Chapter 5

The Maybach pulled up to the curb outside a highly exclusive, unmarked Michelin three-star French restaurant in Manhattan.

Bronson had insisted. Before she marched into the warzone of the Schmitt estate, they needed to sit down, eat, and get their stories straight.

Elva didn't argue. She followed him past the maître d' and into a private, dimly lit dining room that smelled of truffles and expensive wine.

They sat at opposite ends of a long mahogany table, the flickering candlelight casting sharp shadows over their guarded faces.

Bronson methodically cut into his rare steak. He spoke first, laying out the fabricated background she needed to know. He laid out a flawless, meticulously crafted narrative. He painted a picture of a chance encounter at a high-society charity banquet last month. According to the script, it was love at first sight, a whirlwind romance that left him completely obsessed and refusing to marry anyone else his traditional elders pushed on him.

Elva chewed her food slowly, her sharp eyes scanning his micro-expressions, silently building a psychological profile of the man sitting across from her.

When it was her turn, she kept it brutally brief. She outlined her mother's early death, Warren's hostile takeover of the family company, and his relentless attempts to control her.

She deliberately left out the years of brutal combat training, the underground medical degrees, and the five legendary mentors who treated her like royalty.

Bronson's eyes narrowed slightly. He could practically smell the secrets she was holding back. But he didn't push. It only made the game more thrilling.

Halfway through the meal, Bronson slid a thick manila folder across the table. It contained a watertight Non-Disclosure Agreement and the terms of their marriage contract.

Elva flipped through the dense legal jargon, her eyes scanning for traps. Finding none, she picked up the heavy Montblanc pen and signed her name with sharp, aggressive strokes.

Miles away, inside the sprawling Schmitt estate on Long Island, the air was thick with toxic rage.

Warren paced the living room, his face an ugly shade of purple.

Mona sat on the sofa, her arms crossed, spitting venom. "That ungrateful little bitch. After everything we've done for her, she dares to assault Erick?"

Haylie was curled up in an armchair, dabbing at fake tears. "She was a monster, Dad. She practically threw him through the floor. She's out of control."

Warren slammed his fist down on the glass coffee table, making the teacups rattle. "She will submit! I am not losing the Ramirez family's dowry because that feral brat wants to throw a tantrum!"

Mona's eyes gleamed with malicious calculation. "Just freeze the trust fund, Warren. Once you cut off her mother's money, she won't have a penny to her name. She'll come crawling back on her knees."

Back at the restaurant, Elva elegantly dabbed the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin and tossed it onto her plate.

She checked the sleek watch on her wrist. "Time's up. I need to go give the bloodsuckers their surprise."

Bronson paid the bill, grabbed his tailored suit jacket from the back of the chair, and escorted her out.

The Maybach tore through the night, eventually pulling up to the towering wrought-iron gates of the Schmitt estate.

Elva pushed the car door open. The biting night wind whipped the hem of her trench coat around her legs. She stood alone on the pavement, looking small but utterly unbreakable.

Bronson rolled down the tinted window. His dark, intense eyes locked onto her. "Are you sure you don't need me in there?"

Elva looked back over her shoulder. A cold, bloodthirsty smile curved her lips. "I've got this."

She turned and marched toward the gates, radiating the aura of a god of war.

Bronson watched her back until she disappeared into the shadows. A genuine smile touched his lips. He tapped the glass, signaling the driver. "Back to the office."

He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant. The warmth vanished from his voice, replaced by the absolute zero of a Wall Street emperor.

"I want a complete, forensic teardown of the Schmitt family's financials," Bronson ordered. "Find every dirty secret. Prepare to gut them."

Elva walked up the long driveway, her eyes fixed on the brightly lit living room windows. She reached out and shoved the heavy oak doors open.