Part 1The Canary Cashed Out

The third time he postponed our wedding, Damian told me he was putting another woman’s name on the invitations.

"She gave up her marriage for me," he said, his voice flat with resolve. "I can’t let her down."

In the mirror, the ivory train of my wedding gown lay pooled across the hardwood floor like a monumental joke.

I stood silent for ten seconds.

Then, without waiting for his assistance, I reached behind my back and pulled down the zipper.

"Fine. I’ll return the gown."

Damian clearly hadn't anticipated that. He stared at me, his jaw tightening as the quiet stretched between us. When he finally spoke, his tone was hoarse.

"I’ll cover the bespoke fitting fees. And the house on the south ridge—I'm putting the deed in your name."

I folded the dress, letting my fingers linger on the heavy satin for two brief seconds, as if bidding a polite farewell to three years of my life.

"There's no need. I don't want to owe you anything."

His throat bobbed, but he said nothing more.

The very next morning, an official property transfer deed and a black card with no spending limit were delivered directly into my hands.

I refused three times. On the fourth, with rimmed, reddened eyes and trembling hands, I finally accepted them.

What Damian didn't know was that the gown was an eight-hundred-dollar replica I’d commissioned from a garment district tailor.

What he knew even less was that every single time he called to postpone our wedding, I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud behind closed doors.

In my line of work—as a curated companion, a gilded bird in a gilded cage—there is one cardinal rule.

Marriage only depreciates your market value. It is the prize kept just out of reach that commands the highest price.

* * *

"Miss Walsh, the title transfer for the ridge estate has been finalized."

Damian’s chief of staff, Marcus, stood in the foyer, handing me a thick charcoal-gray envelope.

I took it, running a thumb lightly along the sharp crease of the paper.

"Also," Marcus adjusted his rimless glasses, "Mr. Rhodes asked that you accompany him to a private dinner at the Aster Club tonight. He requested that you get ready."

I looked up, my gaze drifting to the garment bag hanging by the coat rack, delivered only an hour earlier.

It held a high-necked, charcoal-black silk dress. The cut was painfully conservative, buttoned all the way up to the collarbone.

It was nothing like the dresses Damian usually bought for me.

Marcus followed my glance, his posture stiffening with subtle discomfort.

"Miss Lancaster will also be in attendance tonight."

He paused, clearing his throat. "Mr. Rhodes felt it best if you kept a low profile."

I understood immediately.

Shirley Lancaster had returned to the country. The untouchable muse, the golden girl who had walked away years ago. Tonight was her homecoming gala.

My presence was merely required as background noise, a drab shadow designed to make her shine brighter.

I nodded, keeping my tone perfectly docile. "Of course. Please thank Mr. Rhodes for making the arrangements."

Once Marcus left, I shut the heavy double doors and dialed Maxine.

"You got the paperwork?" Maxine asked, exhaling a plume of smoke over the line.

"Signed, sealed, and recorded."

"That property is easily worth twelve million on today's market," Maxine said, her voice sharp with commercial appraisal. "When are you liquidating?"

I unzipped the garment bag and lifted out the black dress. "No rush. I'll wait until the wedding is over."

Maxine gave a low, appreciative chuckle. "You really do have nerves of steel."

At seven that evening, I arrived at the Aster Club.

The moment the private dining suite doors swung open, the room’s ambient hum dropped into dead silence.

Every set of eyes landed on me before flicking immediately toward the man at the head of the table.

Sitting right beside Damian was Shirley Lancaster.

She wore a bespoke, moon-white column gown, her makeup impossibly luminous. She looked like a piece of rare porcelain that dared the world not to touch it.

She was the woman for whom Damian had thrice delayed our nuptials—the woman whose name now replaced mine on the gilded stationery.

"Damian," Shirley said softly, tilting her head toward him, "is this the sweet girl you’ve been looking after all these years?"

Damian didn’t look at me. His long, calloused fingers merely toyed with the stem of his wine glass. "Yes."

Shirley rose and walked toward me.

She had an inch on me in heels, her gaze sweeping over me with gracious condescension and a polished smile.

"She really is lovely. No wonder you kept her around for so long."

With an effortless flick of her wrist, she slipped off an exquisite emerald cuff bracelet, took my right hand, and forced the cold metal over my knuckles.

"A little token for our first meeting."

The cuff was far too small. The sharp edge scraped against my bone, sending a searing jolt of pain up my arm.

I didn't flinch.

"What are you waiting for?" Damian’s voice drifted from across the room, clipped and edged with irritation. "Thank Miss Lancaster."

I lowered my eyes, allowing just enough moisture to gather on my lower lashes.

"Thank you, Miss Lancaster."

Satisfied, Shirley retracted her hand and glided back to her seat.

For the rest of the night, I sat at the far end of the banquet table like a piece of decorative furniture. I listened to their shared childhood memories and the sycophantic toasts showered over the reunited couple.

When the dinner finally ended, Damian signaled for me to get into his Maybach.

The leather interior smelled faintly of vintage scotch.

He leaned back against the headrest, loosened his silk tie with two fingers, and glanced at me sideways.

"Is the bracelet uncomfortable?"

I tucked my wrist deeper into the sleeve of my coat, hiding the raw red welt. "Not at all. I love it."

His brow furrowed, clearly displeased by my lack of drama. In the past, if another woman had humiliated me like that, I would have dissolved into tears and buried myself in his chest.

"The wedding is set for the first of next month," he stated abruptly.

I nodded. "Understood, Mr. Rhodes."

He whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto mine with sudden ferocity.

"You don't have to move out after we marry."

He paused, watching for my reaction. "You can keep living at the ridge house. I’ll double your monthly allowance."

He was offering me a promotion to full-time, permanent mistress.

I met his dark, possessive gaze. Tears welled up on cue, swimming in my eyes without spilling over.

"Mr. Rhodes, that wouldn't be appropriate." My voice wavered softly. "Miss Lancaster wouldn't like it."

His expression darkened instantly. He reached out, his grip on my chin brutal and unrelenting.

"Corinne, since when did you become so damn agreeable?" he growled. "I told you to stay, so you stay. Do you hear me?"

Forced to tilt my head back, I looked into the storm gathering in his irises.

Then, with an air of delicate defeat, I closed my eyes and drew a shallow breath.

"Alright. Provided you add another ten million to my severance fund."