Chapter 6 6

Gretchen stepped into the sprawling, French-style living room.

The moment she crossed the threshold, she stopped.

Two estate maids were carrying massive cardboard boxes toward the front door.

The boxes were overflowing with the physical evidence of her past six years in this house.

She saw her favorite velvet throw pillows.

She saw her heavily annotated ballet scripts and worn-out pointe shoes.

Barnett stood by the massive marble fireplace, his hands shoved into his pockets.

He looked at Alistair, the head butler, with cold, hard eyes.

"Throw all of this garbage into the incinerator. I don't want to see any of it again."

Gretchen's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that she felt the skin break.

She forced herself to swallow the bitter lump of acid rising in her throat.

She stood frozen, watching the destruction of her life.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs.

Dixon walked slowly down from the second floor.

His sharp eyes swept over the cardboard boxes.

A dark, violent shadow flickered in his gray-blue eyes for a fraction of a second.

Barnett saw Dixon and immediately marched toward him.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Barnett demanded, his voice shaking with rage. "You actually married this crazy woman?"

Dixon stopped on the bottom step.

He casually tucked one hand into his pocket, his lips curling into a look of absolute disdain.

"What? Are you upset that I'm taking out the trash you didn't want?"

The words felt like a rusty saw dragging across Gretchen's heart.

The blood drained from her face, leaving her dizzy.

She pressed her lips together, refusing to let him see her break.

Barnett let out a harsh sneer.

He pointed at the heavy boxes.

"If she's trash, then clean up the rest of her garbage while you're at it."

Dixon slowly turned his head.

He looked at the top box.

Resting on top of the pile was an antique wooden music box.

It was the only thing Gretchen had left from her dead mother.

Dixon looked at the butler, his voice flat and entirely bored. "Pack all of this away. I don't want to see it anywhere in my house."

As the butler reached for the box, Dixon's long fingers casually intercepted the antique wooden music box. He slipped it silently into his deep overcoat pocket before turning away.

Gretchen's eyes widened in sheer horror.

She stared at Dixon, her chest tightening so hard she couldn't pull in oxygen.

She thought, surely, he would at least stop them from burning her mother's memory.

Dixon didn't even glance in her direction.

He walked right past her, heading for the front door.

"Mrs. Spencer, if you don't want to stand around watching them burn garbage, follow me."

Gretchen took a ragged breath.

She blinked back the burning tears, straightened her spine, and followed him out of the suffocating house.

The second the heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut and the car rolled down the driveway, Gretchen snapped.

"Those were my personal belongings!"

She screamed, her voice shaking with raw fury. "You had no right to let them throw that away!"

Dixon kept his eyes on the road, casually turning the steering wheel.

"If you are going to be my wife, you don't keep your ex's garbage. I will buy you new things."

His voice was terrifyingly cold.

Gretchen's entire body shook with anger at his ruthless, dictatorial cruelty.

She turned her head, staring blankly out the window, refusing to speak another word to him.

The car finally pulled up to a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side.

Gretchen yanked the door handle and sprinted into the building without looking back.

When the door to her parents' apartment swung open, her mother, Helena, gasped.

Seeing her daughter's red, swollen eyes, Helena pulled Gretchen into a tight hug.

Her father, Julian, sat stiffly on the living room sofa.

On the glass coffee table in front of him sat the morning edition of the financial times.

The front page screamed the headline of the Spencer family's second son's sudden marriage.

"Gretchen, is what the papers are saying true?"

Julian's voice was stern and tight with fear. "Did you really marry that notorious bastard, Dixon?"

Gretchen pulled back from her mother's arms.

She wiped her face, her eyes hardening.

"Yes, Dad. We registered at City Hall yesterday."

Helena covered her mouth in horror.

"Oh, God! Have you lost your mind? Didn't Barnett hurt you enough? Why are you jumping into another fire pit?"

"It's not a fire pit. It's a transaction."

Gretchen sat down on the edge of the armchair, keeping her back perfectly straight.

"I need the Spencer family title to protect myself."

"Protect?" Julian slammed his hand onto the newspaper. "A bloodsucking capitalist like Dixon Spencer will protect you?"

"We signed an agreement. We both get what we need."

Gretchen carefully avoided mentioning the fifty-million-dollar penalty.

"He wants the shares. I want my dignity back."

Helena reached out, grabbing Gretchen's freezing hands.

"Baby, you can't control a billionaire family's internal war. I'm terrified you'll be eaten alive."

"I won't lose."

Gretchen squeezed her mother's hands, her eyes burning with absolute resolve.

Suddenly, the phone in her purse vibrated.

She pulled it out.

It was a text message from Dixon.

[I will be at your studio at 3:00 PM to pick you up. Prepare to move.]

Gretchen stared at the commanding, arrogant text.

She took a deep breath and pressed the power button, plunging the screen into darkness.

She knew the real war was just beginning.