Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street

The water from the faucet was freezing, but it didn't shock her. Nothing really shocked her anymore. She stared at her reflection in the spotted mirror of the City Clerk's bathroom. Her mascara was perfect. Her skin was pale, translucent under the harsh fluorescent lights. She looked like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together too many times.

She reached into the hidden lining of her clutch and pulled out an amber prescription bottle. The label read Sertraline, her supposed lifeline, the chemical leash her father thought kept his unstable daughter from embarrassing the family. She popped the cap.

She shook two white mints into her palm. She'd spent a month conditioning herself to mimic the slight hand tremor associated with Sertraline withdrawal, a performance detail for her father's benefit.

She crunched down on the sugar, letting the sharp peppermint burn her tongue. It was the only thing real about that moment. Her phone buzzed against the marble countertop. It was the final data packet from the encrypted server she'd set up. Her own work.

She unlocked the screen. The photo was high-definition, captured by a micro-camera she'd swapped onto his favorite coat two days ago. Preston Hayes. Her fiancé. He was tangled in sheets at SoHo House, his mouth on the neck of a junior associate from his father's firm. The timestamp was two hours ago.

She checked her watch. Forty-five minutes.

If she wasn't married in forty-five minutes, the trust fund clause regarding her grandfather's super-voting shares would expire. The Miller Group would be carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and her father would sell the scraps to the highest bidder. Her team at Interpol had flagged the Miller Foundation for laundering, and losing those shares meant losing her only legal way inside.

She didn't feel sad. She didn't feel betrayed. She felt the cold, hard click of a lock sliding into place in her mind.

She pushed through the bathroom door. The heels of her Louboutins struck the marble floor with a military cadence. The waiting area was a purgatory of beige walls and nervous couples clutching paperwork. The air smelled of stale coffee and bureaucratic apathy.

Preston was standing near the front of the line. He checked his Rolex, tapping his foot. He was wearing a custom Tom Ford suit that cost more than most people's cars. He looked the part. The perfect heir. The perfect husband.

He saw her. His face transformed instantly. The irritation vanished, replaced by a practiced, dazzling smile. It was the smile that had charmed the board of directors and fooled the gossip columnists.

"Ivy, finally," he said, reaching for her. "You're dragging your feet. We're going to miss the reservation at Le Bernardin."

His hand aimed for her waist. It was a possessive gesture, a claim of ownership.

She sidestepped him. It was smooth, a muscle memory honed from years of dodging things thrown in her direction.

Preston's hand grasped at empty air. His smile faltered,