Chapter 2 Inherit the estate

Christi unlocked the door to her cramped Brooklyn apartment. She had rented this place before the "marriage" and kept it as a small studio for her photography.

She peeled off her soaking wet windbreaker and threw it onto the peeling leather sofa.

Her hands were still shaking. She pulled the SD card from her bra and shoved it into the slot of her battered MacBook. She imported the high-res photos of the kiss into a hidden, encrypted folder.

She opened Instagram. Using a burner account, she searched for Fallon Ratcliff's public page. It was a flawless grid of charity galas, art exhibitions, and polo matches.

Christi's eyes scanned the background of a photo taken at a Hamptons party. Sitting on a table behind Fallon was a limited-edition Hermes Birkin bag. Christi clicked the tags on the photo, tracing the accounts of the people in the background.

It took her twenty minutes of reverse-tracking to find it. A private account. The handle was "F_loves_J".

Christi stared at the password prompt. Her mind raced back to a time she'd glimpsed Fallon's password combination in Jensen's study. She typed it in. Hit enter.

The screen loaded.

Hundreds of photos populated the grid. Christi scrolled down to the very bottom. The timeline started a year into Christi's own five-year sham marriage, a brutal confirmation that the betrayal had been running for four of those five years.

She clicked on a photo from three years ago. Fallon was sitting in Jensen's lap in a hotel room in Paris. Pinned to Fallon's dress was the Rivera family's heirloom ruby brooch.

The caption read: *The real lady of the house doesn't need a piece of paper to prove it.*

Christi's fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. This wasn't just an affair. This was a four-year slaughterhouse. Everyone in that family knew. Everyone played along.

Her chest heaved. She grabbed her half-full coffee mug from the desk and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall. Brown liquid exploded everywhere, splattering all over a framed photo of her and Jensen with the Rivera family.

She dragged her hands through her wet hair, pulling hard at the roots. She was going to send these screenshots to every tabloid in the city.

Before her finger could hit the export button, her phone rang.

The screen showed an 'Unknown Caller'.

She took a deep breath, forcing her heart rate down, and answered. "Hello?"

"Miss Schmidt," a deep male voice said. The man spoke with a thick, old-money Boston accent. "My name is Silas Croft."

Christi's spine stiffened. She assumed Jensen had already found out about the photos and sent a crisis management lawyer. "Don't play games with me," she snapped, her voice cold. "Tell Jensen I'm not signing anything."

"I do not work for Mr. Rivera," Silas said calmly. "I am calling regarding Brad David and Beryl Jackson. Formerly of Sunfield."

Christi froze. The blood drained from her face. Brad and Beryl were her adoptive parents. They died in a car accident five years ago. Nobody knew those names.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Brad David was not a blue-collar mechanic, Miss Schmidt. He was the eldest son of the David family of Boston, and a covert researcher funded by DARPA."

"That's absurd," Christi shot back, the words feeling like ice in her veins. "If they were billionaires, they wouldn't have given up on treatment because they couldn't afford the medical bills."

Silas explained, his tone unwavering. "The poverty was part of their cover. The non-disclosure agreements have expired today."

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside Christi's apartment.

She stopped breathing. She crept toward the door and pressed her eye against the peephole.

Two massive men in tailored black suits stood in the narrow, dirty hallway. They had earpieces in. They weren't knocking. They were standing with their backs to her door, guarding it.

"The men outside are private security from the David family," Silas said through the phone, anticipating her panic. "From this moment on, no one will ever hurt you again."

Christi's hand trembled against the cheap wood of her door. "Why are you calling me now?"

"I am executing the will," Silas said. "As the sole legal heir, a trust fund valued at fifty billion dollars has automatically transferred into your name."

Fifty billion.

The number hit Christi's brain like a physical blow. Her mind blanked. That was three times the net worth of the entire Rivera conglomerate.

She stumbled backward and collapsed into her desk chair. Her eyes flicked to the computer screen, looking at Fallon showing off a two-million-dollar necklace. It suddenly looked like cheap plastic.

"How do I access it?" Christi asked, her voice shaking. "I need cash now. I need to destroy Jensen."

"There is a strict trigger clause in your father's will," Silas warned, his voice turning grave.

"To prevent you from being swallowed by rival factions, Brad David designated a mandatory marital alliance with a partner of absolute power."

Christi's stomach twisted. She had just escaped a five-year fake marriage trap. "I'm not selling myself for money. I won't do it."

"The designated partner," Silas continued, ignoring her outburst, "is the controlling shareholder of the Apex Group. Cornelius Gregory."

Christi sucked in a sharp breath.

Everyone on Wall Street knew that name. Cornelius Gregory was a monster. Rumors said a car crash left him paralyzed from the waist down, confined to a wheelchair, and completely unhinged. A violent madman.