two hundred and forty-three pictures of Cole and me.

I swiped through them one by one. Charity galas. Beach trips. Dinners on our balcony.

I looked closely at my own face in every single shot.

My smile was always tight. My shoulders were always tense. I had erased my career, my friends, and my fire just to stand behind him. And in not one of those two hundred and forty-three photos did I look truly happy.

I turned the phone face down on the nightstand.

I closed my eyes for exactly three seconds.

I took one deep, clean breath.

When I opened my eyes, the tears were gone. My heart felt cold and dead.

It was time to make a plan.

The next evening, I went to Ardor.

It was the most crowded lounge in downtown Los Angeles. Low velvet booths, dim amber lights, and photographers waiting outside the doors.

I wore a dark silk dress and hired an escort named Derek. He was tall, polished, and had kind eyes. I paid him three thousand dollars just to sit next to me and order drinks.

"What's the job, pretty lady?" Derek asked.

"Just put your hand over mine," I said.

He did. I took a photo of our linked fingers on the marble table, with two cocktail glasses in the frame. I posted it on my personal account without a caption.

Cole saw everything I posted. He had an alert set on his phone.

He arrived forty minutes later.

He didn't take off his coat. He cut through the crowded lounge like a razor. People parted to let him through. When he reached our booth, his jaw was clenched tight. A vein pulsed along his neck.

Without a word, Cole grabbed Derek by the wrist. He twisted it back with crushing force. Derek gasped, his chair scraping the hardwood floor.

"Touch her again," Cole whispered, his voice dangerously low, "and I'll break every bone in your fingers. Get out."

Derek looked at me, then at the murder in Cole's eyes. He didn't argue. He pulled his hand free and vanished into the crowd.

Cole turned to me. His chest rose and fell fast. "Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm single," I said smoothly, sipping my club soda. "I can do whatever I want."

His hand shot out. He gripped my upper arm, his fingers digging into my skin. He pulled me up from the booth and dragged me toward the private exit.

He shoved me into the passenger seat of his sedan and slammed the door. He walked around, got behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. The car shot out into the rainy night.

He drove like a madman up toward the winding cliffside highway. The speedometer climbed.

"You belong to me, Leia," he bit out, glaring at the road. "You don't play games with cheap escorts. You don't embarrass me."

"You belong to Jaycee," I said. "On paper and in bed."

"Shut up!" he barked, hitting the steering wheel with his palm. "I told you that was to save her—"

His phone cut him off.

It buzzed loudly against the center console. The screen flashed: *Jaycee*.

Cole hit the speaker button. "Jaycee, what is it? I'm busy."

"Cole..." Jaycee's voice was thin and trembling through the speakers. A steady, electronic beeping sound came from her side. "The system... the system issued a penalty. My heart rate is one hundred and ninety. I can't breathe... the app says cardiac failure in ten minutes..."

Cole's face lost all its color.

The rage in his eyes vanished. It was replaced by instant panic. It was a trained reaction. She had conditioned him like a dog over the past two years.

"Hold on, Jaycee," Cole said frantically. His voice shook. "I'm coming. Don't close your eyes."

He slammed on the brakes. The car skidded to a stop on the dark shoulder of the cliff road.

The ocean was hundreds of feet below us in the pitch-black fog. There were no streetlights. No guardrails. Just sharp wind and gravel.

Cole reached across me, shoved the passenger door open, and unbuckled my belt.

"Get out," he said.

I stared at him in disbelief. "Cole, we're on a cliff highway. It's midnight."

"Jaycee is dying, Leia!" he roared. He shoved me hard.

My purse slipped from my lap and fell under the dashboard. I tumbled out onto the wet dirt road. My palms hit the sharp stones, cutting my skin.

Cole didn't even look down at me. He yanked the passenger door shut.

The tires kicked up a spray of mud and gravel against my face as the sedan sped away into the darkness. Red taillights disappeared around the bend.

He left me with no car. No coat. No phone.

I stood up, shivering violently in the freezing ocean wind.

Then I heard gravel crunch behind me.

Two figures stepped out from the shadows near the tree line. They wore dark hoodies and heavy boots.

"Leia Sanders?" one of them asked.

My body went cold. "Who are you?"

They didn't answer. The taller man lunged forward. Before I could turn to run, two heavy hands shoved me hard in the chest.

My feet slipped off the edge.

The ground vanished beneath me. The dark ravine rushed up.

I screamed, throwing my arms out blindly. My fingers slammed into a thick, exposed pine root sticking out from the dirt wall.

The impact tore the skin off my palms. A fiery pain ripped through my shoulders as my body jerked to a dead stop, dangling over the drop.

Below me, sharp rocks jagged out of the black earth.

Above me, footsteps trotted away and a car engine rumbled to life down the road.

I gritted my teeth. Tears burned in my eyes, but I swallowed the sob in my throat. I used to race cars at two hundred miles an hour. I survived crashes that snapped steel. I was not going to die on this dirt cliff for Cole Pierce.

I kicked my heels into the wet earth. My knees scraped raw against the rough stone wall.

"One," I whispered to myself, pulling upward.

"Two."

Muscles burning, hands covered in blood and mud, I hooked one elbow over the edge. Then my leg.

I rolled onto the cold asphalt, panting hard. My dress was ripped to shreds. My hands were bloody pulp.

I lay there for a minute, looking up at the gray rain. Then I got to my feet.

I walked.

Three miles along the dark shoulder. Every step sent a jolt of pain through my bruised legs.

It was nearly four in the morning when the yellow neon sign of a remote gas station appeared through the fog.

The clerk inside gasped when he saw me. He handed me a towel, a bottle of water, and pointed to the dusty payphone mounted by the restroom.

I dialed Cole's private number from memory.

He didn't answer the first three times. On the fourth try, the line clicked open.

"What?" Cole snapped. His voice was tired and annoyed. "Who is this?"

"It's me," I said. My voice was completely flat.

Cole paused. He let out a heavy, irritated sigh. "Where are you? You should have just called a cab, Leia. You didn't need to throw a dramatic tantrum."

I listened to him, feeling nothing. Not anger. Not sorrow. Just empty stone.

"Jaycee survived the episode," Cole continued casually. "The doctors managed to stabilize her vitals. But my skin is burning up. My hives are flaring and my levels are spiking because you walked off. Take an Uber to Cedars-Sinai right now. I need your hand."

I held the plastic receiver in my bloody, trembling fingers.

"No," I said softly.

"What did you say?" Cole asked, his tone sharpening.

I hung up the phone.

Two days after Cole left me on the cliff road, my palms were still raw. I wore thin leather gloves to hide the bandages.

The annual children’s hospital charity luncheon was held in the Crystal Ballroom at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows. Fifty women from high society sat around round tables decorated with pink peonies and crystal glasses.

I sat at a side table near the terrace doors. I wanted to see how far Cole would go in public.

At noon, the double doors opened.

Cole walked in. He wore a tailored charcoal suit and his usual calm, untouchable expression. But he wasn't alone. Jaycee was tucked firmly under his arm.

A quiet murmur rippled across the room. Several women glanced between Cole and me.

My eyes dropped to Jaycee’s dress.

It was a pleated ivory silk midi dress with pearl buttons down the front. It was identical to the custom piece Cole bought me in Paris last spring. The exact same cut. The exact same shade.

Jaycee caught my eye. She gave a sweet, fragile smile and whispered something to Cole. Cole nodded once and let her go.

She picked up a glass of red wine from a passing waiter's tray and walked straight toward my table. The heels of her pumps clicked lightly on the polished marble.

"Leia," Jaycee said, stopping right beside my chair. Her voice was soft and musical. "I was hoping I'd see you today. Are you feeling better?"

I didn't answer. I just looked at her.

"I know things have been tense between us," she continued, tilting her head. "I really want us to be friends. Cole cares about you so much, and—"

She stumbled.

It was a clean, practiced motion. Her heel hitched on the carpet. Her hand jerked forward.

The heavy crystal glass tipped. A dark red wave of cabernet poured straight out, splashing across my lap. The wine soaked through my skirt, soaking into my thighs and dripping onto the carpet.

Several women at nearby tables gasped.

"Oh! Oh my goodness!" Jaycee cried out.

She dropped to her knees right in front of me. She grabbed three linen napkins from the table and began dabbing frantically at my skirt. Her face was pale with apparent shock. Big, shiny tears welled up in her eyes.

"I am so sorry!" she stammered loudly enough for five tables to hear. "I lost my footing. I'm so clumsy. Please let me pay for the dry cleaning! Leia, I'm so sorry!"

She looked like a sweet, repentant angel trying to help a victim.

Then she leaned in closer. Her hand pressed the wet napkin against my knee.

Jaycee lifted her chin slightly. Her lips were just inches from my ear. Her trembling voice vanished, replaced by a cold, venomous whisper.

"Cole told me how much you've sacrificed for him," she murmured. Her eyes were completely steady, dark and cruel. "It's so selfless, really. Giving up your racing. Giving up your life. I don't know how you do it. But don't worry. I'll take good care of him now."

She pulled back just as quickly. Her eyes widened with fake panic again. "Did any get on your blouse? Let me help—"

"Don't touch me," I said quietly.

I stood up. The wet silk clung to my legs, cold and heavy.

Six feet away, Cole stood by the champagne tower. His hands were tucked casually into his trouser pockets. He had watched the entire thing. He hadn't moved an inch. His face was a blank mask.

I stepped around Jaycee, walked past the staring socialites, and headed for the quiet corridor near the private restrooms.

Footsteps followed me.

Cole caught up just outside the lounge. He grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, familiar, and suffocating.

"Leia," he said.

I yanked my arm free and turned to face him. "She did that on purpose, Cole."

Cole let out a long, weary breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She tripped, Leia. You saw her heels. She almost hit the floor."

"She wore my dress," I said. My voice was steady, but my chest burned. "She spilled red wine directly onto my lap. And then she knelt down and mocked me for giving up my life for you."

Cole shook his head. He looked at me with that practiced, condescending patience he used whenever I dared to challenge him.

"Jaycee is just trying to be friendly," he said softly. "You're imagining hostility where there isn't any."

"I heard her voice, Cole. She said—"

"You've been so stressed lately," Cole cut in smoothly. His tone sounded caring, but his eyes were completely cold. "First you run off to a hotel, then you hire an escort to provoke me, and now this. Maybe you should talk to someone, Leia. A therapist. You're losing your grip on reality."

I stared at him. The sheer cruelty of his words didn't even hurt anymore. It just made everything very, very clear.

He didn't care about the truth. He only cared about control.

Cole reached out and took my right hand. He peeled off my leather glove without asking. When his bare skin touched my palm, he let out a low, shuddering breath. His shoulders dropped an inch. His tactile allergy—his burning, prickling skin—calmed down instantly.

He was like an addict getting a dose of his medicine. He took what he needed from my skin, completely ignoring the bandage wrapped around my palm.

"Go home and change," he murmured. He leaned forward and pressed a dry, dismissive kiss to my forehead. "We'll have dinner tonight. Just the two of us."

He let go of my hand and turned around. He walked back into the ballroom, straight toward Jaycee's table.

I stood alone in the empty hallway.

The wine stain felt freezing against my skin. The smell of fermented grapes hung thick in the air.

I pulled my phone out of my purse.

I opened a new, password-protected folder in my cloud drive. My fingers didn't shake.

I typed out the date and the time. I wrote down the names of the five women who had watched Jaycee spill the wine. I noted the dress. I wrote down every single word Jaycee had whispered in my ear.

Then I took a photo of the blood-red stain soaking my ivory skirt.

I locked the screen.

Cole thought I was losing my mind.

I was just building my case.