Part 1Your Fake Angel Wears My Pearls

I was leaning back against my personal trainer’s chest, mindlessly scrolling through my feed, when a post featuring my own home address stopped my thumb dead.

The user, some girl cosplaying as a "struggling house help," was sobbing in her caption. She’d "accidentally" ruined her employer’s haute couture gown and was terrified she could never afford the repairs.

I didn't need a detective to solve this one. It was Faith, the live-in maid at the townhouse I shared with my husband-of-convenience. Usually, she was all thumbs and clumsy apologies, but apparently, she was a pro when it came to curated digital sympathy.

The comments were a bloodbath. Half the people were calling her out, saying if you break it, you buy it, and crying for clout wouldn't pay the bill. The other half—the "eat the rich" crowd—was coddling her.

Then, Faith replied. Her tone was the digital equivalent of a bashful tuck of the hair behind the ear. She claimed she wanted to pay for it, but her "Sir" had already found a different way for her to "compensate" him... all night long.

The implication was as thick as New York humidity.

I couldn't help but laugh. I hit the share button and sent the link straight to my "Inner Circle"—a group chat filled with the city’s most eligible bachelors who had been orbiting me for years.

I typed out a single message: “Whoever can shave five percent off the Pierce Group’s stock price by the closing bell gets the chance to replace my useless husband.”

* * *

"Ms. Blackwood, the Pierce Group just hit a five-point-three percent drop."

My assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom. I leaned back in my leather executive chair, watching the red candles flicker on the Bloomberg terminal. The sell-off had started at 2:00 PM sharp, volume spiking like a heart attack.

"Understood," I said, hanging up. I opened my phone.

The "Inner Circle" chat was blowing up—hundreds of messages.

[Caleb: Evie, I leaked their Q3 receivables to three major financial analysts. The numbers are cooked.]

[Leo: I’ve got an ESG firm drafting a report on their environmental violations as we speak.]

The last message was from Carter Walsh, my childhood best friend and the heir to the Walsh fortune.

[Carter: Done. Five points, on the dot.]

I smirked and typed back: “You move fast.”

“I’ve been waiting three years for you to ask,” he replied instantly. “I don’t miss my window.”

I was about to respond when my phone vibrated with an incoming call.

Greg Pierce.

"Evelyn," his voice was a low growl, vibrating with suppressed rage. "What the hell are you doing to my stock?"

"Greg," I said, my voice smooth as silk. "The market is a fickle mistress. Your company’s failure has nothing to do with me."

"Don't lie to me!" he barked. "Is this because I told Faith she didn't have to pay for that dress?"

"That 'dress'?" I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. "Greg, that was a vintage McQueen. It was my mother’s eighteenth birthday gift to me. It’s worth nearly a million dollars. Your little maid ruined it on purpose, and you think I’m the one being unreasonable?"

"She was just trying to be diligent! Besides, I owe her. She’s done things for me you wouldn't understand. A dress is nothing compared to her loyalty."

"Diligent?" I interrupted. "Is that why she was posting thirst-traps with our home address at 2:00 AM? Claiming I was 'stomping on her dignity' while she spent the night 'compensating' you?"

"She only posted that because you’ve been suffocating her," Greg snapped. "I know you look down on her, Evelyn. But she works for a living. She’s earned her place more than someone born into a golden cradle ever will."

I was actually stunned into a laugh. "Greg, do you hear yourself? You’re acting like you’re some self-made man of the people. You’re a Pierce. You’re literally the poster boy for old money."

"I know who I am," he said. "And I know what this marriage is. It’s business. You’ve used my family’s resources for three years; the least you could do is act like a wife. Faith is a girl with nothing. Why are you so obsessed with bullying her?"

I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching the clouds roll over Manhattan. This petty drama was beneath me.

"Greg," I said. "Since you want to talk about business, let’s talk about the bottom line."

"What?"

"The Blackwood-Pierce merger involves six major projects totaling nearly four billion dollars," I said, sitting up straight. "Because of your maid’s social media antics, my own stock took a three-point hit today. Do you know what that translates to in market cap?"

Silence.

"Eleven hundred million dollars," I enunciated every syllable. "A billion-dollar headache because your 'loyal' maid wanted to play victim on TikTok. Now, I’m giving you two choices."

"Choice one: Faith Jenkins makes a public apology, admits she destroyed the dress and lied for clout, and she’s out of New York by tonight."

"Absolutely not!" he shouted. "She’s done nothing wrong—"

"Choice two," I cut him off. "We divorce. And I’m invoking Article Seven of our pre-nup. I assume you remember it?"

I heard him catch his breath. Article Seven: In the event of gross negligence or reputational damage leading to the dissolution of the marriage, the offending party forfeits fifteen percent of their personal equity to the spouse.

"You're threatening me, Evelyn?"

"I’m giving you an out. You have three days to decide."