The Trophy Wife's Revenge: Married to the Billionaire

Chapter 6

The silence in the back of the SUV was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against my eardrums. It smelled of expensive leather and the lingering metallic tang of adrenaline.

We were driving away from 432 Broadway, leaving Dane’s life in a pile of broken glass and eviction notices.

I should have felt something. Victory, maybe. Or vindication.

Instead, my phone buzzed. Once. Then twice. Then a third time, a frantic vibration against my thigh that felt like a hive of angry hornets.

I looked at the screen.

Notifications. Dozens of them. They weren’t calls. They were alerts. The New York Post. The Daily Mail. CNBC. Bloomberg.

The headlines were screaming at me.

STERLING HEIRESS: MENTALLY UNSTABLE? VIOLENT PAST REVEALED.

FROM FOSTER CARE TO BILLIONAIRE: THE TURBULENT RISE OF CRIMSON KNIGHT.

I clicked on a video link. The screen filled with the face of a woman I had once shared a bunk bed with.

Maren.

She was sitting in a studio, wearing a blouse that was too low-cut and tears that looked too perfect. She had a bruise on her cheek. A purple, swollen mark that looked painful.

"He came at me with a bottle," Maren sobbed into the microphone, her voice trembling with practiced fragility. "I tried to stop him from leaving, and he... he just snapped. Crimson has always had a temper. The social workers knew it. They said she was disturbed."

She touched the bruise gingerly. "I’m scared for her. I’m scared for what she might do next. She has all this money now, and she’s... she’s not stable."

The video cut to a male anchor. Disturbing news for the Sterling Group, who saw their stock dip three points on the announcement of the unknown heir.

Ryder leaned across the seat and tapped the screen of my phone, turning it off.

"Don't," he said. His voice was low, a rough rumble that vibrated through the leather seat. "It’s trash. It’s clickbait."

"It’s working," I said, staring at the black screen. "Look at the comments."

I had glimpsed them before he shut it down. Monster. Crazy b***h. Gold digger. She belongs in an asylum.

"They are tearing me apart," I said. "They are calling me mentally ill. They are saying I’m unfit to run a company."

"Because they are afraid," Ryder said. He didn't look at me. He was looking out the window, watching the city slide by, grey and grim. "Fear makes people vicious. They are trying to invalidate you before you even sit in the chair."

"So what do I do?" I asked. "Hide? Send a press release? My lawyers—"

"I don't use lawyers for this," Ryder interrupted. He finally turned to look at me. The light caught the silver scar on his jaw, making it look like a fresh wound. "Lawyers are for people who are guilty. I bury people who come at me."

He tapped the glass partition. "Arthur. Take us to the studio."

I froze. "The studio?"

"You’re going on television," Ryder said. "If Maren wants a war, we give her one."

"You want me to do an interview?" I asked, my voice rising. "Ryder, I can’t. I’m not... I’m not you. I don’t know how to be cold in front of cameras. I’ll freeze. I’ll look like the victim they say I am."

"No," Ryder said. He reached out and grabbed my chin. His grip was iron, forcing me to look at him. His eyes were chips of flint, sparking with a cold, dangerous fire. "You don't freeze. You get even."

He leaned closer, the scent of him filling my nose—scotch, expensive cologne, and rain.

"Listen to me," he said. "The camera is a gun. If you look away, you die. You don't apologize. You don't explain. You attack. You walk out there, and you rip her throat out with your teeth."

He let go of my chin and sat back. "She wants to play the victim? Let’s show them what a real victim looks like."

***

The news station was a madhouse.

We didn't go in the front door. Ryder pulled the SUV around the back, into a loading dock. Men in black suits—his security—were waiting. They formed a wedge around us, shielding us from the few paparazzi that were lurking like rats near the dumpsters.

"Ms. Knight," a harassed woman with a headset screamed at me. "You’re on in five! Makeup! Now!"

I was shoved into a room filled with bright lights and mirrors. A woman with a brush attacked my face, dusting powder that smelled of talcum and panic.

"Sit still," she barked. "Close your eyes."

I sat. The chair was vinyl, cold and sticky. I closed my eyes.

I listened to the sounds outside. The humming of the equipment. The shouts of the crew. The distant, rhythmic thud of Ryder’s cane on the concrete floor.

He was there. In the dark. Watching.

"One minute," the headset woman yelled.

I looked in the mirror. The woman staring back was wearing a green silk dress that cost more than my first car. Her hair was sleek, sharp. Her eyes were painted in dark liner.

She looked like a queen.

She also looked like she was about to vomit.

"You're going to be great," a voice said.

I looked up. Ryder was standing in the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, his suit perfect, his cane resting against his hip. He looked like he owned the air in the room.

"I feel like I'm going to pass out," I admitted.

"Good," Ryder said. "It means you care."

He walked over to me. The makeup woman flinched but didn't stop brushing.

Ryder reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver lighter. He flicked it open. The flame was small, a blue tongue in the bright room.

"Look at the fire," he said.

I looked at it.

"This is you," he said. "Small. Hot. Capable of burning everything down if you let it."

He snapped the lighter shut. Click.

"But if you control it," he said, "it warms you. Use that anger, Crimson. Don't hide behind the polite girl who scrubbed floors. She doesn't live here anymore."

He offered me his hand.

"Come," he said. "Let’s go feed the sharks."

***

The studio was hotter than hell.

Banks of lights blazed down, baking my makeup, drying out my contacts. The floor was polished black, reflecting the chaos. The audience was a blur of faces, murmuring like a disturbed hive.

"And welcome back," the host said. She was a woman named Gloria, with teeth so white they glowed and hair sprayed into a helmet that didn't move. "We have a very special guest tonight. The woman who has captured the city's attention—the newly revealed heiress, Crimson Knight."

Applause. Some polite, some curious. Some hostile.

I walked out onto the stage.

The heels of my Louboutins clicked on the floor—clack, clack, clack. The sound was sharp, rhythmic. It sounded like a countdown.

I sat in the chair opposite Gloria. The leather was cool against the back of my thighs.

"Ms. Knight," Gloria said, flashing her predator-smile. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for having me," I said. My voice didn't shake. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. Someone harder.

"There have been... allegations," Gloria started. She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. "Serious allegations from your foster sister, Maren Vance. She claims you attacked her. That you have a history of violence."

The audience went silent.

"Is that true?" Gloria pressed. "Are you dangerous, Ms. Knight?"

I looked at the camera. I looked right down the lens, imagining the millions of people staring back at me.

I saw the foster homes. The crowded rooms. The caseworkers with their belts.

"Maren and I grew up together," I said. My voice was calm. Deadly calm. "We shared a room for six years. I know her."

"She says you attacked her with a bottle," Gloria said.

"She has a vivid imagination," I said.

The audience tittered. Nervous laughter.

Gloria’s smile tightened. "We have photos, Ms. Knight."

The giant screen behind me flickered to life.

It was a picture of Maren. Her face was turned, displaying the bruise. She looked tragic. Broken.

"A receipt from a shelter," I said, gesturing to the screen without looking at it. "A police report filed yesterday."

"Yes," Gloria said, pouncing. "Proof."

"Proof of a lie," I said.

I turned to the side screen. "Play the clip."

The tech crew looked confused. Gloria looked confused. Ryder, standing in the wings, didn't move. He just watched.

"Play it," I commanded.

They did.

It was security footage. Not from a bar, but from a department store. Sephora.

There was Maren, standing at a makeup counter. She was testing eyeshadows. She picked up a tester pot. She smeared a purple powder under her eye. She rubbed it in, blending it until it looked exactly like the bruise in the photo.

Then, she looked in the mirror. She practiced a sad face. She practiced crying.

The video cut.

Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence in the studio.

Then, a roar. Laughter. Applause.

Gloria’s face turned the color of curdled milk. She looked like she’d swallowed a bug.

"She painted it on," I said into the microphone. "She faked a bruise to sell a story."

The applause was deafening.

"So the attack," I shouted over the noise, "didn't happen?"

"The eviction, however," I continued, my voice dropping an octave, cutting through the applause, "that happened."

Gloria straightened her jacket, trying to recover. "Yes. You evicted your husband today. Quite... ruthless, some say."

"Is it ruthless to stop funding a lie?" I asked. "I paid Dane’s rent for three years. I paid his gambling debts. I covered his tracks so he could play CEO."

I leaned forward. The lights glared off my green dress.

"I was his bank," I said. "His ATM. His maid. His scapegoat."

"And today," I said, "I closed the account."

The audience cheered. Someone yelled, "You go, girl!"

"The Sterling Board," Gloria tried again, sweating now, "is concerned about your stability. About your... upbringing."

"Upbringing?" I laughed. The sound was sharp, like glass breaking. "My upbringing taught me how to survive. It taught me how to read people. It taught me that when someone kicks you, you don't help them up. You step on their throat."

The studio went quiet.

"I am not mentally unstable," I said, looking into the camera, channeling every ounce of rage I had ever felt. "I am awake."

I stood up. The chair scraped against the floor.

"I am Crimson Knight," I said. "I am the CEO of the Sterling Group. And I am done letting people like Maren, and people like my ex-husband, dictate my worth."

I looked at the wings. Ryder was there.

"If they want a war," I said, "they have one."

I walked off the stage.

***

The adrenaline was a live wire under my skin.

I pushed through the heavy curtains, stepping out of the lights and into the cool shadow of the wings.

I expected Ryder to be there. I expected the nod of approval.

Instead, he grabbed me.

He didn't say a word. He just grabbed my arm, his grip bruising, and hauled me down the hallway. Past the crew. Past the gaping producers. Into a dark, unused supply closet.

He kicked the door shut behind us.

It was dark. The only light came from the crack under the door.

"You're insane," he said. His voice was a growl, scraping against my eardrums.

"Did it work?" I asked. My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.

"The stock is up twelve points since you walked off that stage," Ryder said. He crowded me, backing me up against a shelf of cleaning supplies. "Maren’s lawyer is already retracting the statement. Julian’s blood pressure monitor is flatlining."

He leaned into me. The scent of him—scotch, rain, rage—overpowered the smell of bleach and cleaner.

"You humiliated her on national television," Ryder whispered. "You skinned her alive."

"She started it," I said.

"I know." Ryder’s hand came up, cupping the back of my neck. His fingers were hot, calloused against my nape. "And it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."

I looked up at him. His eyes were dark, dilated. Pupils blown wide.

"Lesson two," he said.

He didn't ask. He didn't wait.

He crushed his mouth to mine.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

It was teeth and tongue and desperation. His mouth was hot, demanding, tasting of whiskey and power. He didn't ask for permission; he took.

His hand tangled in my hair, ruining the styling, tilting my head back, exposing my throat to the dark air of the closet. His other hand grabbed my hip, his fingers digging into the silk, pulling me flush against him so I could feel the hard lines of his body, the ridge of his arousal.

I gasped into his mouth. He swallowed the sound.

I grabbed his lapels, my knuckles white against the black wool. I pulled him closer, rising on my toes, meeting his aggression with my own. I bit his lower lip, hard enough to taste copper.

He groaned. A low, animal sound that vibrated against my chest.

He hauled me up, lifting me off my feet. My back hit the shelf. Bottles of cleaner rattled.

The world dissolved. The studio, the cameras, the interview.

There was only the heat of his body, the ruthless pressure of his lips, the silver cane that clattered to the floor as he let it go to grab me with both hands.

He was consuming me. Devouring me.

And for the first time in my life, I didn't want to be saved.

I wanted to burn.