Chapter 3: MEET RUELLE

The tunnel smelled like mildew and rat droppings, but to me it smelled like victory.

I crouched forward, hoodie catching cobwebs, sneakers slipping on damp stone, heart racing like I was Shawshank-ing my way into freedom.

“This is it,” I whispered. “Goodbye, Bramhall Mansion. Hello, actual life.”

Few minutes later, daylight winked at me through a rusty grate. I shoved it open, scrambled up... and landed face-first on freshly cut grass.

And polished shoes.

Because of course Ethan Bramhall was standing there. Hands in his pockets. Looking at me like I’d just crawled out of a sewer... which, technically, I had.

“Creative,” he drawled. “But unsanitary.”

I scrambled up, hair full of spiderwebs. “Do you stalk all your wives, or just me?”

“I only have one wife.” His eyes glinted. “Lucky me.”

I stomped my foot. “You cannot keep me here like Rapunzel in your billionaire tower!”

“Grace,” he said calmly, “you can go wherever you want. To the store. To Paris. To the moon, if you’re feeling adventurous.”

I blinked, suspicious. “…What’s the catch?”

He gestured, and right on cue, Laura appeared beside him like she’d teleported. Tablet in hand, expression vacuum-sealed.

“The condition,” Ethan said smoothly, “is that Laura goes with you.”

I gawked. “What am I, twelve? She’s not a babysitter.”

“She’s your steward. Navigator. Bodyguard. Personal GPS.”

Translation: leash.

Laura inclined her head. “I prefer the term ‘life optimization device.’”

I wanted to throw myself back into the sewer but I’d found a loophole. If Ethan insisted Laura had to shadow me, fine. I’d just take her to the one place even Ethan couldn’t ruin: Ruelle Halberd’s apartment.

Later that morning, at her place. Ruelle opened the door in pink silk pajamas, messy bun, and a glass of mimosa at ten a.m. When she saw me, she squealed like she’d just won front-row Beyoncé tickets.

“GRACE FREAKING ELLINTON!” she shrieked, dragging me inside. “You’re famous. You’re a headline. You’re... oh my God, you’re wearing billionaire air right now!”

I winced. “Don’t remind me.”

She shoved me onto the couch. “Tell me everything. No, wait. Let me guess. Champagne? Bad decisions? Vows you didn’t remember saying? Bam... Mrs. Bramhall.”

I groaned. “You make it sound like a TikTok challenge.”

“It kind of was,” she said, snatching up her phone. “Look... proof.”

And she showed me photos. Photos she took. Of me, in a veil, clutching Ethan’s hand like it was a lifeline. Of the kiss that made TMZ lose its mind. Of me standing there, glassy-eyed, looking like someone had strapped me to the altar.

I buried my face in a pillow. “Delete them. Burn them. Launch them into the sun.”

“Are you kidding? These are heirlooms.” She grinned wickedly. “I was your witness, babe. Witness to destiny.”

“It wasn’t destiny. It was alcohol poisoning.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” She sipped her mimosa. “Honestly, you’re overthinking. My advice? Transfer the aggression. Make the money suffer.”

I peeked at her. “Meaning?”

“Swipe the credit cards. Crash the accounts. Bleed the Bramhall fortune dry. If you’re going to be stuck as his wife, at least let Chanel and Versace comfort you.”

I stared at her. “…That’s actually the best advice you’ve ever given me.”

“Obviously.” She clinked her glass to my orange juice. “Shopping heals all wounds.”

Ruelle was already halfway out of her pajamas before I’d processed it. She swapped silk for a sequin bomber, pulled her hair into a dramatic ponytail, and threw on platform sneakers like she was going to war.

Which is how, about 40 minutes later, I found myself in the backseat of the Bentley I came with. Ruelle beside me like a bedazzled fairy godmother, Laura in the front seat stone-faced, and a driver who probably thought I was insane.

We attacked Fifth Avenue like Vikings. Designer clothes. Shoes that cost more than my rent. Bags I couldn’t pronounce. Ruelle twirled through boutiques like she’d been training for this her whole life. She treated every rack like a personal playground and every fitting room like a stage.

Every time the cashier quoted a total, Laura stepped forward, swiped a card, and said in her flat robot-voice: “Approved.”

$7,000.

$12,500.

$86,000.

$126,000.

Laura didn’t blink.

Meanwhile, I was manically laughing as I tried on a diamond-encrusted pair of sunglasses. “This is obscene. I love it. I feel drunk.”

“You are drunk,” Ruelle said, tossing me a new perfume bottle. “Drunk on billionaire suffering. Breathe it in.”

In Gucci, she made me try on a leopard print coat that looked like something Cruella de Vil would wear to brunch. In Prada, she piled three handbags on my arm and said, “You need variety for emotional stability.” In Cartier, she asked the salesman if they had wedding bands “for when Grace gets tired of Ethan and marries Harry Styles.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on a complimentary macaron.

By the time we were done, the Bentley’s trunk looked like a dragon’s hoard. Even the driver raised an eyebrow as he shut it with effort.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I actually felt… lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, I could survive this marriage one Chanel bag at a time.

But then the night reminded me where I was.

We’d just dropped Ruelle off with hugs and promises to “bleed the Bramhalls tomorrow too.” The Bentley rolled smoothly down the dimly lit street toward the mansion. I was leaning back, exhausted but blissful, when it happened.

An SUV screeched in front of us, blocking the road.

The driver cursed, tried to swerve... but another black car cut us off from behind.

Doors slammed. Boots pounded. Men in masks spilled out, weapons glinting under the streetlights.

My heart stopped.

“Um,” I whispered, clutching Laura’s shoulder. “Tell me this is another one of Ethan’s insane surprises?”

Laura, for the first time ever, looked… unsettled.

“Buckle your seatbelt, Mrs. Bramhall,” she said quietly.

Because this was not a shopping trip anymore.