The Trophy Wife's Revenge: Married to the Billionaire

Chapter 5

The silence in the Sterling Manor wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums like water in the deep ocean, waiting to crush my lungs.

I hadn’t slept.

The bed was too soft, drowning me in silk and down. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my mother’s portrait. The defiance in her eyes. The red dress. The promise I had made to a dead woman in an empty ballroom.

At 6:00 AM, I gave up. I threw off the covers and stood in front of the window. The estate was a sprawling grey monster in the dawn light. Fog clung to the lawns, turning the manicured gardens into a graveyard for ghosts.

I showered. The water was scalding, turning my skin pink, trying to scrub off the girl who had scrubbed floors for a man who didn’t love her.

When I walked out of the bathroom, Arthur was there.

He didn't speak. He didn't look at me. He simply pointed to the bed.

Laid out with surgical precision was a suit.

It wasn’t black. It was the deepest shade of charcoal, almost blue. The fabric was Italian wool, sharp enough to cut glass. Next to it lay a blouse of cream silk and heels that looked like weapons.

I dressed. The suit fit like it had been sewn onto my skin. It nipped my waist, lengthened my legs, squared my shoulders. I looked in the full-length mirror.

The woman staring back was a stranger. Her eyes were cold. Her mouth was a flat, hard line. She wore scars like armor.

"Ms. Knight," Arthur said from the door. "Mr. Crane is waiting."

I didn't answer. I picked up the silver necklace from the nightstand—the heavy pendant with the dark stone—and fastened it around my throat.

It felt like a collar.

It felt like a crown.

***

Ryder didn’t wait in the foyer. He was in the car, the engine idling low and smooth.

I slid into the backseat. The air inside smelled of expensive leather and cold rain.

"Sleep well?" he asked. He was scrolling through a tablet, his face illuminated by the blue light. He looked worse than he had yesterday. The shadows under his eyes were bruises.

"Like the dead," I said.

"Good." He tapped the screen. "The dead don't complain."

We pulled away from the manor, tires crunching on the gravel. The iron gates opened, swallowing us, then spitting us out onto the main road.

"Where are we going?"

"School," Ryder said.

We drove in silence, the city rising up to meet us. The skyline of New York was a jagged row of teeth, biting into the grey belly of the sky.

"Lesson one," Ryder said, finally looking up. His eyes were chips of ice. "The Sterling board members are sharks."

"I’ve heard this speech."

"Not from me," he corrected. "You think being a foster kid made you tough? It didn't. It made you bait."

I turned to him. "Excuse me?"

"Sharks can smell fear, Crimson," he said, his voice low, vibrating through the leather seat. "They can taste weakness in the water. One drop of blood, and they frenzy. You spent twenty-five years bleeding. If you walk into that boardroom smelling like a victim, they will tear you apart in under five minutes."

"So what do I do?" I asked.

"Stop bleeding," Ryder said simply. "Become the shark."

The car slowed. We weren't in Midtown yet. We were on the West Side, near the river.

The building we stopped in front of was a monolith of steel and glass. *Crane Capital* was etched in four-foot letters above the doors.

"Get out."

We took a private elevator. It didn't ping at each floor. It just rose, a smooth, silent ascent that made my ears pop.

The doors opened into a cavern.

It was a boardroom, but it didn't look like a place where decisions were made. It looked like a coliseum. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a panoramic view of the city we ruled.

A man sat at the long mahogany table.

He was older, maybe sixty, but he looked eighty. His skin was the color of parchment, stretched tight over his skull. Sweat beaded on his forehead, catching the light. He clutched a stack of papers to his chest like they were a life raft.

"Mr. Vance," Ryder said.

He walked in. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't sit. He just stood there, leaning on his cane, looking down at the man like he was a bug found in a salad.

"This is Ms. Knight."

The man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, darting frantically between me and Ryder.

"Pleasure," he stammered. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled. He fell back into the leather chair.

Ryder pulled out the chair at the head of the table. The seat of power.

"Sit," he commanded me.

I walked to the chair. The leather was cold. I felt like a judge. I felt like an executioner.

"Mr. Vance here was begging me for an extension this morning," Ryder said, his tone bored. "His shipping company is failing. He’s defaulted on three loans. His cash flow is negative."

"I just need a month!" Vance cried out. His voice cracked, a high, thin wheeze. "Please, Mr. Crane. My daughter is getting married! The wedding is next week!"

Ryder looked at me. He didn't ask Vance. He asked me.

"What do you think, Crimson?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

I looked at the old man. I saw the terror in his eyes. I saw the wedding ring on his finger, tarnished silver.

"He defaulted," I said. My voice didn't waver. It echoed off the glass walls.

"But—" Vance started.

"If you give him a month," I continued, cutting him off, "he loses your money anyway."

Vance’s face fell. It crumbled, his mouth trembling.

"Tear it apart," I said.

The words were cold in my mouth. They tasted like iron.

"Sell his assets. Liquidate his holdings. Take the daughter’s wedding fund."

Vance gasped. A sound like a punctured lung. "You... you can't be serious. This is a family business!"

"She is serious," Ryder said.

He walked to the table, his cane tapping a rhythmic beat on the marble floor. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Sign the papers, Vance," Ryder said. "Or I have you removed by security. And I promise you, I won't be as polite as she was."

The old man looked at me. He looked at Ryder. He looked at the city below, indifferent to his suffering.

He began to weep.

He cried ugly, snotty tears that soaked his collar. He signed the papers. His hand shook so hard the pen scratched the paper.

He handed the stack to Ryder and stood up. He shuffled toward the elevator, his head in his hands, a broken man leaving the arena.

I watched him go.

I waited for the guilt. I waited for the pity. I waited for the nausea that used to make me sick when I saw someone hurting.

I felt nothing.

"Good," Ryder said, picking up the papers. "You didn't blink."

"He was weak," I said.

"Exactly." Ryder tapped the papers against his palm. "Weakness is a contagion, Crimson. It’s a virus. If you let it breathe, it infects everything. It rots the company from the inside out."

He walked to the window, looking down at the city he owned.

"You own a lot of things now," Ryder said. "Stocks. Real estate. Voting rights. Ships."

"Okay."

"Did you know you own that building?"

He pointed.

I squinted against the morning sun. He was pointing to a smaller, brick building in the garment district. Ugly. Red brick. Dirty windows.

"432 Broadway?" I asked. "No."

"That’s where your husband’s office is," Ryder said. "Or was. Until ten minutes ago."

My heart skipped a beat. A heavy, painful thud against my ribs.

"You bought it?"

"I foreclosed on it," Ryder corrected. "The bank sold the note to me this morning. They were eager to be rid of it."

He turned to face me. The sun caught the silver scar on his jaw.

"It's your dowry," Ryder said. "Do with it what you want."

I looked at the building. It was ugly. It was a tumor on the face of the city.

That was where Dane sat in his big leather chair, pretending to be a king. That was where he brought Maren to screw on his desk while I was at home scrubbing toilets.

That was where he plotted to steal my future.

"Take me there," I said.

"Now?"

"Now."

***

We drove downtown. The traffic was heavy, the air getting thicker as we moved away from the gleaming towers of Midtown. The garment district smelled of steam, and rot, and wet wool.

The SUV stopped in front of 432 Broadway.

"He's inside," Ryder said. He didn't move to get out. He unrolled the window, letting the stench of the street inside. "I have a team blocking the exits. He can't run."

He looked at me. His gaze was heavy, weighing me.

"Go."

I stepped out of the SUV. The street was chaotic. A siren wailed in the distance, a lonely, dying sound. I smoothed the front of my charcoal suit. I checked my reflection in the dark glass of the building door.

I looked like a killer.

Good.

I pushed the door open. The security guard was gone. In his place stood two men in black suits, earpieces in, hands crossed. They didn't look at me. They looked through me.

I took the elevator. It creaked and groaned, shaking as it rose. It smelled like fear and cheap cologne.

The doors opened.

The office was a mess.

Papers were scattered across the floor like confetti. Pizza boxes were stacked on the filing cabinets, teetering dangerously. The air smelled of stale coffee, sweat, and desperation.

Dane was on the phone. He was pacing behind his desk, his tie loose, his hair wild.

"I don't care what the bank says! I have a meeting! I have investors coming from the city!"

He saw me.

He froze. The receiver hung from his hand, dangling by the cord like a dead snake.

"Crimson?"

He looked like hell. His eyes were red-rimmed, yellowed with exhaustion. He looked smaller than I remembered. Weaker. The veneer of success had cracked, showing the rot underneath.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. Then his eyes dropped to my suit. The cut. The fabric. The heels. "Where did you get that?"

"We need to talk, Dane."

"I'm busy!" He grabbed the phone from the floor. "I have to save this company. This is my life!"

"No," I said. "You don't."

I walked to his desk. I looked at the nameplate. Dane McAllister. CEO.

A joke.

I swept my arm across the desk.

Pizza boxes. Files. A ceramic mug.

They crashed to the floor. The mug shattered, sharp white skittering across the wood.

"Hey!" Dane shouted. He came around the desk, his face flushing an ugly purple. "What is wrong with you? Are you drunk?"

I pulled the folded eviction notice from my jacket pocket. I slammed it down onto the bare wood.

THWACK.

"Read it," I said.

Dane looked at the paper. He frowned. He picked it up with shaking hands.

His eyes scanned the page. His face went pale. Then, a sickly green.

"Foreclosure?" he whispered. "No. This is a mistake. This is a prank."

"It's not," I said. "This building now belongs to me."

"You?" Dane laughed. It was a high, hysterical sound that bounced off the walls. "You? You don't have money for coffee, Crimson. You're a foster kid with no GED!"

I didn't blink. "I don't need coffee money, Dane. I have you."

He stared at me. Really looked at me. Maybe he saw the necklace under the collar. Maybe he saw the coldness in my eyes. The wife he could order around was gone.

"This is a joke," he said, backing away. "Did you find a lawyer? Good for you. We'll fight this. I know people!"

"No fight," I said. "I want you out."

"Out?"

"Out of the building. Out of the office. Take your boxes."

"I'm not leaving!" Dane yelled. "This is my life! Maren and I are finally—"

"Don't say her name," I snapped.

The echo in the empty office was sharp, like a gunshot.

Dane stepped closer. He tried to grab my arm.

I didn't pull away. I let him touch me. He expected me to flinch. He expected me to cower.

I didn't move.

"You're still my wife," he hissed. His fingers dug into my skin, bruising. "You have to support me. That's your job!"

I laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was hollow, like wind in an empty hallway.

"Support you?" I pulled away from him, shaking off his grip with a flick of my wrist. "I supported you for three years, Dane. I paid your bills when you gambled it away. I washed your socks. I covered your tracks so you could play CEO."

I walked around him, circling him like he was prey and I was the predator.

"I found the letters," I said. "The loan sharks. The second mortgage on the apartment. The crypto scam."

Dane froze. The blood drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse.

"You're broke," I said. "You aren't just losing this building. You're losing the apartment. The car. The watch on your wrist."

He covered his wrist with his other hand, hiding the gold like a thief.

"I can fix it," he stammered. "I just need a loan. I know a guy—he's big, he's from the city—"

"He won't help you," I said. "I bought your debt, Dane."

The silence was absolute. The air conditioning hummed, rattling the vents in the ceiling.

"You?" Dane whispered. "You? How? You don't know anyone!"

"I married better," I said. "And the man I married is the one holding the knife to your throat."

Dane looked at the door. He probably expected Ryder to walk in. To beat him up again.

But Ryder wasn't there. It was just me. Just the girl in the charcoal suit.

"He's not coming," I said. "I don't need him to wipe the floor with you. I can do it myself."

Dane rushed me. He thought he could intimidate me. He was bigger. He was a man.

He grabbed my shoulders. He shoved me back.

I stumbled. My heel caught on the carpet.

"You b***h!" Dane screamed. He shoved me again. "You think you're special? You're nothing! You're trash from the foster system!"

I let him push me. I let him think he was winning.

Then, I used his momentum.

I grabbed his wrist. I twisted, hard.

Dane yelped, his arm jerking at an unnatural angle. I kicked the back of his knee.

He went down.

He hit the floor hard, right in the pile of pizza boxes. The grease stained his white shirt.

"Get out," I said.

Dane turned, rubbing his knee. His eyes were full of hate. It was pure, unadulterated hate.

"You'll pay for this," he hissed. "I will sue you. I will take everything you have!"

I looked at the door. I raised my hand.

Arthur appeared. Behind him were three men in black suits. Ryder’s security.

"Mr. McAllister is leaving," I said. "Help him pack."

"No!" Dane screamed. He tried to stand, but his knee buckled. "You can't do this! It's illegal!"

"It's business," I said. "You should have learned the difference."

The men moved in. They didn't beat him. They just lifted him up. One took his left arm, the other his right.

Dane kicked. He clawed at the doorframe, his fingernails scratching wood.

It was pathetic. Like a toddler having a tantrum in a grocery store.

"Crimson! Please!" he shrieked. "I love you! I love you! Maren meant nothing—she was a mistake!"

The elevator doors opened.

He screamed as they dragged him inside. "Crimson! You can't leave me! I'm your husband!"

The doors closed.

The screaming stopped.

Silence returned.

I stood alone in the empty office.

I looked at the mess on the floor. The pizza boxes. The scattered papers.

I walked to the window. I looked down at the street.

The SUV was still parked there. Tinted windows. I couldn't see inside, but I knew Ryder was watching.

I felt a vibration in my pocket. My phone.

I pulled it out. A text from an unknown number.

Clean it up. Then we go to lunch.

I waited for the next text.

And Crimson? Good girl.

I smiled.

I turned to the security men who were left.

"Throw the rest out," I said. "And burn the trash."

I walked to the elevator. I pushed the button.

As the doors closed, I looked at my reflection in the polished steel.

I didn't look like Crimson Knight anymore.

I looked like Mrs. Crane.

And the most terrifying part was...

I liked it.