Marcus Vale had a plan.
It wasn't a good plan. It was the kind of plan that lives in the space between pride and recklessness, nursed in the dark on cheap whiskey after everyone with sense has gone to bed.
Naomi was Damian Scott's wife. His wife. The girl he'd kept on a string for years, the one he'd always assumed he could retrieve whenever he wanted. Now she was sitting thirty floors above the city in a penthouse that cost more than his family's annual revenue, wearing a name that opened every door in Riverton.
It was intolerable.
He'd dug around. He had connections — lower-tier finance, a lawyer who ran adjacent to shady. The lawyer had found something.
The marriage contract had been filed with extraordinary speed — but in the rush, a single procedural step had been missed. A witne
