I woke up in a bed that cost more than my entire existence.
Silk sheets. Egyptian cotton. The kind of softness that whispered money against my skin.
For three perfect seconds, I forgot.
Then reality crashed back.
The will reading. The laughter. Ethan's cold eyes.
I can't marry someone who's unstable.
I curled into myself, pressing Grandma's pendant against my chest until it hurt.
The room was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a city that glittered like broken glass. Modern furniture in shades of grey and black. Everything sharp. Angular. Expensive.
Nothing like home.
Nothing was home anymore.
"You're awake."
I shot upright.
Alexander Knight stood in the doorway, perfectly dressed in a charcoal suit despite the early hour. He held two coffee cups, looking like he'd walked out of a magazine spread titled "How to Intimidate People Before Breakfast."
"Where am I?"
"My penthouse." He crossed the room with the kind of confidence that came from owning entire city blocks. "You fainted in the car. I had my doctor check you—dehydration, exhaustion, shock. Nothing permanent."
He set a coffee cup on the nightstand.
I stared at it like it might explode.
"It's not poisoned," he said dryly. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have bothered with the contract."
"The contract." My voice came out hollow. "I actually signed that."
"You did." He sipped his own coffee, watching me over the rim. "Congratulations, Mrs. Knight. You're officially married."
The room tilted.
"That's... that's not legal. We didn't—there was no ceremony, no—"
"I had my lawyers expedite the paperwork while you slept." He pulled out his phone, showing me a marriage certificate with both our signatures. "Welcome to the advantages of unlimited resources and questionable ethics."
I couldn't breathe.
"This is insane. I don't even know you."
"You know enough." He sat in the chair across from the bed, crossing one leg over the other. Relaxed. Like we were discussing the weather, not my entire life imploding. "I'm rich, powerful, and currently your only option. Unless you'd prefer to go back to your loving family?"
The word family hit like a fist.
I looked away, blinking back tears.
Crying in front of this stranger felt like losing some essential piece of myself.
"Why?" My voice cracked. "Why would you marry someone you don't even know?"
"Business." He said it like it was obvious. "I need a wife to secure a merger. You need protection and resources for revenge. It's transactional."
"That's the coldest thing I've ever heard."
"Cold keeps you alive." His grey eyes pinned me in place. "Love gets you destroyed. You learned that last night, didn't you?"
Ethan's face flashed through my mind.
I can't marry someone who's unstable.
I grabbed the coffee cup, needing something to hold before I shattered.
It was perfect. Exactly how I liked it—two sugars, splash of cream.
"How did you—"
"I did my research." He stood, buttoning his suit jacket. "I know everything about you, Seraphina Westwood. Your favorite coffee. Your mother's scandal. Your grandmother's death. Every betrayal. Every wound."
Heat flooded my cheeks. "That's—"
"Smart?" He moved toward the door. "Yes, it is. Knowledge is power. And right now, you have none. So I suggest you drink your coffee, take a shower, and meet me in the dining room in twenty minutes."
"Why?"
He paused in the doorway.
"Because in twenty minutes, your face is going to be on every news channel in the country." His smile was sharp enough to cut. "And we need to make sure you look like a queen, not a victim."
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
I sat there, coffee cup trembling in my hands.
Then I saw it.
My phone on the nightstand, screen lit up with notifications.
Hundreds of them.
With shaking fingers, I unlocked it.
The first headline made my stomach drop:
WESTWOOD HEIRESS REMOVED FROM GRANDMOTHER'S FUNERAL — FAMILY CLAIMS MENTAL INSTABILITY
I scrolled.
SERAPHINA WESTWOOD: GOLD DIGGER LIKE MOTHER?
ETHAN HARRINGTON ENDS ENGAGEMENT — "SHE NEEDS HELP"
BREAKING: Westwood Family Contests Fraudulent Will
Video after video. Photos of me being dragged out. Close-ups of my tear-stained face. Commentary from "family friends" who'd never spoken to me.
She was always troubled.
Her mother's daughter, really.
Poor Eleanor must have been manipulated.
My hands shook so hard I nearly dropped the phone.
They'd destroyed me.
In one night, they'd taken everything and painted me as the villain.
A knock on the door.
A woman entered—elegant, fifties, carrying garment bags.
"Mrs. Knight." She smiled warmly. "I'm Marie, Mr. Knight's personal stylist. Let's get you ready."
"Ready for what?"
"Your debut."
Twenty minutes later, I barely recognized myself.
The mirror showed a stranger.
Hair styled in soft waves. Makeup that enhanced without hiding. A cream silk blouse and tailored black pants that screamed expensive without trying.
I looked... powerful.
Like someone who hadn't been destroyed last night.
Like someone who could destroy back.
"Perfect," Marie murmured. "Now they'll see what they lost."
I touched Grandma's pendant—the only piece of me left.
"Come." Marie gestured toward the door. "Mr. Knight is waiting."
The penthouse was even more impressive in daylight. Modern art on white walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Everything designed to intimidate.
Alexander stood by the windows, phone pressed to his ear.
"I don't care what they're offering. The answer is no." His voice was ice. "Tell them if they contact me again, I'll buy their company and fire everyone. Yes, everyone. Including the janitor."
He hung up, turning to face me.
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in those grey eyes.
"You clean up well."
"Thanks. I think." I wrapped my arms around myself. "You said twenty minutes. It's been exactly twenty minutes."
"Punctual. Good." He checked his watch—probably worth more than my father's car. "In approximately thirty seconds, every major news outlet will receive an exclusive press release."
"About what?"
"Our marriage."
My heart stopped.
"You can't—"
"I already did." He pulled out his phone, showing me a statement:
BREAKING: Billionaire Alexander Knight Marries Seraphina Westwood in Private Ceremony
"I've found my perfect match in Seraphina," says Knight. "She's brilliant, compassionate, and exactly the partner I've been searching for. We ask for privacy during this special time."
"This is insane," I whispered.
"This is strategy." He pocketed his phone. "Right now, your family is celebrating. They think they've won. They think you're broken."
"I am broken."
"No." He stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and dangerous. "You're angry. There's a difference."
"I don't understand what you want from me."
"I want you to be my wife. In public, at least." He tilted my chin up with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes. "I need someone intelligent, poised, and utterly untouchable. Someone who won't fall for me. Someone who won't complicate things with emotions."
"And in private?"
"In private, we're strangers with a contract." He released me, stepping back. "You get your own wing of the penthouse. Your own space. Your own life. All I ask is that you play the part when it matters."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He straightened his cuffs. "Oh, and one more thing."
"What?"
His smile turned predatory.
"We're having lunch with your family tomorrow."
The room spun.
"What? No. I can't—"
"You can." He moved toward the door. "And you will. Because tomorrow, Seraphina Westwood, you're going to walk into that mansion on my arm and show them exactly what they threw away."
"They'll destroy me—"
"They'll try." He paused at the door. "But they can't touch you anymore. You're Mrs. Alexander Knight now. And I protect what's mine."
He left.
I stood there, shaking.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Victoria:
How dare you spread lies? Marriage? As if anyone would want damaged goods. Enjoy your delusions while they last.
Another from my father:
You've embarrassed this family enough. Whatever game you're playing, it ends now.
And one from Ethan:
Sera... this isn't you. Please get help.
My hands clenched around the phone.
They still thought I was broken.
They still thought I was weak.
They had no idea what I'd just become.
I walked to the window, looking down at the city below.
Somewhere out there, they were laughing.
Tomorrow, they'd choke on it.
I pulled up my messages and typed:
See you tomorrow. I'll bring my husband.
Hit send.
Then I smiled.
It felt like bleeding.
But it felt like power too.
Behind me, Alexander's voice drifted from another room:
"Welcome to the game, Mrs. Knight. Let's make them regret everything."
And for the first time since Grandma died, I felt something other than pain.
I felt fury.
And fury, I was learning, was so much better than tears.