Chapter 8 8

Araminta sat on the floor of Harper's tiny apartment, holding a bag of frozen peas to her bruised neck.

Harper was swiping furiously on an iPad. "Okay, so we need a guy who is desperate for cash, has no criminal record, and is willing to sign a prenup without reading it."

"I have ten hours before Javen wakes up or the police put out a warrant," Araminta said, her voice raspy.

"Gym trainer... no, too dumb. Poet... too emotional," Harper muttered. She sighed, tossing the iPad on the couch. "This is impossible. We're not going to find a suitable puppet in a few hours. There has to be another way."

Araminta stared at the wall, her mind racing through every legal document, every conversation she'd ever overheard. A memory surfaced, a boring lecture from her family's lawyer years ago about the construction of her trust.

"Wait," she said, sitting up straight. Harper looked at her, surprised by the sudden energy in her voice.

"There's an old, obscure state law," Araminta said, thinking aloud. "A 'declaration of intent' for heirs of legacy families under duress. To protect the bloodline from hostile takeovers. You don't need a groom present, just a formal declaration before a judge and proof of the original trust's intent. It's almost never used, but my mother's lawyers were paranoid. They built it in."

Harper's eyes widened. "So you can essentially marry your own trust? That's insane... but brilliant. You go to City Hall, file the paperwork, and boom-you're a bride with no groom, but full access to your funds."

"It's my only shot," Araminta said, a flicker of hope igniting within her. "Help me get the documents ready."

Harper sent a message.

Ping.

"I have a cousin who clerks at City Hall," Harper gasped. "He says the specific judge who handles these archaic filings is in tomorrow at 9 AM. It's a long shot, but it's a shot."

Araminta didn't sleep. She spent the night scrubbing the blood from under her fingernails.

At 8:30 AM, she stood on the steps of City Hall. She wore a simple white dress Harper had lent her. She wore oversized sunglasses to hide her bruised eyes.

She clutched the documents.

She waited.

9:00 AM passed.

9:15 AM.

People walked by, happy couples holding hands. Araminta stood alone, the wind whipping her hair.

"Where is he?" she whispered, meaning the judge.

A black sedan pulled up to the curb. It wasn't a taxi. It was sleek, armored, and familiar.

The back window rolled down.

Elena Vance looked out. Her expression was pitying.

"Get in, Miss Donaldson."

Araminta's stomach dropped. "The judge...?"

"That legal loophole was closed an hour ago," Elena said, her voice flat and final. "Mr. Wolfe's lawyers are very efficient."

Araminta felt the trap snap shut. Alfonse had been watching. He had anticipated her every move.

"I'm not going with you," Araminta said, backing up.

Elena held up her phone. "Javen filed a police report twenty minutes ago. Assault with a deadly weapon. The squad cars are two minutes out."

Araminta froze.

"Mr. Wolfe is offering sanctuary," Elena said. "But the window is closing."

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Araminta opened the car door and slid in.