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“She’s my wife. Anyone who dares to insult or hurt her is slapping me in the face!” When we met, he was the son of a billionaire. I was just the maid. He confessed to me a hundred times. He even went on a hunger strike to force his family to let him marry me. And I fell for him. But when his childhood sweetheart returned, he used my mother’s ashes to threaten me into signing a waiver. I begged him, on my knees, ninety-nine times—just to stop him from defending her. But he looked at me, tired and cold. “I have to protect her,” he said. “Even if that means going against the woman I love the most.” I wiped my tears, and made the call. “Hello. I’d like to schedule a fake-death extraction.” All it took was her mother accidentally brushing against the custom-made gown of the city’s richest heiress—for Sloane West’s mother to be dragged away, limbs broken, and thrown into the sea. When she finally pressed charges against that arrogant debutante, the court ruled the girl not guilty. Because the defense attorney standing by her side was none other than the founder of the city of Riverstone’s most prestigious law firm—Sloane’s husband, Declan Hawthorne. As the trial ended, the poised, aristocratic man with cold eyes walked away from the defendant’s seat and placed an apology letter on the table in front of her. “Sloane, just sign it. You wouldn’t want to get sued for slander and end up in jail, would you?” His tone was gentle and coaxing, but behind the gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were sharp as a blade. Sloane stared at him, defiant tears brimming in her eyes, her voice trembling. “Why, Declan?” She couldn’t understand. She was his wife. He had loved her so fiercely that he gave up his inheritance and endured being locked away by the Hawthornes—just to marry his former caregiver. But after her mother’s death, she had begged him countless times, crying. Even this morning, she had knelt at his feet once again, threatening divorce if he refused to drop the
