Chapter 2 I Actually Married Him

Everyone thought I'd lost my mind, that I was just throwing a tantrum at my family. My father sent his driver after me and ordered me to return to the estate immediately. His assistant relayed the message: "Come back now, and tomorrow we'll publicly say last night was a misunderstanding. Otherwise, don't ever think about coming home again."

I shut the car door. "Suit yourself."

The next day, I went with the stranger to the county clerk's office for a marriage license and a civil ceremony. I didn't learn his name until we filled out the paperwork: Adrian Augustus. The surname sounded familiar, but I hadn't slept all night. My head was full of the ring on Claire's hand and the altered project files, and I couldn't think straight.

We'd barely finished the forms when my father's lawyer burst in. "Ms. Sterling, Mr. Sterling believes you're emotionally unstable and unable to make a major decision. He wants you to postpone the ceremony."

I looked up. "In plain English."

The lawyer paused. "He wants you to stop."

"Tell him I'm a legal adult. I don't need the Sterling board of directors to vote on who I marry."

The lawyer lowered his voice. "This will destroy your trust inheritance and the family's reputation. Are you really willing to sacrifice everything over a moment of anger?"

I signed my name. "Tell him that using my mother's estate as leverage to control me is disgusting."

The clerk pronounced us married and stamped the certificate. From that moment on, Adrian and I were legally married.

Ten minutes after we left, the notifications flooded in. Family credit cards, canceled. Estate access, revoked. Vehicle privileges, rescinded. Foundation account, forcibly logged out.

At the bottom was a notice from the independent trust company: my father had petitioned to freeze my access to trust records and contracts, claiming "the heir has suffered severe emotional distress and may make irrational asset decisions." Attached was a statement in Ethan's handwriting: "Evelyn became emotionally volatile after the engagement changed and impulsively married an unidentified man. She is not fit to participate in foundation decisions at this time."

I stared at his signature, my nails digging into my palms. Last night he'd stolen my engagement. Today he'd put in writing that I was mentally unfit.

Adrian stood beside me. He didn't get angry on my behalf. He only asked, "Do you need a lawyer?"

"You know a lawyer?"

"A few."

"Not yet." It wasn't that I didn't want to investigate. I just refused to escape my father's control only to hand every decision to another man. And frankly, I didn't think Adrian could help me. Everyone thought he was homeless. Men like that turned into princes only in fairy tales.

The hotel was swarmed with reporters, so checking in was impossible. Adrian ended up taking me to a state beach campground. His car was a beat-up SUV, but the trunk was neatly packed with a tent, sleeping bags, first-aid supplies, and professional communications gear. He set up camp with quick, practiced movements and had everything ready in under ten minutes.

No flowers. No gifts. Just a campfire and a cup of hot coffee. Late that night, he gave me the only thick sleeping bag and sat outside the tent himself.

I lay inside, scrolling through the system notifications again. Before my foundation account was forcibly logged out, someone had accessed it in the middle of the night. Several payment-approval emails I'd never opened were marked "read." Stranger still, I'd been suspended, yet my electronic-signature permissions were still active. Someone had blocked me from reviewing the books while keeping the power to sign documents in my name.

I screenshotted every page.

Adrian lifted the tent flap. "Found something?"

"Someone logged into my account."

"Want to save it?"

"All of it."

He handed me an offline laptop. I copied the screenshots, email timestamps, login records, and permission changes onto it. He didn't ask why. He didn't say "leave it to me." He just plugged in the charger and pushed the coffee a little closer.

In the middle of the night, I was jolted awake by headlights in the distance. Three unmarked black SUVs sat at the edge of the campground, engines running, but no one got out.

I asked Adrian, "Do those people know you?"

He glanced back. "Probably just a patrol."

But since when did campground patrols drive luxury SUVs with glass thick enough to stop a bullet?