After Exposing My Identity, My Ruthless Husband Begged for Love

Maverick placed the tablet on the mahogany desk.

"We have a visual match, Sir."

Julian looked at the screen. It was a grainy still from a security camera in the alley behind the hotel. A woman in a red dress was climbing down a fire escape. The silhouette was right. The timing was right.

"Who is she?"

"Ivy Vance. Actress. B-list. Currently in debt."

Julian studied the face. It was pretty, in a manufactured way. It lacked the mystery of the woman in the dark, but the evidence was there.

"Bring her in."

Ivy Vance couldn't believe her luck. She had been at the hotel that night, yes-running from a raid on an illegal poker game on the 40th floor. She had climbed out the window to avoid the police.

Now, Julian Vanderbilt was looking at her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

"You left this," Julian said, sliding the hundred-dollar bill across the desk.

Ivy stared at it. She picked it up, confusion warring with greed in her eyes. "Is this... a tip? For the service?"

Julian watched her. The reaction was crude, lacking the sharp irony of the woman who had placed it under his watch. Still, she had been there.

"You have a debt," Julian said. "Two hundred thousand."

Ivy paled. "I can pay it."

"I paid it this morning," Julian said. He tossed a black Amex card onto the table next to the bill. "And I got you a role in the new Warner production."

Ivy's hands shook as she reached for the card. "Why?"

"Because you amuse me," Julian said coldly. "And because I owe you for the... entertainment."

Within an hour, Ivy posted a selfie on Instagram. Her legs were draped over the leather seat of a private jet. The caption read: Saved by the King.

At the Sullivan house, the sound of breaking glass shattered the afternoon quiet.

Robert threw his scotch glass at the wall. "Look at this!" He shoved his phone in Sienna's face. "That little tramp is flying on his jet! And you? You're scrubbing floors!"

Sienna didn't flinch as a shard of glass skittered past her foot. She sat at the kitchen table, peeling an apple. The knife moved in a continuous, fluid ribbon.

Eleanor, her stepmother, sneered from the doorway. "She doesn't have the looks, Robert. Or the charm. She's dead weight."

"If you can't get money from him," Eleanor hissed, leaning over Sienna, "then stop eating ours. No tuition this semester."

Sienna looked up. The knife stopped moving.

"If you want his money so bad," Sienna said, her voice dropping an octave, "why don't you go sleep with him, Eleanor?"

Eleanor gasped and raised her hand.

Sienna didn't move. She just tilted the knife slightly, the light catching the blade.

Eleanor froze. There was something in Sienna's eyes-a flat, reptilian stillness-that made her blood run cold. She lowered her hand.

"Get out of my sight," Eleanor spat.

Sienna stood up. She took the apple. She walked out the back door into the grey afternoon.

Her phone vibrated. A notification.

Payment Received: $3.5 Million. Sender: Sotheby's.

Her design, the "Midnight" gown, had just sold in Paris.

Sienna stared at the number. It was enough to buy the Sullivan estate three times over. But she couldn't touch a cent. Not yet. That money belonged to the Ghost, to the organization she had built from the ashes of her mother's ruin. Using it would trigger forensic audits, exposing the paper trail she had spent five years burying. To survive the Sullivans, she had to remain Sienna the pauper, not Sienna the multi-millionaire.

She took a bite of the apple. It was crisp and sour. She looked at Ivy's Instagram post again and smiled.

"Enjoy the flight, Ivy," she whispered. "The crash is the best part."