Amelia hadn't slept.
The morning light crept across the silk curtains of the south wing, but her eyes had stayed wide through the night, glued to the ceiling, replaying Andrew's words from the study over and over.
"She's just a pawn."
Her fists clenched under the covers.
The file now hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her closet felt like it was burning a hole through the walls. Every line, every forged signature, every dollar accounted for—proof that Andrew hadn't just married her to save her father.
He had orchestrated her father's fall.
And now he wore the crown built from the ashes of everything she loved.
The worst part?
He didn't even flinch.
He hadn't shown a hint of guilt or remorse—just calculation, as if everything was unfolding exactly as he had planned.
A knock broke through her thoughts.
"Mrs. Reynolds?" the housekeeper's voice floated through the door. "Mr. Reynolds asked me to inform you—breakfast will be served in the garden."
Of course it would.
Because nothing said "marital bliss" like croissants and coffee with the man who had destroyed your family.
Amelia rose slowly, wrapping her robe tight around her. She glanced at herself in the mirror—her face pale, lips pressed in a hard line.
She didn't recognize this woman.
But maybe it was time she got to know her.
The one who wouldn't let him win.
The garden looked like something out of a painting. Lavender vines draped across trellises, soft jazz played in the distance, and the table was set for two—perfect, pristine, and painfully staged.
Andrew sat at the head, sipping espresso and reading the morning paper like a man without a care in the world.
"Amelia," he said coolly as she approached, not bothering to look up. "You're late."
She sat across from him, keeping her expression blank. "And you're shameless."
He folded the paper slowly, finally lifting his eyes to hers. "Is this about last night?"
"You tell me," she said, voice calm but sharp. "What exactly am I a pawn in, Andrew? Because I'm starting to think this marriage isn't the only thing you lied about."
His eyes flickered.
Briefly. Almost imperceptibly.
But she saw it.
"I think you're reading too much into a private conversation," he said smoothly, reaching for a piece of toast. "Spying on your husband, by the way? Not the best look."
"You forged my father's signature."
The words dropped between them like a blade.
Andrew didn't flinch.
He placed the toast back on the plate, his jaw tightening just slightly.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Amelia."
"And you already dealt me into it," she snapped. "Don't pretend to care about rules now."
A long silence settled between them, broken only by the birds chirping overhead.
Then, softly, Andrew said, "What do you want?"
"I want the truth."
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing. "The truth is… your father was drowning in debt years before I stepped in. I didn't ruin him. I just saw what was coming—and made sure I came out on top."
"At the cost of my family."
"At the cost of letting your father rot in prison?" His voice sharpened. "Don't forget who signed the deal, Amelia. Your father offered you up. I just accepted."
She recoiled slightly.
"That doesn't make it right."
"No," he said coldly. "It makes it business."
Amelia stared at him, heart pounding.
Was this it? Was this the extent of the man behind the monster? A cold, ruthless machine in a designer suit?
But then—
A flicker of something passed behind his eyes.
Regret?
No. Too fast. Too controlled.
"You can hate me all you want," he said, standing. "But don't forget—everything I did, I did to survive. Just like you."
He left her sitting there, the wind brushing through the lavender, the garden still beautiful… but suddenly suffocating.
Later that afternoon, Amelia found herself wandering again.
This time not aimlessly.
She needed answers. More than what Andrew gave.
She remembered a name on one of the documents: Mark Holloway, former board member of Donovan Holdings. She remembered overhearing her father argue with him once, late at night, before everything collapsed.
If anyone knew the truth behind the signatures and the collapse, it would be him.
She locked herself in her room, pulled out the file from beneath the floorboard, and opened her laptop. A quick search told her Holloway now worked at a real estate firm uptown.
She checked the time.
3:47 PM.
If she left now, she could make it before the office closed.
Decision made, she grabbed a coat, slipped the folder into her tote, and headed for the garage.
"Mrs. Reynolds?" the butler asked as she passed.
"Just getting some air," she lied with a tight smile.
She didn't wait for permission.
Andrew might have bought her hand in marriage, but he hadn't bought her silence.
The city buzzed as the car zipped through Midtown.
Amelia's heart thudded against her ribs the closer she got to the truth.
When she arrived, the receptionist eyed her warily but gave her the floor number after a firm press from Amelia's tone.
Mark Holloway's office was tucked behind glass walls—sleek and impersonal.
He looked older now. Greyer. Tired.
"Amelia Donovan," he said, surprised as she stepped in. "I didn't expect—"
"I need answers."
His face fell.
She dropped the folder onto his desk, flipping to the forged signature.
"This isn't my father's writing."
Mark closed the folder slowly, then leaned back.
"I told him it was a bad idea," he muttered. "But he was desperate."
"So it was forged."
Mark hesitated.
"No. It was… signed by someone else. But not without his knowledge."
"What do you mean?"
Mark looked her in the eyes. "Your father didn't forge it. Andrew did. But your father knew. He agreed to it—because it was the only way to save you from the fallout."
Amelia's breath caught.
"He let Andrew forge it?"
Mark nodded grimly. "And in return, Andrew kept him out of jail—and secured his daughter's future. Or what he thought was a future."
Her stomach twisted.
Everything was worse than she imagined.
Not only had Andrew orchestrated the downfall—he had manipulated her father into becoming a silent accomplice.
All while keeping her in the dark.
By the time she returned to the estate, it was after dark.
She didn't knock.
She stormed into Andrew's study, the folder in her hand like a loaded weapon.
"You forged the signature with my father's permission?" she spat.
He looked up from his laptop, calm as ever.
"Ah. You visited Holloway."
"Don't change the subject—"
"I'm not." He closed the laptop slowly, standing. "I told you before, Amelia. This marriage? This deal? It was never about love. It was about survival. For me. For your father. For you."
"You tricked us."
"No," he said evenly. "I offered you the best of two evils. And you said yes."
"I didn't have a choice."
"We all have choices," he said, stepping closer. "You just didn't like yours."
She stared at him, chest heaving.
For the first time, he wasn't the towering shadow of her nightmares. He was just a man. A man who had made monstrous choices for reasons she still didn't fully understand.
"I won't let you control me," she whispered.
His voice dropped. "Then stop letting me."
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it—and froze.
Amelia's eyes narrowed.
"What is it?"
He didn't answer.
But the muscle in his jaw twitched.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
He looked up at her, eyes darker than she'd ever seen them.
"They moved up the board meeting," he said flatly. "Someone's trying to take my company."
Amelia blinked. "What?"
"I need to go," he said, already reaching for his jacket.
"Andrew—who's trying to take your company?"
He paused at the doorway.
And then—his voice cold and distant—he said:
"Your ex."
And he disappeared into the night.