The quiet that followed Andrew's threat echoed in Amelia's mind long after the door shut behind him.
She stood frozen in the center of the hallway, still holding the folder against her chest like a shield. Her heart pounded, her breathing shallow.
So this was the man she had married.
Not just cold and ruthless—but dangerous.
She walked back to her room with slow, measured steps, her thoughts spiraling. What did he mean by "don't dig, Amelia"? What else was he hiding?
Her hands trembled as she locked her door and sank onto the edge of the bed. She placed the folder carefully on her lap and flipped through the pages again, hoping she'd imagined the forged signature, the transaction history, the liquidation orders.
But it was all still there—clear, cold, calculated.
He had destroyed her father's empire.
And then offered himself as the savior.
Her stomach churned with nausea and rage.
This wasn't just about business.
It was personal.
And if he thought she would play the obedient wife while he wrapped her in lies and secrets, he was more delusional than she thought.
The next morning, Amelia didn't wait for the housekeeper. She dressed herself in a slate-gray suit she found tucked in the back of the closet—conservative, sharp. The perfect armor.
She didn't knock when she entered the dining room.
Andrew was already there, coffee in hand, dressed in a charcoal suit and silver cufflinks that caught the light. His expression was unreadable as always.
"Good morning," he said without looking up from his tablet.
She slid into the seat across from him. "We need to talk."
"That's new," he replied, still scrolling.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the folder. "I found this."
That got his attention.
He lowered the tablet, his eyes narrowing. "You were in my study."
"I was in my house," she corrected, voice steady. "Your warning came a little late."
He stared at her for a long moment, as if calculating how much she really knew. "You shouldn't have seen that."
Her hands tightened on the folder. "Why? Because it shows what you did to my father? How you dismantled his company piece by piece before you swooped in like a savior?"
Andrew leaned back in his chair, calm but tense. "Your father signed that deal."
"No, he didn't," she said, tossing the page in front of him. "That's not his signature. It's a forgery."
A pause.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes.
Guilt?
No. Andrew Reynolds didn't feel guilt. Just strategy.
He tapped his fingers against the table. "You shouldn't jump to conclusions."
"Then give me the truth," she snapped. "Right here. Right now."
He stood, slowly, power radiating off him like heat from a fire. "The truth, Amelia, is dangerous. Especially for someone like you."
"I can handle it."
He moved closer, his voice low. "Can you? Because if you keep digging, you're going to find things that make this marriage look like a fairytale."
She held her ground. "I deserve to know what I'm married into."
For a moment, his expression faltered.
Just a crack.
Then it was gone.
"Finish your breakfast," he said, turning away. "We leave for the charity gala in an hour."
She blinked. "Gala?"
"You're Mrs. Reynolds now," he said over his shoulder. "Time to act like it."
The gala was held at The Met, a swirl of luxury and illusion.
Gowns glittered. Laughter echoed. Photographers flashed.
Amelia stood beside Andrew as the cameras clicked, their smiles fake, their hands barely touching. But to the world, they were perfect. A golden couple. The ruthless CEO and his beautiful bride.
She hated every second of it.
Still, she played the role.
Smiled for the cameras. Sipped champagne. Nodded politely as socialites fawned over Andrew.
It wasn't until halfway through the evening that she slipped away.
She needed air.
She stepped out onto the balcony, the city lights sprawling below her like a blanket of stars. Her heart still hadn't slowed since breakfast. She clutched the stone railing, trying to breathe.
"You clean up well."
The voice came from behind her.
She turned.
It was him.
Liam Carter.
Her ex.
The man who had disappeared when her world collapsed—and apparently resurfaced right when she least needed him.
"I didn't know you were back in New York," she said tightly.
"Andrew invited me."
Of course he did.
Andrew Reynolds never did anything without a reason.
Liam stepped closer, his gaze searching hers. "Amelia… are you okay?"
She laughed, bitter and tired. "Do I look okay?"
He studied her carefully. "I heard about your father. About the marriage."
"And yet here you are, at Andrew's gala."
He winced. "It's complicated."
"No," she said flatly. "It's actually very simple. You left. He bought. And now I'm the prize in someone's sick power game."
Liam stepped forward, lowering his voice. "Amelia, I think there's something you need to know. About Andrew. About your father's downfall."
Her breath caught.
"What do you know?"
He glanced behind them, cautious. "Not here. It's not safe."
"Then tell me where."
Before he could answer, a sharp voice cut through the quiet.
"There you are."
Andrew.
He stepped onto the balcony, his expression cool but deadly. His gaze flicked from Liam to Amelia.
"Enjoying the view?"
Liam stepped back. "We were just talking."
Andrew's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure you were."
He held out a hand to Amelia. "Come. The press is asking for us."
Amelia hesitated.
Liam gave her a look—one that said be careful.
She took Andrew's hand.
As they walked back into the crowd, she whispered, "Why is he here?"
Andrew leaned down, lips near her ear. "Because I wanted him to see what he lost."
She pulled her hand from his, the tension between them crackling like a live wire.
This wasn't over.
Not even close.
Later that night, back at the mansion, Amelia paced her room.
Her mind replayed Liam's words—there's something you need to know—on a loop.
What did he mean?
What was he about to tell her?
She had to find him again.
But she had to be careful.
She crossed the room and opened the folder again, flipping past the financial records until something new caught her eye.
A post-it note.
Yellow. Nearly invisible between the printed pages.
One word was scrawled across it in messy handwriting:
"Marion."
She frowned.
That was her mother's name.
Why would Andrew's file contain a note with her mother's name?
She flipped to the back of the folder, where a sealed envelope was tucked into a sleeve.
It wasn't addressed. Just taped shut.
Her fingers hesitated.
Then tore it open.
Inside was a photograph.
Old. Worn at the edges.
A woman—young, beautiful—standing beside a man in a military uniform.
Not her father.
Not Andrew.
But her mother.
And the man…
She didn't recognize him.
She turned the photo over.
One line was written in faded ink:
"He never knew."
Amelia's blood ran cold.
What the hell was going on?
Suddenly, a knock echoed at the door.
Three sharp raps.
Not the housekeeper.
Amelia shoved the photo back into the folder and stepped toward the door, heart racing.
She opened it slowly.
No one was there.
Just a white envelope on the floor.
She picked it up, turned it over—and froze.
In black ink, block letters:
STOP DIGGING OR NEXT TIME I WON'T KNOCK.