"This isn't love. It's payback."
The mirrored walls of the dressing room didn't just reflect Diana Shane.
They fractured her.
She stood still in a white gown tailored to perfection — not for a bride, but for a performance. The silk hugged her body like a well-cut lie, cinched at the waist, spilling into a trail she couldn't run in.
Ammie Cruz. That was the name etched on the marriage license.
Not Diana. Not the daughter of Krillian Shane, the man whose empire was buried under Ford Industries.
The man whose heart gave out in the back seat of a rusted car after he'd signed his last failed deal.
Her fists curled slowly at her sides.
No one here knew the truth. Not the groom. Not the press waiting outside the conference hall. And certainly not the man who orchestrated the entire show — Montez Ford, the empire builder with ice in his veins and ashes in his wake.
"Miss Cruz," came a voice behind her.
She didn't flinch. She turned with a carefully composed smile.
A female staff member stepped in, holding an earpiece. "Mr. Montez is ready. Shall I escort you to the ballroom?"
Diana—no, Ammie—nodded once, her voice smooth. "Lead the way."
The ceremony was not held in a chapel or a garden.
It was held on the top floor of the Ford Group tower, beneath chandeliers imported from Prague and under the watchful eyes of a hundred shareholders, politicians, and board members. It wasn't a wedding. It was a merger.
She moved down the white marble aisle, flanked by crystal vases, her veil floating like a sigh over revenge.
And at the end stood Shane Ford.
Her once-everything.
His posture was stiff, jaw tight, hands clasped behind his back in that military-like stance he'd always carried. The tuxedo looked effortless on him — black, clean-cut, no trace of warmth. He didn't smile. His eyes scanned her face, too long. As if trying to place her.
He doesn't know.
Not yet.
They hadn't spoken a word since Montez had introduced "Ammie" as the chosen bride for the legal partnership. The contract needed a name. A pretty face. A binding paper marriage. She had raised her hand in the shadows of a charity gala, made herself look useful. Disposable. And Montez, too proud to remember fallen rivals' families, had accepted.
A check in exchange for a name change.
And she was more than willing to sign her soul off — if it meant tearing his to pieces.
"Do you take this woman—"
The officiant's voice blurred.
Diana's pulse throbbed in her ears. But her face? A porcelain mask.
"—to have and to hold, in name and in law—"
She felt Shane glance at her again, sharply this time. Not with curiosity. With recognition.
Something flickered in his eyes. A tremor of memory.
The past clawed at the surface, and for a single, dangerous second — she thought he would say her name.
"—Shane Ford, do you accept this union?"
Silence.
Then: "I do."
His voice hadn't changed. Still deep. Still detached. But she saw it — the hesitation. A twitch in his jaw. A split-second pause too long. It almost gave her hope. Almost.
Her turn.
She turned her face toward the man who once promised her everything and gave her ruins instead.
"I do," she whispered.
I do… to destroy you.
The applause erupted like fireworks — sharp and meaningless.
Diana blinked slowly as flashes exploded around her. Photographers. Reporters. Investors shaking hands. Montez Ford smiling like a god who'd engineered fate.
But Diana's eyes didn't leave Shane's. Not even as the officiant pronounced them husband and wife.
She watched him.
He looked down at her with an unreadable expression. There was something behind his silence now. A crack in the surface. Doubt. Memory. Ghosts.
Then he leaned slightly in, and under his breath, murmured:
"You always frown before you sign anything."
Her spine stiffened.
He didn't notice the way her grip tightened on his arm. Or maybe he did.
Because she smiled — wide and false — and leaned in too.
"Then consider this my signature."