My Marriage License, His Public Fall

For five years, I was the secret wife of billionaire Chace Bentley, hiding in the shadows because he swore it was the only way to protect me from his ruthless family.

But when his security guards dragged me out of his gala by my hair, breaking my ribs while the crowd jeered at the "delusional stalker," Chace didn't save me.

He stood on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, and watched me bleed with cold, dead eyes.

I thought I had hit rock bottom in that jail cell, until I found the documents in his safe.

A prenuptial agreement with a socialite named Celina.

And a trust fund for their future children.

When I confronted him, he didn't beg for forgiveness.

He laughed.

"Everything you own, the clothes on your back, the roof over your head, it's all because of me. My charity."

He thought he had broken me.

He thought I was just a disposable pawn in his rise to power.

But he forgot that I still held the one thing that could destroy him: our original marriage license.

On the day of his grand engagement announcement, I didn't hide.

I walked onto the stage, took the microphone, and introduced myself to the world.

"I'm Gracelyn Weeks, and I'm Chace Bentley's wife."

Chapter 1

Gracelyn POV:

The world blurred around me, a dizzying kaleidoscope of flashing lights and gaping faces. My arms were wrenched behind my back, a searing pain blooming where the security guard' s thick fingers dug into my flesh. One moment, I was standing on the periphery of the Bentley annual gala, trying to catch Chace' s eye, the next, I was being manhandled toward the ornate double doors, my feet barely touching the ground.

"Get off me!" I shrieked, my voice thin and reedy against the roar of the crowd. It was a futile protest. Their grip tightened, impersonal and brutal.

My body slammed against a marble pillar, the impact stealing my breath. A sharp gasp escaped my lips, but it was lost in the growing murmur of the horrified (or entertained) onlookers. My head throbbed, a dull ache spreading from my temples to the base of my skull. I felt a cold dread creep through my veins, colder than the New York winter night seeping in from the open doors.

"Trespassing. Violating a restraining order," a voice droned, clipped and emotionless. It was the head of Bentley security, a man whose face I knew better than my own. He looked at me with cold, dead eyes, as if I were a piece of trash to be disposed of. How could he not know me? How could he not remember all the times he' d let me in, no questions asked, when Chace and I stole moments together?

The words hit me harder than the impact with the pillar. A restraining order. Against me. Chace' s wife. The irony was a bitter taste in my mouth, metallic and acrid. I was being arrested, publicly humiliated, for