Inside, the grand hall has been transformed for the gala—crystal chandeliers casting a golden glow over marble floors, floral arrangements taller than a person adorning every corner, champagne flowing freely as waiters circulate with trays of hors d'oeuvres.

"Ethan! Darling!" A woman's voice cuts through the crowd, and I turn to see an elegant blonde in her sixties approaching, her smile warm but her eyes sharp with assessment.


"Mother," Ethan greets her, kissing her cheek. "May I introduce my wife, Olivia. Olivia, this is my mother, Vivienne Knight."

Vivienne's perfectly manicured hand extends toward me, her diamond bracelet catching the light. "So you're the woman who finally captured my son," she says, her voice pleasant but her gaze penetrating. "I must say, he's been remarkably secretive about you."

"We preferred to keep our relationship private," I reply smoothly, shaking her hand. "Until recently."


"Until a certain little boy entered the picture, you mean," Vivienne says, lowering her voice. "Ethan has told me about my grandson. I'm very eager to meet him."

So Ethan has already informed his mother about Leo. Interesting. I wonder how much else he's shared with her.


"Leo is looking forward to meeting you too," I say diplomatically. "Perhaps you could join us for dinner this weekend?"

"I'd be delighted," Vivienne replies, her smile warming slightly. "Now, you must circulate. Everyone is dying to meet the woman who managed to marry Ethan Knight without a single gossip column getting wind of it."

As if on cue, a photographer approaches, asking for a photo of the "happy couple." Ethan's arm slides around my waist again, his body warm against my side as we pose. His hand rests possessively at my hip, his thumb tracing small circles against the bare skin exposed by my backless gown. The casual intimacy of the gesture sends a shiver up my spine.

"Cold?" he murmurs close to my ear.

"No," I reply truthfully. The opposite, in fact. His touch is igniting a heat I've been trying desperately to ignore since our wedding kiss.

After the photographer moves on, Ethan guides me through the crowd, introducing me to a blur of important faces—business associates, politicians, socialites. I play my role perfectly, the charming, intelligent wife who complements her powerful husband. All the while, my eyes scan the room for the faces I'm really here to see.

And then, across the crowded hall, I spot them.

Charles Morgan, his hair grayer than I remember but his posture still proud. Diana beside him, elegant in midnight blue, her calculating eyes surveying the room like a general assessing a battlefield. And Cassandra, draped in a red gown that reveals more than it conceals, laughing too loudly at something a silver-haired man has said.

My family. My enemies. The people who destroyed my life and left me for dead.

My hand tightens involuntarily on my champagne flute, and Ethan notices immediately, his gaze following mine to the Morgan family.

"Ah," he says quietly. "The competition. Would you like to say hello? It might be good strategy to let them see you with me before the acquisition moves forward."

Before I can respond, a voice interrupts us—smooth, cultured, with an undercurrent of steel.

"Ethan Knight. I was hoping to run into you tonight."

I turn to find Maxwell Pierce approaching, impeccably dressed as always, his silver hair styled perfectly. Beside him is his son Nathaniel—the man who drugged me five years ago, who helped Cassandra destroy me.

My blood runs cold, but I maintain my composure, my expression revealing nothing of the rage and fear churning inside me.

"Maxwell," Ethan greets him coolly. "Nathaniel. May I introduce my wife, Olivia."

Maxwell's eyebrows rise slightly. "Wife? Well, this is news. Congratulations." He takes my hand, his grip firm. "Olivia Knight. The name doesn't sound familiar. Which family are you from, my dear?"

The question is typical of old money—always establishing lineage, connections, worth.

"No family you would know," I reply with a serene smile. "I made my own way."

"How refreshing," Maxwell says, though his tone suggests the opposite. "And what is it you do, Mrs. Knight?"

"Olivia is the president of Ascendant Group," Ethan answers before I can, his voice carrying a note of pride that seems genuine. "The company that's about to acquire Morgan Group's Asian division."

Nathaniel's head snaps up at this, his eyes narrowing as he studies me more carefully. "Ascendant Group? I wasn't aware they had appointed a new president."

"I've been with the company since its inception," I reply smoothly. "Though I prefer to maintain a low profile."

"Until now, apparently," Nathaniel observes, his gaze traveling over me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. Does he recognize me? Has something in my voice or mannerisms triggered a memory?

"Marriage has a way of thrusting one into the spotlight," I say lightly. "Especially marriage to Ethan Knight."

"Indeed," Maxwell agrees, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Well, we won't keep you from your other guests. I'm sure everyone is eager to meet the new Mrs. Knight."

As they move away, Ethan leans close to my ear. "You handled that well. Maxwell Pierce is not an easy man to impress."

"I wasn't trying to impress him," I reply, taking a sip of champagne to steady my nerves. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

Ethan's eyebrows rise slightly. "Oh? And why is that?"

"The Pierces have a reputation for shady business practices," I say, which is true enough. "I prefer to keep my distance."

"Wise," Ethan agrees. "Though in New York society, that's not always possible. The Pierces are everywhere."

"Like a virus," I murmur, earning a surprised chuckle from Ethan.

"My wife has claws," he observes, his eyes warming with something like admiration. "I like it."

Before I can respond, another voice calls Ethan's name—his father this time, summoning him to meet some political figure whose support is crucial for an upcoming project. Ethan excuses himself reluctantly, promising to return quickly.

Alone for the first time since our arrival, I take the opportunity to observe the room more carefully. Cassandra and Diana have moved to the bar area, deep in conversation with a group that includes Nathaniel Pierce. My father stands apart, looking uncomfortable as he always does at these social functions.

I should avoid them. The smart move would be to stay on the opposite side of the room, to wait for Ethan's return before risking any interaction that might reveal too much.

But I've waited five years for this moment—to see their faces again, to stand in their presence not as the broken girl they destroyed but as a woman of power and influence. The temptation is too great.

Decision made, I move through the crowd toward the bar, positioning myself just close enough to overhear their conversation without joining it directly.

"The acquisition is moving too quickly," Nathaniel is saying, his voice low but urgent. "If Ascendant Group gains control of the Asian division, they'll have access to everything—including the offshore accounts."

"That won't happen," Diana replies confidently. "Charles may be a fool, but he still controls the board. The vote won't pass without his approval."

"And what about this mysterious Olivia Knight?" Cassandra asks, sipping her martini. "Where did she come from? And why is she so interested in our company specifically?"

"I'm looking into it," Nathaniel assures her. "There's something familiar about her, though I can't place it."

My pulse quickens. I need to leave before they notice me, before Nathaniel's nagging sense of recognition solidifies into certainty.

But as I turn to go, I collide with someone approaching from behind—a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. The glasses topple, splashing liquid across the front of my gown.

"I'm so sorry, ma'am!" the waiter exclaims, mortified.

The commotion draws attention—including that of the very group I was trying to avoid. Cassandra's eyes widen with interest at the sight of my mishap, a small, mean smile playing at her lips. Always enjoying others' misfortune, just as she did when we were children.

"Here," she says, approaching with a napkin in hand, the very picture of helpfulness. "Let me help you with that."

I stiffen as she dabs at my dress, her face inches from mine. This close, will she recognize me? See through the changes in my appearance to the stepsister she betrayed?

"Thank you," I say coolly, keeping my voice pitched slightly lower than my natural tone—a technique I've practiced for years in preparation for this moment. "But I can manage."

"I insist," Cassandra replies, her smile saccharine sweet. "We women must stick together at these events, don't you think? I'm Cassandra Morgan, by the way."

"Olivia Knight," I respond, taking the napkin from her and stepping back slightly. "And really, it's fine. The dress is dark enough that it won't show once it dries."

"Knight?" Cassandra's perfectly shaped eyebrows rise. "As in Ethan Knight? I wasn't aware he was married."

"Recently," I reply, scanning the crowd for Ethan. Where is he when I need him?

"How recently?" Cassandra presses, her curiosity clearly piqued.

"Very," I say, deliberately vague. "If you'll excuse me, I should find my husband."

"Of course," Cassandra says, though she makes no move to let me pass. "But first, tell me—how did you and Ethan meet? It's such a romantic story, I'm sure."

The question is a trap, designed to extract information she can use later. I recognize the technique because I've used it myself.

"Through business," I reply, keeping it simple. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"Olivia, there you are." Ethan's voice cuts through the tension as he appears at my side, his hand coming to rest possessively at the small of my back. "I see you've met Cassandra Morgan."

"Yes, she was just helping me with a small champagne spill," I explain, leaning into him slightly, playing the role of adoring wife.

"How kind," Ethan says, though his tone suggests he believes otherwise. "Cassandra and I are old acquaintances. Her family's company is struggling with their Asian expansion—the very division your company is acquiring, if I'm not mistaken."

The deliberate reminder of Ascendant Group's power play against Morgan Group is perfectly calculated to put Cassandra on the defensive.

"The acquisition is far from finalized," she replies, her smile tightening. "My father still has final say, and he's not convinced it's the right move."

"Perhaps I could speak with him," I suggest, unable to resist the opportunity to come face-to-face with my father. "Sometimes a fresh perspective helps in these situations."

Cassandra's eyes narrow slightly. "I'm sure that won't be necessary. My father trusts my judgment in these matters."

A blatant lie. Charles Morgan has never trusted Cassandra's business acumen—with good reason. She's driven the company to the brink of bankruptcy with her reckless decisions.

"Nevertheless," Ethan interjects smoothly, "we'd be happy to meet with him. Perhaps over dinner next week? The four of us—you, your father, Olivia, and myself."

Cassandra hesitates, clearly caught between not wanting us anywhere near her father and not wanting to refuse Ethan Knight, one of the most powerful men in New York.

"I'll check his schedule," she says finally. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I see someone I must speak with."

As she walks away, Ethan turns to me, concern in his eyes. "Are you alright? Your dress..."

"It's fine," I assure him, though the champagne has left a damp patch across my bodice. "Nothing that won't dry."

"Let's find somewhere quieter for a moment," he suggests, guiding me toward a less crowded area of the museum—a small alcove housing an ancient Greek sculpture.

Once we're alone, he produces a handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs at the remaining moisture on my dress, his touch careful, almost tender.

"Cassandra Morgan is a piranha," he says conversationally as he works. "Beautiful but deadly. And not nearly as clever as she thinks she is."

"You seem to know her well," I observe, watching his face for any sign of past involvement.

"Not well," he corrects. "But well enough to recognize a predator. She's been trying to get her hooks into me for years—professionally and personally."

"And you've resisted her charms?" I ask, unable to keep a hint of skepticism from my voice.

Ethan looks up, his blue eyes meeting mine directly. "Completely. Cassandra Morgan represents everything I despise in business—shortcuts, manipulation, taking credit for others' work. And personally... she's not my type."

"And what is your type, Mr. Knight?" The question slips out before I can stop it, more flirtatious than I intended.

A slow smile spreads across Ethan's face, transforming his usually serious expression into something dangerously attractive. "Intelligent. Independent. Formidable." His eyes hold mine. "Someone who challenges me rather than simply agreeing with everything I say."

"Like your wife?" I suggest, playing along with the charade.

"Exactly like my wife," he agrees, his voice dropping lower as he leans closer. "Who, I must say, looks absolutely breathtaking tonight, even with champagne on her dress."

The compliment, delivered with such obvious sincerity, sends a flush of warmth through me. This is dangerous territory—the line between pretense and reality blurring with every moment we spend together.

"We should return to the party," I say, taking a step back. "People will talk if we're gone too long."

"Let them talk," Ethan replies, though he doesn't move closer again. "We're newlyweds, after all. It's expected."

The reminder of our status—husband and wife, at least on paper—hangs between us, charged with possibilities neither of us has acknowledged openly.

"Nevertheless," I insist, "we have appearances to maintain. And I believe your mother was looking for you earlier."

Ethan sighs but offers his arm. "As you wish, Mrs. Knight. But this conversation isn't over."

As we rejoin the gala, I catch sight of my father across the room, now standing alone near a display of ancient artifacts. The opportunity is too perfect to resist.

"I see Charles Morgan," I say to Ethan. "Perhaps now is a good time to introduce myself properly, given Ascendant Group's interest in his company."

Ethan follows my gaze, then nods. "Good thinking. A personal connection might smooth the acquisition process."

We approach my father, who looks older than I remember—more lines around his eyes, a slight stoop to his shoulders that wasn't there five years ago. The sight of him—the man who chose Cassandra over me, who believed the worst without question—sends a complicated mix of emotions through me: anger, hurt, and a traitorous flicker of longing for the father I once adored.

"Mr. Morgan," Ethan greets him, extending his hand. "Ethan Knight. I believe we met briefly at the Thomson merger last year."

My father shakes Ethan's hand, his expression warming slightly. "Of course, Mr. Knight. Your reputation precedes you."

"May I introduce my wife, Olivia," Ethan continues, drawing me forward. "She's the president of Ascendant Group—the company interested in acquiring your Asian division."

My father's eyes turn to me, polite but distant. No recognition, no hint that he sees his daughter beneath the sophisticated exterior I've cultivated. Just a businessman meeting a potential business partner.

"Mrs. Knight," he says, taking my offered hand. "A pleasure. Though I must say, I was expecting someone... older... to be heading Ascendant Group."

"Youth and innovation often go hand in hand, Mr. Morgan," I reply, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside me. "As does a fresh perspective on established markets."

"Indeed," he agrees, though his tone suggests skepticism. "Though experience has its value as well."

"Which is why partnerships between established companies like Morgan Group and newer entities like Ascendant can be so beneficial," I counter smoothly. "We bring innovation; you bring experience and market presence."

My father studies me more carefully now, his interest piqued. "You make a compelling argument, Mrs. Knight. Perhaps we should discuss this further in a more formal setting."

"I'd be delighted," I reply. "My team can coordinate with yours for a meeting next week."

As we exchange a few more pleasantries, I search his face for any sign—any hint that something about me seems familiar to him. But there's nothing. The man who raised me, who taught me to ride a bike and checked my homework and kissed my forehead every night before bed, looks at me as if I'm a complete stranger.

Which, I suppose, is exactly what I wanted. Yet the reality of it—standing before my own father, unrecognized—cuts deeper than I anticipated.

"We should let you enjoy the rest of the gala," Ethan says finally, sensing my discomfort though misinterpreting its cause. "We'll be in touch about that meeting."

As we walk away, Ethan's hand rests supportively at the small of my back. "That went well," he observes. "Charles seemed impressed by you."

"He's a traditionalist," I reply, drawing on my intimate knowledge of my father's business style. "He values directness and clear communication. No flowery language or excessive promises."

Ethan glances at me curiously. "You've done your research."

"Always," I agree, relieved that he attributes my insight to professional thoroughness rather than personal history.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of introductions, small talk, and strategic networking. I play my role perfectly—the accomplished businesswoman, the charming wife, the newest addition to New York's elite social circle. All the while, I'm acutely aware of Cassandra and Diana watching me from across the room, their suspicion almost palpable.

By the time we leave, my face aches from maintaining my social smile, and my feet protest the hours in stiletto heels. In the privacy of the limousine, I finally allow myself to relax, slipping off my shoes with a sigh of relief.

"You were magnificent tonight," Ethan says, loosening his bow tie as the car pulls away from the museum. "Everyone was captivated by you."

"Including you?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can censor it.

In the dim light of the car, Ethan's eyes meet mine, intense and unguarded. "Especially me."

The admission hangs between us, charged with possibilities neither of us is ready to acknowledge fully. This is dangerous territory—the line between our business arrangement and something more personal growing blurrier by the day.

"It's late," I say, breaking the moment. "We should check on Leo when we get home."

Home. The word feels strange on my tongue, applied to Ethan's penthouse—our penthouse now, I suppose. After years of transience, of building walls around myself and my son, the concept of home seems foreign, almost threatening in its permanence.

"Of course," Ethan agrees, though his eyes linger on me for a moment longer before he turns to look out the window at the passing city lights.

As we ride in silence back to the penthouse, I reflect on the evening's encounters—coming face to face with my father, with Cassandra, with Nathaniel Pierce. None recognized me, yet all seemed vaguely unsettled by my presence, as if some subconscious part of them sensed the threat I represent.

Good. Let them wonder. Let them worry. The game has only just begun.

But as I glance at Ethan's profile in the darkness, another worry surfaces—one I hadn't fully anticipated when I crafted my revenge plan. What happens when he discovers the truth? When he learns that his wife, the mother of his child, has been using him as a pawn in her vendetta against the Morgan family?

Will he become an ally in my quest for justice? Or will he see my deception as unforgivable, regardless of the justification?

The uncertainty gnaws at me, a complication I didn't expect when I agreed to this marriage of convenience. Because despite all my careful planning, all my emotional armor, I'm beginning to care what Ethan Knight thinks of me.

And that might be the most dangerous development of all.