By sunrise, I knew two things: the Mafia boss waiting to marry me had already driven six wives out of his house, and if I refused to become number seven, my sick mother would lose her home before sunset. Four hours later, I stood trembling in a borrowed wedding dress when Chicago’s most feared man looked at me and said, “This isn’t Evelyn.”

I looked at him

I looked at him.

“Temporary.”

“Six months.”

“Three.”

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Done.”

Jonas looked between us.

Mom said, “You two negotiate like married people.”

I closed my eyes.

“Please stop.”

Cassian actually laughed once.

Just once.

But I heard it.

And somehow that sound unsettled me more than any rumor.

The Aldridges did not collapse by evening.

Real consequences move slower than gossip.

Their attorneys called.

Cassian’s attorneys answered.

Margaret denied coercion.

Then modified the denial.

Then claimed misunderstanding.

Then stopped speaking directly.

Charles returned from Europe.

Evelyn remained gone.

The wedding story never reached the press in its full form.

A family spokesperson blamed “private contractual complications.”

Chicago society invented seventeen better versions.

I learned this because Cassian’s assistant collected media reports.

Apparently one publication claimed I was a mysterious heiress.

Another said I had been Cassian’s secret lover for three years.

I had not even known his eye color three days earlier.

Green, unfortunately.

Very noticeable.

The cottage issue took two weeks.

Cassian’s company did not buy it.

I did.

Technically.

Through a loan arranged against my new salary and guaranteed by a foundation program for long-term service employees.

The price was reasonable because the cottage required subdivision and independent utility work.

Cassian covered the legal fees as part of the settlement with the Aldridges.

I argued.

He ignored me.

I argued again.

He produced an itemized explanation proving the fees were cheaper than litigation.

I hated that he understood I could accept logic more easily than generosity.

Mom signed the first utility bill in her own name and cried.

Not because the cottage was luxurious.

Because nobody could threaten to take it away through me again.

That mattered.

My new job took me to Chicago.

Not permanently at first.

Four days a week.

The Vale Foundation office occupied two floors of a building near the river.

Nothing about it looked criminal.

That was probably intentional.

I reviewed employment contracts.

Staff housing.

Medical assistance rules.

Emergency-leave policies.

Domestic-worker payroll.

What I found surprised me.

Cassian’s organization was not uniformly cruel.

It was inconsistent.

Some properties treated staff exceptionally well.

Others operated through informal arrangements just like the Aldridges.

Housing tied to obedience.

Medical support treated as favor instead of benefit.

Managers deciding exceptions according to mood.

I wrote a seventy-page report.

Cassian read all of it.

Every footnote.

He called me into his office afterward.

“This is unpleasant.”

“Thank you.”

“That was not praise.”

“I know.”

He turned a page.

“You think three of my estate managers are creating dependency.”

“Yes.”

“They believe they are helping.”

“So did Margaret.”

His gaze lifted.

Fair hit.

He looked back at the report.

“What do you recommend?”

“Separate housing from personal loyalty.”

“Meaning?”

“Written leases. Clear employee rates. No informal eviction threats. Medical support handled through benefits, not personal approval.”

“Expensive.”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Independent grievance channel.”

“No.”

“Then why ask me?”

“Because that becomes a security risk.”

“Then design it so it doesn’t.”

He stared.

“You say impossible things casually.”

“You hired the maid.”

That almost got another smile.

We argued for forty minutes.

I won most of it.

Not because I was powerful.

Because I had examples.

Names.

Costs.

Patterns.

Power respects data when emotion makes it uncomfortable.

That became my advantage.

I learned the truth about the six wives gradually.

Not because I asked.

Because they began appearing in paperwork.

Wife number one: Sofia Bellini.

Three-month civil marriage to protect a disputed inheritance across dual jurisdictions. Divorced amicably. Now ran an architecture firm in San Francisco.

Wife number two: Nadine Laurent.

Marriage connected to an immigration emergency while she testified in a financial case involving her former employer. Lasted nine months. She later became a professor in Montreal.

Wife number three: Isabel Moretti.

Business alliance. Eighteen months. Both knew the terms.

Wife number four: Rebecca Sloan.

Protective legal arrangement involving custody rights for her nephew after her sister died.

Wife number five: Amara Patel.

Inheritance problem again.

Rich families apparently used marriage the way normal people used notarized forms.

Then came wife number six.

Vivienne.

The real marriage.

Two years.

Beautiful.

Intelligent.

Social.

Loved by Cassian’s mother.

The only one who had actually lived with him as a wife rather than partner in a legal strategy.

And the only one who left furious.

I learned most of that from Marianne Vale when we finally met.

She arrived at my office without warning one Tuesday afternoon.

Tall.

Forty-five.

Dark hair threaded with silver.

She looked enough like Cassian around the eyes that the connection was obvious.

“You’re Lydia.”

Everyone in that family greeted me that way.

Apparently introductions were optional.

“You’re Marianne.”

“I expected taller.”

“Why?”

“Evelyn said you were formidable.”

“I clean efficiently.”

Marianne laughed.

Then sat.

“Cassian likes you.”

I nearly dropped my pen.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“He tolerates me.”

“For Cassian, that’s foreplay.”

I stared at her.

“Please never say that again.”

She smiled.

“Fair.”

I changed the subject.

“Where is Evelyn?”

“Safe.”

“That answer is aging badly.”

“She’ll contact you when she’s ready.”

“Why me?”

“Because she owes you an apology.”

“She warned me.”

“After leaving you to deal with the mess.”

True.

I leaned back.

“Did she know the stories about Cassian’s wives were false?”

“Some.”

“And still ran.”

“She wasn’t running from him.”

“From Margaret.”

“And her father’s debt.”

I looked at her.

“Is Charles worse than Margaret?”

“Different.”

“Meaning?”

“Margaret controls people. Charles avoids consequences. Together they built a very efficient disaster.”

That sounded accurate.

Then Marianne studied me.

“You’re wondering about Vivienne.”

I froze.

“Why?”

“Everyone does.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

I sighed.

“What happened?”

“Nothing dramatic.”

“That seems disappointing.”

“It was.”

Marianne folded one leg over the other.

“Vivienne loved Cassian. Cassian loved Vivienne.”

“Past tense.”

“Yes.”

“She used company money to cover her brother’s gambling debts.”

“I heard.”

“Forty-eight thousand at first.”

“That’s not nothing.”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Cassian covered it privately and told her not to do it again.”

I frowned.

“That part never makes the rumors.”

“No.”

“She did it again?”

“Three times.”

“How much?”

“Almost six hundred thousand.”

I stared.

Marianne nodded.

“Cassian didn’t throw her out barefoot.”

“What happened?”

“He gave her the choice of full financial transparency, therapy together, and separate control of accounts…”

“That sounds surprisingly modern.”

“…or divorce.”

“There it is.”

“She chose divorce.”

“And the slippers?”

“Vivienne was angry. Walked out during an argument. Refused the driver. Made it to the gate before deciding snow was real.”

I covered my face.

“Chicago turned that into an escape story.”

“Chicago loves drama.”

“What happened to her?”

“Toronto.”

“Christmas cards?”

Marianne smiled.

“Every year.”

I shook my head.

“Cassian never corrected the rumors.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“You should ask him.”

I did.

That evening.

His office overlooked the river.

Sunset had turned the glass buildings copper.

Cassian was reading something when I entered.

“Do people knock in your department?”

“No.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Why didn’t you correct the stories about your wives?”

He slowly put down the paper.

“Marianne.”

“Obviously.”

“She enjoys disruption.”

“She is talented.”

Cassian leaned back.

“Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why ask?”

“I dislike incomplete information.”

“That sounds more accurate.”

I waited.

He looked toward the window.

“Some of the arrangements required privacy.”

“That explains five.”

“Yes.”

“Vivienne?”

He was quiet.

Then:

“She was humiliated.”

“By the divorce?”

“By what she had done.”

“So you let the city think she fled you.”

“She preferred that.”

That surprised me.

“She asked?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Cassian looked at me.

“Being the sixth wife who escaped a frightening man was easier for her family than being the woman who emptied company accounts for her brother.”

I understood immediately.

Reputation had protected her.

At his expense.

“You agreed.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I loved her once.”

The sentence came without bitterness.

That unsettled me.

Not because he still cared.

Because it showed restraint nobody had credited him with.

“Does she know?”

“Know what?”

“That you still protect her.”

Cassian’s expression closed slightly.