Nora's POV
I stare at the photo on my phone, my entire world tilting.
Me and Jennifer. Six months ago. That envelope in my hands.
Remember what you did? Maybe Dominic should know about the evidence YOU planted.
Nora? Dominic's voice cuts through my panic. What's wrong?
I look up. He's watching me, concern creasing his forehead.
Tell him. Show him the photo. Explain.
Except I can't explain what I don't understand.
That envelope—what was in it? I gave Jennifer research materials all the time. We worked together on stories. It was nothing suspicious.
Wasn't it?
Nothing, I lie, shoving my phone in my pocket. Just more texts from Marcus.
His eyes narrow. He doesn't believe me.
But his phone rings before he can push. He answers, listens, his expression darkening.
When? Pause. I'll be right there. He hangs up. Emergency at the Singapore office. I need to handle this.
Go. I'm fine.
He hesitates, studying my face. We're not done talking about whatever's on that phone.
Then he's gone.
I sink into his desk chair, hands shaking. I need to figure out what that photo means before Dominic sees it. Before Marcus uses it to destroy everything.
The next morning, Dominic appears in my doorway while I'm still in pajamas.
Get dressed. We're going shopping.
What? Why?
Because you need a wardrobe befitting Mrs. Ashford. His eyes travel over my worn Columbia t-shirt. Can't have my wife looking like a college student.
There's nothing wrong with my clothes.
For a paralegal, no. For my wife attending charity galas and board dinners? He raises an eyebrow. Everything.
Two hours later, I'm standing in a boutique where a single dress costs more than my rent used to.
Salespeople swarm the moment we enter, greeting Dominic by name. They look at me with barely concealed curiosity and judgment.
Mr. Ashford! So wonderful to see you! A woman in head-to-toe black air-kisses near his cheeks. And this must be your new wife. Congratulations!
Thank you, Christine. She needs everything. Start with evening wear.
I'm whisked into a dressing room before I can protest.
For the next hour, I'm treated like a life-sized doll. Dresses appear and disappear. Someone styles my hair. Another person suggests makeup.
I stare at myself in the mirror wearing a dress that costs four thousand dollars and feel like an imposter playing dress-up.
This is ridiculous, I mutter.
Is it? Dominic's reflection appears behind mine.
My breath catches. He's watching me with an intensity that makes my skin burn.
You look beautiful, he says softly.
Something in his voice—vulnerable, honest—makes my heart stutter.
Then his phone rings. The moment shatters.
Excuse me. He steps away, all business again. Yes? What do you mean the contracts aren't ready?
I change back into my own clothes, feeling the loss of that moment like a physical ache.
By noon, I have more shopping bags than I can count. Dresses, shoes, jewelry—things I'll never feel comfortable wearing.
James coordinates everything like a military operation, chatting cheerfully while arranging delivery.
You'll get used to it, he tells me. The shopping, the attention, all of it.
I don't want to get used to it.
Then you married the wrong billionaire. He grins. Come on. Boss is taking you to lunch.
The restaurant is exclusive, expensive. Dominic orders for both of us without asking what I want. Normally that would annoy me.
But he orders exactly what I would have chosen.
How does he know me so well already?
We're halfway through the meal when cameras flash outside.
Paparazzi, Dominic says calmly. They've been following us since the boutique.
What do we do?
We give them a show. He stands, offers his hand. Trust me?
I take his hand. Do I have a choice?
Not really.
Outside, cameras explode in our faces. Questions bombard us from every direction.
Mr. Ashford! Is it true you got married?
Who is she?
How did you meet?
When's the honeymoon?
Dominic pulls me close, his arm wrapping around my waist. The touch sends electricity through me.
Gentlemen, ladies, he addresses the crowd with easy confidence. This is my wife, Nora.
More flashes. More questions shouted over each other.
Since when are you married?
Why so sudden?
A reporter shoves a microphone in my face. Mrs. Ashford, how does it feel to marry one of New York's most eligible bachelors?
My mind blanks. What do I say?
Dominic leans in, his lips brushing my temple. The gesture is casual, intimate, possessive.
Since I decided she was mine, he says, answering a question I didn't hear.
The cameras go insane.
He guides me to the waiting car, his body shielding mine from the press. Once inside, the chaos mutes.
My hands shake. That was
Necessary. He's still close, his arm around me. Now everyone knows you're protected. Marcus can't touch you without coming through me first.
His thumb traces small circles on my hip. The touch is unconscious, automatic.
Like he forgot he's pretending.
Dominic
His phone rings again. He pulls away, answers it.
The loss of his warmth feels like abandonment.
We ride in silence back to the penthouse. But something's changed. The air between us crackles with unspoken things.
That evening, I'm unpacking the mountain of shopping bags when my phone buzzes.
Unknown number. I almost don't look.
But something makes me check.
It's a video file.
My stomach drops as I press play.
The footage is grainy, clearly from a hidden camera. It shows an office—the one where I used to work.
Six months ago, based on the date stamp.
I watch myself enter the frame, looking around nervously. Then I open a desk drawer—Marcus's desk—and pull out files.
No.
My hands shake as the video continues. I watch myself photograph documents with my phone. Then I put something back in the drawer. Something small. A flash drive?
The video ends.
Below it, a message: Look familiar? This is you PLANTING evidence in Marcus's desk. You framed him, just like he said. And tomorrow, everyone will see this video—including your husband. Unless you leave Dominic now. You have 24 hours. —Anonymous
The phone slips from my trembling fingers.
That video—it's impossible. I never planted evidence. I found the proof of Marcus's embezzlement, I didn't create it.
Didn't I?
My memory of that night is fuzzy. I was so angry, so desperate to prove he was guilty.
But I wouldn't have planted evidence. I'm a journalist. I have ethics.
Right?
A knock on my door makes me jump.
Nora? Dominic's voice. Dinner's ready.
I shove my phone under a pillow, my heart hammering.
Coming!
At dinner, Dominic watches me push food around my plate.
You're quiet.
Tired. Shopping is exhausting.
Liar. His eyes bore into mine. What's really wrong?
Everything. My whole world is crumbling and I don't know how to stop it.
Nothing. I'm fine.
He reaches across the table, takes my hand. We're partners now, remember? You can tell me anything.
The sincerity in his eyes nearly breaks me.
But if I tell him about the video, he'll doubt me. Just like everyone else did.
And if that video goes public tomorrow, he'll know I lied.
I'm trapped either way.
I'm just adjusting, I say. To all of this. The marriage, the attention, the lies we're telling everyone.
Are they all lies? His thumb traces my knuckles. Because sitting with you today, shopping for clothes you'll wear to events at my side, introducing you as my wife—none of that felt like lying.
My breath catches. Dominic
His phone rings. Again. Always at the worst moments.
He ignores it this time. Talk to me, Nora. What's going on in that brilliant head of yours?
The phone keeps ringing.
You should answer that.
I don't want to.
It might be important.
He sighs, checks the screen. His expression changes instantly.
It's Victoria. She's calling an emergency board meeting. He stands. Tomorrow morning. Nine AM. She's moving against me.
Fear claws up my throat. What does that mean?
It means whatever Marcus and Victoria are planning, it's happening now. His eyes are ice. And we're out of time.
My phone buzzes in my room. Another message.
Tick tock, Nora. The video goes live in 18 hours. Choose: destroy yourself to save Dominic, or let him go down with you. Either way, you lose. —Anonymous
I look at Dominic, who's already making calls, marshaling his forces.
In 18 hours, he'll see proof that I'm exactly what Marcus claimed—a liar who plants evidence.
And I have no way to prove my innocence.
Because deep down, in a corner of my mind I don't want to examine, I'm not entirely sure I am innocent.