My husband left our wedding suite at 10:16 p.m. to spend our wedding night with the woman he had spent three years calling

While Preston Caldwell rotted in an isolated cell and plotted revenge through lawyers, Brielle Vance was running out of shadows.

Stripped of her luxury condo, her luxury vehicles, and every diamond Julian’s lawyers had traced back to stolen family funds, Brielle had been forced to seek shelter in a dilapidated walk-up in South Boston. The woman who once prided herself on being the hidden obsession of a billionaire’s husband now spent her days dodging process servers and paparazzi who treated her like a circus exhibit.

Her manicure was chipped, her designer clothes replaced by oversized coats meant to conceal her face. But like all parasites, Brielle had a relentless instinct for survival.

Inside a dimly lit private booth at a discreet hotel lounge near the financial district, Brielle sat shaking as a tall, silver-haired man slid into the leather bench across from her.

Alistair Vance possessed the same aristocratic bone structure as his nephew Julian, but where Julian’s features were defined by honor and iron resolve, Alistair’s face was a mask of cold, predatory calculation.

"You look wretched, my dear," Alistair said softly, sipping a dry martini without offering her a single glass of water. "Julian and his new bride have done quite a number on you."

Brielle’s fingers dug into the edge of the table. "You said you were going to get me out of the country! You promised me five million dollars if I kept my mouth shut about the off-the-books wire transfers Preston made to your shell companies before the wedding!"

"Did I?" Alistair smiled, a humorless, serpentine grin. "I promised you would be taken care of if you proved useful. Right now, you are a convicted grifter on bail, facing ten years for accessory to corporate theft. You are an embarrassment to the Vance name."

"I have the audio logs!" Brielle hissed, leaning forward, desperation making her voice pitch high and erratic. "On the night Preston left our suite—Room 404 at the St. Regis—he called your private number before he came to my bed! He told you Eleanor was neutralized, that the prenuptial agreement was secured! If I go to the federal prosecutors, you go down with him!"

Alistair’s eyes darkened, turning to flint. He reached across the table, his hand catching Brielle’s wrist in a grip that made her gasp in pain.

"Listen to me very carefully, Brielle," Alistair whispered, leaning in until his breath chilled her ear. "You are alive only because you can still serve a purpose. Preston’s retrial won’t happen if the narrative stays focused on his greed. We need a victim. We need the public to believe that Eleanor used her father’s influence to fabricate the evidence, that she orchestrated the raid out of sheer jealousy because Preston loved you."

"The press will never believe that," Brielle stammered, fear finally cutting through her delusions. "Eleanor has the receipts. She has the bank statements!"

"The public does not care about bank statements; they care about blood," Alistair replied coldly, releasing her wrist. "Tomorrow morning, you are sitting down with the editor of *The Boston Herald*. You will weep. You will claim Eleanor threatened to have you murdered. You will claim Julian Vance forced his way into your life to steal his uncle’s rightful holdings. And in exchange, a private jet will be waiting for you at Logan Airport with a ticket to São Paulo."

Brielle clutched her bruised wrist, looking into the eyes of a monster far more dangerous than Preston Caldwell had ever been. She knew it was a lie. She knew that once she served her purpose, Alistair would discard her like a spent match.

Yet as she looked out into the pouring rain against the window, the image of Eleanor standing at the grand gala—radiant, untouchable, and beloved—ignited a sudden, burning rage inside her.

"I’ll do it," Brielle choked out. "I want her destroyed. I want to see her brought down to the mud."