Chapter 3 THE PRICE OF SECRETS

The private investigator's office smelled like coffee and desperation.

Scarlett sat across from a man who introduced himself as Jack Morrison-fifties, weathered face, eyes that had seen too much while Damien stood by the window, arms crossed, radiating controlled impatience.

"Tell me again about the night your father died," Jack said, his voice gravelly from what was probably decades of cigarettes.

"I already told you everything on the phone-"

"Tell me again. Details matter."

Scarlett took a breath, forcing herself back to that night six weeks ago. "I was at dinner with Marcus. My father called around eight PM, said he needed to talk to me about something important. He sounded... worried. Urgent. He asked me to come by the next morning, that it couldn't wait." Her hands clenched in her lap. "By morning, he was dead. Victoria called me at six AM, said he'd fallen down the stairs during the night. Broken neck. The police ruled it accidental."

"But you don't think it was."

"My stepsister basically admitted Victoria pushed him. And my father was careful. He'd lived in that house for fifteen years. He didn't just fall."

Jack made notes in a leather-bound notebook. "The autopsy report says his blood alcohol was point-one-two. Above the legal limit."

"My father didn't drink. He was a recovering alcoholic, sober for twenty years."

"People relapse."

"Not him. Never him." Scarlett leaned forward. "Someone forced alcohol down his throat, or drugged him, or something. He wouldn't have been drinking."

"Did you tell the police this?"

"They said grief makes people see conspiracies where there aren't any. That I needed to accept my father's struggles." Her voice turned bitter. "Victoria played the devastated wife perfectly. Told them he'd been depressed since his company collapsed, drinking in secret, that she'd been worried about him."

Jack glanced at Damien. "And you believe your wife?"

"I believe someone who benefits from a death deserves scrutiny," Damien said. "Victoria Hayes inherited everything,the house, the company assets, the life insurance. That's the motive."

"Motive isn't proof."

"Which is why we're hiring you to find proof."

Jack studied them both, his expression unreadable. "I'll be honest with you. Six weeks is a long time. Evidence disappears. Witnesses forget things or change stories. If this was murder, and if it was planned carefully, proving it will be nearly impossible."

"But not completely impossible," Scarlett said.

"No. Not completely." Jack closed his notebook. "I'll need access to everything,your father's financial records, phone logs, emails, the police report, the autopsy, witness statements. I'll need to interview the staff who were in the house that night. And I'll need you to stay out of my way while I work."

"How long?"

"Could be weeks. Could be months. Depends what I find." He named a price that made Scarlett wince, but Damien just nodded.

"Fine. Start immediately."

"One more thing," Jack said, looking at Scarlett. "If I do find evidence that your stepmother killed your father, what are you planning to do with it?"

"Destroy her," Scarlett said without hesitation.

"Not go to the police?"

"I want justice, not revenge served through bureaucracy. If you find proof, I'll decide the best way to use it."

Jack smiled slightly. "You remind me of someone I used to know. Okay, Mrs. Wolfe. I'll find your proof. Just be ready for what comes with it."

They left the office and climbed into the back of Damien's car. The moment the door closed, Scarlett felt exhaustion crash over her. She'd barely slept, and the weight of everything,the marriage, the threats, the investigation was suddenly overwhelming.

"That went well," Damien said, checking his phone.

"Did it? He basically said it's impossible."

"He said nearly impossible. There's a difference." Damien glanced at her. "You look terrible."

"Thank you. That's exactly what every new bride wants to hear."

"I meant you need rest. You were up all night."

"So were you."

"I'm used to it. You're not." He typed something on his phone. "We have a meeting with my lawyers in an hour to discuss Vivienne's threats, then lunch with a journalist who's writing a profile on us for Vanity Fair. After that, you have a fitting for the society wedding dress, and tonight we're attending the Metropolitan Opera's opening night."

Scarlett stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Completely. This is your life now. Welcome to it."

"I can't do all that. I need to-I don't know, research Victoria, or plan how to get proof, or-"

"You need to play your part," Damien said, his voice firm. "Jack will investigate your father's death. I'll handle Vivienne. Your job is to be the perfect Mrs. Wolfe so David Chen doesn't get suspicious. We already discussed this."

"You discussed it. I agreed to play your wife, not to abandon everything I care about."

"You're not abandoning anything. You're being strategic." He met her eyes. "If David suspects this marriage is fake, the deal collapses. If the deal collapses, I don't need a wife. If I don't need a wife, our contract ends. Do you understand?"

"I understand that you're incredibly controlling."

"I'm incredibly successful because I'm controlling. There's a reason I rebuilt my father's ruins into an empire." His voice softened slightly. "Look, I know this is overwhelming. But you signed up for this. You proposed to me, remember? You said you could handle uncomfortable situations."

"Uncomfortable is different from impossible."

"Nothing's impossible. It's just exhausting." He went back to his phone. "The car will take you home to change. Maya will have something appropriate laid out for the lawyer meeting. Don't be late."

The car pulled up to the mansion, and Scarlett got out without another word. She was too tired to argue, too overwhelmed to think clearly.

Inside, Maya was indeed waiting with clothing options:a navy suit that screamed "professional wife of a billionaire." Scarlett changed mechanically, let Maya fix her hair and makeup, and stared at her reflection.

She looked polished. Expensive. Nothing like the woman who'd crashed a gala in a wedding dress three days ago.

Three days. Had it really only been three days since she'd discovered Marcus's betrayal? It felt like years.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Oliver: *Lunch tomorrow? Need to catch up. This is INSANE.*

She typed back: Can't tomorrow. Maybe next week? If I survive.

His response was immediate: You're going to survive. You're the strongest person I know. Even if you married a terrifying robot.

That made her smile despite everything.

The lawyer meeting was in Damien's study:three stern men in expensive suits who talked about Vivienne's threats in the clinical language of legal strategy. They could file for harassment, pursue a restraining order, threaten countersuits. But the real question was whether Vivienne actually had documentation that could damage Damien.

"We need to see what she has before we make moves," the lead lawyer, Patterson, said. "Otherwise we're shooting blind."

"So we give her what she wants?" Scarlett asked.

"Absolutely not," Damien said. "We negotiate. Stall. Buy time while we figure out exactly what evidence she has and how to neutralize it."

"And if we can't neutralize it?"

"Then we contain the damage. Make her look unstable, discredit her sources, bury the story in more interesting scandals." Patterson said this like it was routine. "We've handled worse."

"Worse than embezzlement?" Scarlett asked.

The lawyers exchanged glances. Patterson cleared his throat. "Mrs. Wolfe, your husband's reputation is built on transparency and integrity. A few old accusations from a disgruntled ex won't destroy that. We just need to manage the narrative."

After they left, Scarlett turned to Damien. "How often do you have to 'manage narratives'?"

"More often than I'd like." He loosened his tie, looking exhausted. "Being successful makes you a target. People come out of the woodwork with accusations, demands, threats. Most of it is noise. Vivienne is just louder than most."

"Because she has actual ammunition."

"Because she thinks she does. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Scarlett moved closer. "If she has documentation of your father's embezzlement, of the money you used to start your company,that's not just thinking. That's knowing."

"Then we'll figure out what she knows and how to counter it." His jaw tightened. "I'm not losing everything I built because of my father's sins."

The car took them to lunch;a trendy spot in SoHo where the Vanity Fair journalist was already waiting. Sharon Kim, early thirties, sharp eyes that missed nothing, a smile that was professionally friendly.

The next hour was an exercise in performance art. Scarlett and Damien played the besotted newlyweds,finishing each other's sentences, sharing knowing glances, touching constantly in the way new couples do. Scarlett talked about their "whirlwind romance," about how Damien had swept her off her feet, about how she'd never believed in love at first sight until him.

The lies came easily now. Disturbingly easy.

Sharon asked about their plans-children? A real wedding? Where would they honeymoon?

"We haven't had time to plan a honeymoon yet," Damien said, his hand covering Scarlett's on the table. "But I'm thinking somewhere private. Just the two of us."

"The Maldives," Scarlett improvised. "I've always wanted to go."

"Then the Maldives it is." Damien lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, a gesture that looked spontaneous but was clearly calculated for Sharon's benefit.

Except when his lips touched her skin, Scarlett felt that same electric spark from their courthouse kiss. And from the way Damien's eyes darkened slightly, he felt it too.

"You two are adorable," Sharon said, making notes. "Our readers are going to eat this up. The brooding billionaire finding unexpected love. It's a very modern fairy tale."

If only she knew the truth.

After lunch, the dress fitting was at an exclusive boutique where the designer-a tiny French woman named Celeste -- had already prepared sketches based on "Mrs. Wolfe's proportions and coloring."

"We want classic elegance," Celeste said, showing Scarlett designs that ranged from simple to elaborate. "Something that says timeless romance. Your courthouse wedding was rushed,this is your moment to show the world your love story."

Scarlett looked at the sketches, each more beautiful and expensive than the last, and felt like a fraud. This wasn't a love story. This was a business transaction with costume changes.

"What do you think?" Maya asked, appearing beside her. "The one with the lace sleeves would be stunning on you."

"They're all beautiful."

"But which one feels like you?"

None of them felt like her. Scarlett Hayes didn't wear ten-thousand-dollar wedding dresses and marry billionaires. Scarlett Hayes wore thrift store finds and scraped by on grant money while studying art history.

But Scarlett Hayes didn't exist anymore.

"The lace sleeves," she said finally. "That one."

Celeste clapped her hands together. "Perfect! We'll schedule fittings, and the dress will be ready in eight weeks. The wedding is planned for..."

"Ten weeks from now," Maya supplied. "Small ceremony, two hundred guests, reception at the Wolfe mansion."

Two hundred people watching her marry a man she barely knew in a dress that cost more than her education. It should have felt like a dream.

Instead, it felt like a trap closing.

The Metropolitan Opera's opening night was a glittering affair;Manhattan's elite in tuxedos and designer gowns, champagne flowing, everyone performing wealth and culture like it was an Olympic sport.

Scarlett wore emerald silk that Maya had selected, her hair swept up, Damien's grandmother's diamonds at her throat. They were a lie too borrowed from the family vault for authenticity.

Everything about her life now was borrowed or fake.

Damien's hand was at her back as they navigated the crowd, and she'd learned to lean into him slightly, to let her body language sell the story of a couple in love. They'd been doing this for days now,the touches, the glances, the casual intimacy and it was becoming disturbingly natural.

"There's Victoria," Damien murmured in her ear, his breath warm against her skin.

Scarlett's stepmother stood near the bar in severe black, her face a mask of dignified grief. But when she saw Scarlett, something ugly flashed across her expression before she smoothed it away.

"Should I go talk to her?" Scarlett asked.

"No. Let her come to you. You're in the power position now."

But Victoria didn't approach. She just watched, her eyes tracking Scarlett's every move with an intensity that felt predatory.

"She's planning something," Scarlett said.

"Of course she is. So are we." Damien guided her toward their box seats. "Ignore her. Enjoy the opera."

Scarlett had never been to the opera. She'd studied music history at Columbia but had never been able to afford tickets. Now she was sitting in a private box that probably cost more than her rent, surrounded by people who did this casually, like it was Tuesday.

The lights dimmed. The orchestra began. And for three hours, Scarlett let herself get lost in Puccini and forget about contracts and threats and fake marriages.

During intermission, while Damien was networking in the lobby, a woman appeared at Scarlett's elbow.

"You're the new Mrs. Wolfe," the woman said. Fifties, impeccably dressed, eyes like a hawk. "I'm Catherine Ashford. I knew your father."

Scarlett's attention sharpened. "You did?"

"Twenty years ago, before he married Victoria. We worked together briefly." Catherine's voice dropped. "I wanted to tell you,he was a good man. Whatever rumors Victoria is spreading about depression and drinking, they're lies. William Hayes was sober, dedicated, and deeply proud of you."

Tears pricked Scarlett's eyes. "Thank you. That means more than you know."

"There's something else." Catherine glanced around to make sure they were alone. "The night he died, he called me. Around seven PM. He said he'd discovered something about Victoria's finances, something illegal, and he was going to confront her. I told him to go to the police instead, but he said he needed to give her a chance to explain first. That was the last time I spoke to him."

Scarlett's heart was pounding. "Did you tell the police this?"

"I tried. They said it was irrelevant to his accidental death. But it wasn't accidental, was it?"

"No. It wasn't."

Catherine pulled out a card. "This is my personal number. If you need anything:evidence, testimony, connections call me. Your father was my friend. I owe him justice."

She disappeared back into the crowd before Scarlett could respond.

Damien returned moments later, champagne in hand. "What was that about?"

Scarlett showed him the card. "A lead. My father called her the night he died. He'd discovered something about Victoria's finances."

"That's motive and opportunity." Damien's eyes sharpened. "We need to tell Jack."

"We will. But first-" Scarlett looked toward where Victoria was holding court with a group of society women. "First, I want to rattle her. Let her know I'm not going away quietly."

"Scarlett-"

"She killed my father. She stole my inheritance. She thinks she's won." Scarlett set down her champagne. "It's time to remind her she hasn't."

Before Damien could stop her, she walked across the lobby toward Victoria.

The crowd parted slightly, sensing drama. Conversations quieted. This was society at its finest-everyone loved a show.

"Victoria," Scarlett said pleasantly. "I haven't had a chance to say hello."

Her stepmother's smile was glacial. "Scarlett. What a surprise to see you here. I didn't realize the opera was... accessible to everyone these days."

"Oh, I'm not here as everyone. I'm here as Mrs. Damien Wolfe." She gestured to the diamonds at her throat. "These belonged to Damien's grandmother. Apparently, I'm family now."

"How fortunate for you. Marrying money is certainly easier than earning it."

"Is that what you did? Because from what I understand, you married my father for love." Scarlett's voice was sweet poison. "At least, that's what you told everyone. That you loved him. That you'd care for him. That you'd protect him."

Victoria's composure cracked slightly. "How dare you-"

"How dare I what? Speak at my father's funeral? Oh wait, I wasn't invited to that, was I? You had him cremated before I could even say goodbye."

People were definitely listening now. The society matrons had gone silent, fascinated.

"Your father's wishes-"

"My father's wishes were to be buried next to his first wife. My mother. You know, the woman he actually loved." Scarlett stepped closer. "But cremation is convenient when you don't want an autopsy to find evidence of murder."

The lobby went dead silent.

Victoria's face turned white, then red. "You're insane. Grief has made you delusional-"

"Has it? Because I have witnesses who say Dad called them the night he died. He'd discovered something about your finances. Something illegal. He was going to confront you." Scarlett smiled. "And then he fell down the stairs. What a coincidence."

"Security," Victoria called, her voice shaking. "This woman is harassing me-"

"This woman is my wife," Damien said, appearing at Scarlett's side. His voice was ice-cold. "And if you call security on her, Mrs. Hayes, I'll have my lawyers file harassment charges against you for the threatening texts you've been sending. Shall we compare phone records?"

Victoria looked between them, trapped. The crowd was watching. Phones were probably recording. This would be tomorrow's gossip,the new Mrs. Wolfe publicly accusing her stepmother of murder at the opera.

"You'll regret this," Victoria said quietly.

"That's a threat," Damien said. "In front of witnesses. I hope you have a good lawyer, Mrs. Hayes. You're going to need one."

He guided Scarlett away, his hand firm on her back. The crowd parted, and Scarlett could hear the whispers starting;scandal, murder, police, investigation.

Good. Let them talk. Let Victoria feel what it was like to be the subject of gossip and speculation.

They didn't return to their box. Damien led her straight to the car, and the moment the door closed, he turned to her.

"What the hell was that?"

"That was me taking back power."

"That was you painting a target on your back!" His voice was sharp with fury. "Do you have any idea what you just did? You publicly accused her of murder. She can sue you for defamation. She can claim you're mentally unstable. She can-"

"She can be afraid," Scarlett interrupted. "For the first time since my father died, Victoria is afraid. Because I'm not a powerless girl anymore. I'm your wife. I have resources, protection, and a voice she can't silence. Let her sue me. Let her try to prove I'm unstable. I have Catherine Ashford willing to testify that my father called her about Victoria's illegal finances the night he died. I have evidence coming. And I have you."

"You have me," Damien repeated slowly.

"Don't I? Or was all that talk about protection and resources just performance?"

He stared at her, something complicated crossing his face. Then, without warning, he pulled her toward him and kissed her.

This wasn't like the courthouse kiss,brief and controlled. This was fierce, almost angry, his hand fisting in her hair as his mouth claimed hers. Scarlett gasped, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss until she couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel.

When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.

"What was that?" she managed.

"That," he said roughly, "was me remembering why I married you. You're not some meek society wife who'll sit quietly while people attack you. You're a fighter. I forgot that for a moment."

"So you kiss me?"

"Apparently." He released her, running a hand through his hair. "That was inappropriate. It won't happen again."

But the air between them was still charged, electric with possibility.

"Damien-"

"We're here," he said as the car pulled up to the mansion. He was out before she could finish her sentence, putting distance between them like she was dangerous.

Maybe she was.

Inside, Scarlett went straight to her room, her lips still tingling, her heart still racing. That kiss had been real. Too real. The kind of kiss that led to complications they'd specifically contracted away.

She needed to focus. She'd rattled Victoria tonight, but that meant Victoria would escalate. And Damien was right-she'd painted a target on herself.

But she'd also shown Victoria she wasn't afraid.

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Clever girl, making a scene at the opera. But you should know your husband's ex-fiancée isn't his only secret. Ask him about the Shanghai incident. Ask him about the bodies. - V

Scarlett stared at the message, ice flooding her veins.

Bodies?

She crossed to the connecting door between her room and Damien's, then hesitated. He'd said the kiss wouldn't happen again. He'd put distance between them. Maybe she should respect that.

But she needed answers more than she needed respect.

She knocked.

"Come in," his voice called.

She opened the door to find him sitting at his desk, tie discarded, shirt partially unbuttoned, looking exhausted.

"I got another text from Victoria," she said, holding out her phone.

He read it, his expression darkening. "The Shanghai incident is nothing. A business competitor made accusations that were thoroughly investigated and dismissed."

"And the bodies?"

"There are no bodies. She's trying to scare you with conspiracy theories."

"Are you sure?"

"Scarlett." He stood, moving toward her. "Yes, I'm sure. Five years ago, a Chinese factory that was producing counterfeit Wolfe Industries goods burned down. Thirty-seven people died. A competitor tried to claim I'd ordered the fire. The investigation proved it was faulty wiring. No arson, no conspiracy, just tragedy. Victoria is weaponizing a tragedy to make you doubt me."

"Why would she do that?"

"Because if you doubt me, you might break the contract. If you break the contract, you lose your protection. If you lose your protection, she can destroy you without worrying about legal repercussions." He was close now, close enough that she could smell his cologne. "Don't let her manipulate you."

"I'm not. I just needed to hear it from you."

"Now you have." But he didn't move away. "The kiss earlier-"

"Was nothing," she said quickly. "Just adrenaline. The stress of the evening."

"Right. Stress."

But they were still standing too close, and the air between them felt heavy with possibility.

"I should go," Scarlett said.

"You should."

Neither of them moved.

"Damien-"

"Don't." His voice was rough. "Don't say whatever you're about to say. Because I'm very close to making another inappropriate decision, and I need you to go back to your room before I do."

Her breath caught. "What if I don't want to?"

"Scarlett." Her name was almost a groan. "This is a business arrangement. Getting involved complicates everything."

"Maybe I want something complicated."

"No, you don't. You want revenge and justice and your father's legacy restored. You don't want me." He stepped back, creating distance. "Go to bed. We both need sleep."

"This isn't over."

"Yes, it is."

But the way he was looking at her like she was something he wanted but couldn't let himself have.

Scarlett went back to her room and closed the connecting door, but she didn't lock it.

Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe it was an invitation.

Either way, she lay in bed listening for movement next door, wondering if he was lying awake too, wondering the same things.

They'd been married for forty-eight hours.

And already, the contract they'd signed was starting to feel like the least important thing between them.

Tomorrow, she'd call Jack Morrison and tell him about Catherine Ashford's testimony. Tomorrow, she'd figure out how to protect herself from Victoria's escalating threats. Tomorrow, she'd be sensible and strategic and professional.

But tonight, she let herself remember the feeling of Damien's mouth on hers and wonder what would happen if they stopped pretending this was purely business.

Nothing good, probably.

But possibly something unforgettable.

She fell asleep with that thought, and dreamed of winter-ice eyes and kisses that tasted like danger.