CHAPTER 3

"Sign the paper, Lanka."

Santiago’s voice hit me like a physical blow. He didn't look like a groom. He looked like a man finishing a hit. The Miami Federal Courthouse was sweltering, but inside this small, wood-paneled room, the air was freezing. He wore a charcoal suit that cost more than my life, his tie knotted tight enough to choke a normal man. He hadn't looked at me once since he’d arrived ten minutes late.

"The judge is waiting," Daniel Brooks muttered, hovering behind Santiago with a stack of files. He was the cleaner. The shadow. He looked at me with eyes that said he knew exactly how much I cost.

"I'm aware." I gripped my bouquet. The flowers were wilting in the humidity. I wasn't wearing a dress, but the white silk suit I’d chosen felt like a shroud. I’d spent two hours on my hair, trying to look like the polished Cruz prince everyone expected. Instead, I just felt like a target.

Santiago finally turned. His gray eyes raked over me, cold and clinical. "You look like you're heading to a funeral."

"Maybe I am." I stepped up to the podium.

The ceremony was a joke. A five-minute transaction. No vows, just signatures. My hand shook as I scrawled Lanka Cruz onto the document. It was a lie. Every letter was a lie. If the judge saw the sweat on my upper lip, she didn't show it. She just stamped the paper and told us we were legal.

"Move," Santiago said as we hit the courthouse steps. He didn't wait for me. He marched toward a black Jaguar XJ idling at the curb.

"Where’s the rush, Santiago? Worried the paps will catch you with your new husband?" I trotted to keep up, my pulse hammering in my throat. I kept scanning the crowds. I expected Camila to scream from the shadows, or Eduardo’s goons to pull a trigger.

"I have a shipment moving through the Port of Miami in twenty minutes," he said, not slowing down. He waved a hand at the street. "Where's your car?"

"I took a car service."

He stopped. He actually looked at me then, his jaw tightening. "A Cruz taking an Uber to their own wedding? Your family is more pathetic than I thought."

"I totaled the Ferrari last week. The other driver didn't see I was busy." I gave him a sharp, jagged smile. The kind of smile Camila would give.

He didn't find it funny. He shoved me into the back of the Jaguar. "To the Manhattan Residence, Marco," he barked at the driver.

"Congratulations, sir," Marco Alvarez said, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. There was no warmth in them. Just a warning.

The ride was silent. Santiago was buried in his phone, his thumb flying across the screen. I watched the city blur by. The Rivera Manhattan Residence wasn't a home; it was a fortress. Penthouse floors, reinforced glass, and enough security to hold off a small army.

We walked inside, and the door clicked shut with a heavy, final sound. I stood in the foyer, my heart slamming against my ribs.

"Sit down." Santiago threw a stack of papers onto the marble dining table.

"Is this the part where we celebrate?" I stayed standing.

"This is the part where I find out why your grandfather is trying to fuck me." He stepped close, his shadow swallowing me. He looked like he wanted to wrap his hands around my throat. "Why did you change the post-nuptial agreement?"

I picked up the document. My skin felt electric where his sleeve brushed mine. I flipped through the legal jargon, my eyes scanning for a mistake.

"I didn't touch it."

"Liars should have better memories." He jabbed a finger at a clause near the bottom. "Right here. In the event of an heir being produced, and the death of both primary parties, Eduardo Cruz retains full guardianship and control of the Rivera estate until the heir reaches maturity."

I read it twice. My stomach dropped. Eduardo. That old snake. He was already planning for a child I couldn't give and a death he was likely going to cause.

"You think I'm going to have your kid, Santiago?" I laughed, but it sounded brittle. "Look at me. You think that's how this works?"

"I think your grandfather is delusional if he thinks he’s touching a dime of Rivera blood," Santiago growled. "This clause is out. Now."

"Then take it out! Why are you yelling at me? I didn't write the damn thing. Maybe if you spent more time reading contracts and less time threatening people, you wouldn't be in this mess."

He froze. The fury in his eyes flickered, then went cold. He grabbed the contract and ripped it down the middle. The sound of tearing paper was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"New one’s being drafted tonight," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "And you aren't leaving this building."

"Excuse me?"

"I thought I could leave you in that rotting estate in Coral Gables, but I can't trust you out of my sight. You stay here. Under my roof. Where I can watch every move you make."

"You can't keep me prisoner."

"Try me. Or maybe you’d like the tapes of your little 'incident' at the Santos Nightclub to hit the front page? The one involving the Senator’s son and a bag of white powder?"

My breath hitched. I didn't know what he was talking about—but Camila would.

"Shocked?" He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "Stay in your lane, Lanka. Marco will fetch your things. This is your cage now. Try to climb the bars, and I’ll break your legs."