CHAPTER 4

Celeste's POV

Twenty-four hours. Exactly one full day ago, I was sitting in a muddy alleyway behind a five-star hotel, clutching a cardboard box of kitchen utensils while my entire life went up in smoke. Now, I am standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror inside a master suite so vast and opulent it feels less like a home and more like a luxury boutique hotel.

I lift my left hand, staring at the ring catching the morning sunlight filtering through the sheer silk curtains. A four-carat, flawless diamond ring sits heavily on my ring finger, blazing with a cold, blinding brilliance that feels entirely surreal.

"Mrs. Reynaud," I whisper the words out loud, testing how they sound on my tongue, and a dry, humorless laugh escapes my lips.

If someone had told me forty-eight hours ago that I’d swap my stained apron for a custom silk robe and a billionaire husband just to spite my cheating ex, I would have laughed in their face. But last night was a blur of high-powered attorneys, digital wire transfers that cleared my eighty-five-thousand-dollar bank debt before midnight, and a thick, legally binding marriage contract signed in black ink.

My phone buzzes on the marble bedside table. It’s a text message from an unknown number, but the contents are instantly recognizable: “Transfer confirmation complete. Commercial lease for your new downtown bakery location has been filed under your sole proprietorship. Welcome to your new life, Celeste.”

A shiver of vindication runs down my spine. The debt is gone. The bakery space is secured—twice the size of my old one, located right in the heart of the luxury shopping district. Dominic Reynaud doesn't make empty promises; he operates with terrifying, ruthless efficiency.

The heavy oak door of the master suite swings open without a knock, and Dominic strides into the room. He’s already dressed in a sharp, slate-gray tailored suit, his tie neatly knotted, his dark hair slightly damp from a morning shower. He looks every bit the cold, untouchable corporate titan, completely out of place in my newly acquired reality.

"I hope you didn't spend the entire morning admiring the decor," Dominic says, his voice flat as his dark eyes sweep over me. "We have an appearance to make by noon."

I drop my hand, turning away from the mirror to face him, crossing my arms over my silk-robed chest. "Good morning to you too, husband. Did you sleep well, or were you too busy drafting clauses in our contract about how many times a day I'm required to smile at your relatives?"

Dominic stops a few feet away, his jaw tightening slightly. "The contract is very specific, Celeste. Emotional compliance isn't required, but public discretion is. My family and the local press are already sniffing around trying to figure out why I suddenly eloped overnight instead of attending yesterday's society wedding."

"And let me guess," I counter, tilting my chin up defensively. "I'm the mysterious, low-class pastry chef who somehow managed to trap the great Dominic Reynaud into a sudden marriage?"

"They can think whatever they want," Dominic replies coldly, stepping closer until the sheer height and presence of him fill my personal space. "As long as they look at you and see a woman who commands respect—not a victim licking her wounds. My mother is hosting an impromptu family luncheon at the Reynaud estate in two hours. That is where our performance begins."

"A family luncheon," I repeat, my voice dropping an octave as anxiety flares hot in my chest. "You're throwing me straight to the wolves on day one?"

"You wanted revenge against Mark Vance, didn't you?" Dominic reminds me, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. "To play in the high-society arena where people like him and the Montgomerys breathe, you have to look untouchable. My name gives you the armor. What you do with it is up to you."

He tosses a heavy, embossed shopping bag onto the king-sized bed between us.

"Wear that," he commands, turning on his heel toward the door. "And try to look like you actually want to be married to me. The media is outside the gates."

I stare at the shopping bag, my heart hammering against my ribs. I want to snap back at him, to tell him I don't need his clothes or his condescending attitude. But as I pull open the box inside and see a stunning, emerald-green designer dress that costs more than my old car, reality sets in.

There's no turning back now.

Ten minutes later, dressed in the emerald dress with my hair pinned into a sleek, elegant chignon, I walk down the grand sweeping staircase of the Reynaud mansion. Dominic is waiting at the bottom, his dark suit blending into the shadows of the marble foyer. He looks up, and for a fraction of a second, his breath catches, his sharp eyes lingering on my face before his mask of icy detachment slips back into place.

"Satisfied?" I ask, stepping onto the final stair and standing right in front of him.

Dominic extends his arm, his forearm flexing beneath his crisp shirt cuff. "Let's go show them what a real mistake looks like."

Without a word, I slide my hand into the crook of his arm, my fingers curling against his solid muscle. The heavy front doors swing open, revealing a wall of flashing camera lights and shouting reporters waiting on the front lawn. Dominic pulls me flush against his side, his hand pressing firmly against the small of my back, guiding me out into the blinding glare of the afternoon sun as the flashbulbs pop around us like miniature lightning storms.