Married to the Coldest Media King

Rain lashed against the revolving glass doors of the Brennan Media Tower, blurring the neon chaos of Midtown Manhattan into streaks of gray and angry red. Dylan Maxwell stood under the overhang, her fingers trembling as she smoothed the damp hem of her trench coat. The cold wasn't just in the air. It was seeping through the soles of her shoes, climbing up her legs, settling deep in her bones where the adrenaline couldn't reach it.

She caught her reflection in the dark glass. Her blonde hair was frizzy from the humidity, but her lips were painted a defiant, blood-red crimson. It was the only armor she had left.

You can do this, she told herself, though her stomach twisted in a knot so tight it made her nauseous. You are a Maxwell. That name used to open doors. Now, it just slammed them shut.

She pushed through the doors. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and intimidation, smelling of expensive coffee and floor wax. Dylan walked straight to the reception desk, her heels clicking a rhythm that sounded far more confident than she felt.

"I have a legal summons for Mr. Brennan," she said, her voice steady, sliding a crisp manila envelope onto the counter. "It pertains to the board's morality clause and a potential challenge to his voting rights."

The security guard behind the desk didn't even blink. He typed something into his terminal, his eyes scanning the screen with bored efficiency. He looked up, his gaze dropping to her handbag. It was a Birkin, three years old, the leather scuffed at the corners. He knew. In this zip code, everyone knew exactly how much money you didn't have.

"Mr. Brennan doesn't accept unsolicited legal documents here," the guard said flatly.

Dylan leaned in, resting her hand on the cool marble counter. She glanced at his ID badge. Frank. She remembered him. Three years ago, her father had tipped him five hundred dollars for getting a taxi in a blizzard.

Frank, she said, lowering her voice. Your daughter started at NYU this fall, didn't she? Pre-med?

The guard's eyes widened slightly. He looked at her, really looked at her, and the recognition dawned. It wasn't respect anymore. It was pity.

Miss Maxwell, he whispered. You shouldn't be here.

"I need five minutes, Frank. If I don't get them, the information in this envelope goes to the Wall Street Journal. It concerns a competitor of Brennan Media and their attempts to leverage the morality clause against him. It will make the board very nervous. It will make your boss's life very difficult. And the leak will be traced back to this lobby."

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the phone. Then, he sighed and tapped a button under the desk. The turnstile light turned green.

Go. Before I lose my job.

Thank you.

Dylan didn't run, but she walked fast. The elevator ride was a vertical rocket launch. Her ears popped as the numbers climbed-40, 50, 60. Her