CHAPTER 1: 72 Hours

POV: Selene Castellano

The wedding ring felt foreign against her skin, like a burden too heavy to be shaken.

Selene twisted the platinum band, studying the perfectly cut, shiny diamond that caught the morning light. Seventy-two hours of marriage, 4320 minutes of living in this glass tower above San Francisco, married to a man who looked at her like she was a ghost from the past he’d rather forget.

Avalon Pierce sat across from her at the breakfast table, completely absorbed in his tablet. She quietly observed as he swiped through the latest data on Nexus analytics—the social media platform he’d turned into a massive success. His dark hair was still a bit damp from his morning jog, and the white shirt he wore somehow looked effortlessly stylish but clearly expensive.

It had only been three days since they got married, yet they’d barely exchanged more than a few dozen words.

“Your coffee’s getting cold,” he muttered without even glancing up.

She felt like tossing the cup at him, but held back. Instead, she took a slow sip—bitter and burning hot—and found herself wondering how things had changed so fast. Just a few days ago, she was overwhelmed, drowning in medical bills. Now, here she was, Mrs Avalon Pierce, living in a penthouse that was worth more than most people could dream of making in a lifetime.

The guy sitting across from her used to know every single secret she’d hidden away. Now? He felt like a total stranger, dressed up in a fancy suit that couldn’t hide the distance between them.

“We’ve got the Nexus charity gala tonight,” Avalon said, finally putting his tablet down. Those green eyes of his—seriously, those eyes deep as an ocean, looked at her with a kind of gentle warmth, like a soft January fog drifting over the Bay. “My assistant booked a stylist for you at four. Just pick something that doesn’t make you look pathetic.”

“That’s easier said than done,” she replied with a half-smile.

He gave a smug back. “You agreed to all this, remember?”

“Yeah, I did.” Saying it felt rough, like swallowing smoke. Sure, she’d signed the papers, and sure, she’d accepted his money. But he had no clue how much it cost her, walking back into his world and pretending like those ten years between them never happened.

Like she wasn’t still haunted by dreams of things they could never take back.

“I have gotten the money,” she said evenly, hating how transactional it sounded. “That is what matters, right?”

Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe, or anger swallowed before it could surface. He stood, buttoning his expensive suit jacket with the precision of a man who had mastered the art of control. Six foot three of controlled fury wrapped in Italian wool.

“I have meetings until six. My uncle will be at the gala. He’ll be watching.” Avalon paused at the doorway. “Don’t give him a bullet.”

He left without another word, and Selene released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The penthouse felt larger, hollow and unbearably empty without his presence—an emptiness she hated to acknowledge. Most of all, she hated that deep within her, some broken piece still remembered a time when his presence had felt like the only true place she could call home.

**Twenty-three days earlier**

The envelope arrived on an ordinary Tuesday, delivered by courier to Selene’s cramped studio apartment in the Tenderloin: heavy cream stock, her name written in elegant script—no return address. 

Her hands shook as she tore it open.

*Ms. Castellano, your presence is required at the offices of Whitmore & Associates regarding the estate of Lorraine “Nene” Pierce. Tuesday, October 15th, 2:00 PM.*

Nene was dead.

The world tilted sideways. Nothing in the world had prepared Selene for the sickness that swept through her chest at that word. The floor beneath her was unsteady, the walls of her tiny kitchen closing in, and she sank heavily into the one chair she owned—the one that wobbled precariously and had long needed repair—and felt ten years of sharp-edged distance disintegrate in a bitter instant. 

Nene, who’d taught her to make lemon bars from scratch, who’d called her “darling girl” and meant it. The woman, whom she hadn’t seen since that terrible March, because seeing her meant facing Avalon, and facing him meant confronting truths that would destroy them both.

She had no right to go. She shouldn’t be drawn back into that world, not after so long, but Maya’s latest hospital bill sat on the counter, the number at the bottom like a death sentence of its own. Sixty thousand dollars short of the experimental treatment. Sixty thousand dollars between her baby sister and her thingy thread of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, Nene had left her something small, something that might be enough to buy that hope.

And so she went.

Whitmore & Associates occupied the forty-third floor of a tower in the Financial District, all mahogany and leather, and the kind of quiet that money brings. Selene felt underdressed in her thrift-store blazer, out of place among people who belonged in rooms like this.

The receptionist led her to a conference room where two men waited.

Avalon stood by the window, his back to her, and even after a decade, she’d have known him anywhere. The set of his shoulders, the way he held himself, like he was bracing for impact. He’d grown into himself a broader and harder man; the boy she’d loved is buried under layers of success and bitterness.

The older man with silver hair, and Avalon’s sharp cheekbones and a smile that never reached his eyes. Marcus Pierce. She remembered him from holidays at Nene’s house, back when she’d been welcome, when everything was different.

“Selene.” Marcus stood, extending his hand. “How nice to see you again. Though I wish it were under happier circumstances.”

Avalon turned.

Their eyes met, and Selene forgot how to breathe.

He looked at her like she was a wound that had never healed. Like she was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. And maybe she was.

“Mr Whitmore will be in shortly,” Marcus said smoothly. “Please, sit.”

She sat. Avalon remained standing, like a statue carved from ice and resentment.

The reading of the will took fifteen minutes. Nene’s voice echoing through legal language—donations to the children’s hospital, her jewellery to various cousins, her charity house. Whitmore cleared his throat, and everything changed.

“To my grandson, Avalon James Pierce, I leave controlling interest in Pierce Holdings, valued at eight hundred million dollars.” He paused, adjusted his glasses. “Contingent upon the following requirement: Avalon must marry Selene Maria Castellano within thirty days of my death and remain married for a minimum of one year. Should he fail to meet this condition, controlling interest passes to Marcus Anthony Pierce.”

The silence was deafening.

Then Marcus flared—talking about dementia, undue influence, and legal challenges. Avalon stood frozen, colour draining from his face. And Selene just sat there, Nene’s impossible demand ringing in her ears.

Marry Avalon? Nene, what have you done?