The Panthom CEO.

Instead, he just grabbed a pen from the desk.

"See you tonight," he said.

He walked out.

I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding. Focus, Sienna. Hot temporary husband later. Work now.

I turned back to the screen.

Then I saw it.

The keys he’d left. Not house keys.

A key card. Matte black.

Embossed in silver letters:

CROSS INDUSTRIES

I frowned.

His name is Cross. The company is Cross Industries.

Coincidence? Cross is a common name. Maybe the garage is a subsidiary.

But my Author Brain—the part of me that wrote plot twists for a living—whispered:

Nothing is a coincidence.

Crazies like you exist, a voice whispered in the back of my mind. Right. Crazies like me exist. If Sienna Vane could vanish into thin air, why couldn't a billionaire play mechanic?

I picked up the card. It was heavy.

Who are you really, Sebastian?

I opened a new tab. My fingers shook slightly as I typed.

Cross Industries.

Enter.

The screen flooded with results.

CROSS INDUSTRIES: The Trillion Dollar Shadow.

AEROSPACE. DEFENSE. CYBERSECURITY. AI.

It wasn't a garage. It was an empire. One that made Vane Media look like a lemonade stand.

I clicked on the "Leadership" tab.

CEO: Sebastian Cross.

I held my breath, waiting for the photo. Waiting to see the face of the man who cooked me eggs and wore grease-stained jumpsuits.

Image Unavailable.

I clicked another link. "The Phantom CEO." "The Recluse." "No public appearances in five years."

I sat back, the leather chair groaning under me.

Okay. Breathe.

Possibility A: My husband is the Sebastian Cross. The billionaire phantom.

Possibility B: My husband is a mechanic named Sebastian Cross who works for the company, and the key card is just... standard issue.

I looked at the grease stain on the arm of the chair where he’d been sitting earlier. I remembered the dirt under his fingernails in the taxi. I remembered the cheap plastic lighter that didn't work.

Possibility B, I decided. Definitely B.

Billionaires don't drive taxis. They don't smoke cheap cigarettes. And they definitely don't marry soaking wet women they met on a curb.

"Get a grip, Sienna," I whispered. "You're writing fiction, don't start living it. But then again, crazies like me do love a good plot twist. Oh well. Let's see how it goes."

I shoved the key card into the drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.

I had work to do.

I wrote for hours. The words poured out of me like venom. I wrote about a girl named Scarlet who lived in a glass tower. I wrote about a greedy uncle who loved money more than blood. I wrote until my fingers cramped and my stomach growled loud enough to echo in the empty penthouse.

Lunch.

I walked out to the kitchen.

On the marble counter, next to the high-end coffee maker, lay a crisp fifty-dollar bill.

I stared at it.

Twenty bucks, he’d said.

Under it sat a note scrawled in sharp, aggressive handwriting. I picked it up.

To my wife. You're going to have to miss my homemade delicacies today. Your husband is busy. Let me treat you to something expensive instead. Here is a fifty-dollar bill.

"Liar," I muttered, picking up the cash.

But a smile erupted on its own as I read the note again. How cute, I thought. For being this cute, I decided I could let the twenty-dollar lie slide.

I ordered pizza. Not the fancy artisanal stuff with truffle oil. I ordered the greasiest, cheesiest pepperoni pie I could find from a place called "Tony's."

When the buzzer rang, I checked the monitor. Delivery guy. Bored expression.

I let him up.

I met him at the door. I was wearing a billionaire's shirt, standing in a penthouse that cost more than a small island, holding a fifty-dollar bill.

The delivery guy looked at the apartment behind me, then at me.

"Nice place," he grunted, handing over the box.

"It's a rental," I said, snatching the pizza. "Keep the change."

I decided to let the delivery boy enjoy the massive tip. My husband’s treat, after all.

I ate on the floor, watching the city below.

Just then, a phone buzzed against the marble.

Not my old phone—I’d left that tracking device dead in the Vane boardroom. Unless I wanted them to find me, they couldn't. This was the burner I’d bought at a bodega last night.

Incoming Call: DAVE (AGENT)

I exhaled. Here we go.

"Hello, Dave."

"Sienna!" Dave’s voice exploded in my ear. He sounded like he was hyperventilating. "Thank God! I've been calling for twelve hours! I got insider news saying you had a psychotic break! They're saying you joined a cult in upstate New York!"

I laughed. A dry, sharp sound. "A cult? That's creative. Did Bianca come up with that one?"

"Your uncle released a statement," Dave hissed, voice dropping. "He claims the 'unseen heiress of Vane Media' is 'unwell' and 'seeking treatment' at a private facility in Zurich. He's filing for emergency power of attorney over your estate, Sienna."

My hand tightened on the phone until the plastic creaked.

"Let him try," I said, voice cold. "I'm not in Zurich. I'm in Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn?" Dave choked. "Why the hell are you in Brooklyn?"

"I got married, Dave."

Silence. Heavy, stunned silence.

"You... you what?"

"I got married. To a mechanic. His name is Sebastian. He's broke, he's gorgeous, and he hates the Vane family. It's perfect."

"Sienna, have you lost your mind?" Dave shrieked. "A mechanic? Do you have a prenup? Does he know who you are? Does he know you're worth fifty million dollars?"

"I'm worth zero dollars, Dave," I said, looking at the empty fridge. "That's why I need the advance."

"What? Your royalties from The Glass Castle alone were—"

"Paid to the Vane Family Trust," I cut him off. "I signed it all away at eighteen. Every script, every check, every bonus went into the 'Empire' to keep the stock price up. I never saw a dime. Just an allowance and a Credit Card."

"But... that's embezzlement! That's financial abuse!"