Chloe's Pov

You know what's weird about getting married to a crime boss? The paperwork is exactly the same as marrying anyone else. Who knew the government was so efficient when it came to legally binding you to dangerous men?

I stood in the courthouse wearing Mom's old wedding dress—the one she'd kept in the back of her closet like some kind of hopeful artifact—watching Cargo sign documents like he was closing a business deal. Which, I guess, he was.

"You look beautiful, mija," Mom whispered, adjusting the dress that was slightly too big for me. She'd cried when I told her about the engagement, but not the happy kind of crying. The worried, confused, "my daughter has lost her mind" kind of crying.

"It's not what you think," I'd tried to explain. "It's complicated."

"Marriage should be simple, Chloe. You love someone, they love you back, you build a life together."

"Like you and Dad did?"

That shut her up, which wasn't fair of me, but I wasn't exactly feeling fair about anything these days. Dad had left when I was twelve, deciding that supporting a sick wife and a daughter was too much responsibility. Simple love hadn't worked out so great for Mom either.

The judge looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, which made two of us. "Do you, Chloe Martinez, take Carlos Braganza to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Carlos. I hadn't even known that was Cargo's real name until he filled out the marriage license. It sounded almost normal, which was disturbing in ways I couldn't quite explain.

"I do," I said, and the words tasted like betrayal.

When it was over, Cargo kissed me on the cheek like we were distant relatives at a family reunion. "Mrs. Braganza," he said, testing out my new name. "How does it feel?"

"Like I just made the worst decision of my life."

He laughed. "That's the spirit."

Mom rode home with us in Cargo's ridiculously expensive car, asking polite questions about where we'd live and when I'd be moving out. Cargo answered everything smoothly, painting a picture of domestic bliss that we all knew was complete fiction.

"She'll visit often," he assured Mom as we pulled up to our building. "Family is important."

After Mom went upstairs, Cargo turned to me with his business face back on. "Tomorrow we start phase one. I've arranged for you to interview for a position at Baldwin's company."

"What kind of position?"

"Executive assistant. You'll be working directly under his personal staff coordinator."

I stared at him. "I've never been an executive assistant. I serve coffee and hash browns for a living."

"You're intelligent, you learn fast, and you're motivated. That's more than most people can say." He handed me a thick folder. "Your new résumé, references, and background. Study it tonight. Tomorrow you become Chloe Rodriguez, recent college graduate with a degree in business administration."

"Rodriguez?"

"Your maiden name is too risky. Someone might connect you to the accident report."

The folder contained what looked like a completely different person's life. Chloe Rodriguez had graduated from a small college upstate, worked for a company that had conveniently gone out of business, and had glowing recommendations from supervisors who probably didn't exist.

"This is forgery."

"This is opportunity," Cargo corrected. "Baldwin Industries is always hiring qualified candidates. Rodriguez just happens to be exactly what they're looking for."

I flipped through pages of fake transcripts and fabricated work history, wondering when my life had become the kind of story that required professional criminals to make it work.

"What if they do background checks?"

"They will. And everything will check out perfectly." Cargo's confidence was either reassuring or terrifying. I hadn't decided which. "Go get some rest, Mrs. Braganza. Tomorrow you start your new career."

That night, I appealed to Cargo to stay with my mom before going for the Job and luckily she accepted.

As I lay in my childhood bed trying to memorize the details of Chloe Rodriguez's fictional life while listening to Mom cough in the next room. The medical bills were piling up again, and our insurance barely covered her medications. Danny used to help with those bills, slipping me cash when he thought I wasn't looking and pretending it was a loan we both knew he'd never ask me to repay.

Now I was married to a man I barely knew, planning to infiltrate the life of the man who'd killed my best friend, and lying to my mother about all of it... Well I told a little bit of the truth though. If Danny could see me now, I wasn't sure if he'd be proud or horrified.

Probably both.

****

The Baldwin Industries building was the kind of place that made you feel poor just by walking through the lobby. Everything was marble and glass and intimidation, designed to remind visitors that they were in the presence of serious money.

I'd spent two hours that morning practicing being Chloe Rodriguez in front of our bathroom mirror, trying to sound confident and professional instead of like someone who'd learned everything she knew about business from watching movies. The woman who looked back at me in the elevator's mirrored walls was wearing a borrowed blazer and carrying a résumé full of lies, but she looked like she belonged here.

Fake it till you make it, right?

The interview was with Sandra Kim, Baldwin's personal staff coordinator, who had the kind of sharp efficiency that made me understand why she worked for a billionaire. She asked questions about my experience with scheduling software I'd never used and project management systems I'd never heard of, and somehow I managed to answer everything without sounding like a complete fraud.

"Mr. Baldwin requires absolute discretion from his staff," Sandra explained. "He values privacy and professionalism above all else."

"Of course."

"He can be... demanding. Previous assistants have found the work environment challenging."

Translation: your new boss is probably a nightmare, but the paycheck makes it worth tolerating.

"I work well under pressure," I said, which was true. Growing up poor teaches you a lot about handling stress.

"When can you start?"

"Whenever you need me."

She smiled for the first time during the interview. "How about Monday?"

"FINE BY ME"

Walking out of that building, I felt like I'd just crossed some kind of invisible line. Three weeks ago, I was Chloe Martinez, diner waitress and grieving fiancée. Now I was Chloe Rodriguez-Braganza, executive assistant and undercover wife to a crime boss.

I called Cargo from a payphone because my reconstructed cell phone was held together with tape and hope.

"I got the job."

"Excellent. Phase one is complete."

"Now what?"

"Now you learn everything there is to know about Alec Baldwin. His schedule, his habits, his weaknesses. And then we figure out how to use that information to destroy him."

Hanging up, I realized I felt something I hadn't experienced since Danny died; purpose. It wasn't the good kind of purpose, the kind that comes from helping people or building something meaningful. It was darker than that, It was the purpose that comes from having a target and a plan and absolutely nothing left to lose.

Monday morning, I was going to walk into Alec Baldwin's world and pretend to be someone I wasn't, all so I could find a way to make him pay for what he'd done.

I just hoped I remembered who I really was when this was all over.

But first, I had to survive the weekend living with my new husband.

Cargo's house was exactly what you'd expect from someone whose business card probably read "Professional Problem Solver." Big, expensive, and decorated like a furniture showroom where everything was chosen to impress rather than to live with. He showed me to what he called "my room," which was basically a luxury hotel suite with a lock on the door.

"We keep separate bedrooms," he explained matter-of-fact. "This is a business arrangement. I'm not interested in complicating it."

"Good, because I wasn't planning on being the kind of wife who does your laundry and asks how your day was."

"Perfect. We understand each other."

Living with Cargo was like sharing space with a polite stranger who happened to own several illegal businesses. He left for work every morning in expensive suits, came home at reasonable hours, and we ate dinner together while making small talk about everything except the fact that our marriage was fake and we were plotting to destroy someone.

It was surreal and weirdly normal at the same time.

"Tell me about Baldwin," I said over dinner Friday night, picking at salmon that probably cost more than I used to make in a week.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. If I'm going to work for him, I need to understand what I'm dealing with."

Cargo set down his fork and looked at me with something that might have been respect. "Alec Baldwin built his empire from nothing. His father was a construction worker who died when Alec was sixteen. He worked his way through college, started with one small development project, and turned it into a multi-billion-dollar empire."

"Self-made success story. How inspiring."

"Don't underestimate him because you hate him," Cargo warned. "Baldwin didn't get where he is by being stupid or careless. He's ruthless, intelligent, and paranoid about his personal security."

"Then why do you think this plan will work?"

"Because everyone has weaknesses, and Baldwin's is that he doesn't trust anyone. That isolation makes him predictable in certain ways." Cargo leaned back in his chair. "He cycles through personal staff quickly because he's impossible to please and has zero tolerance for mistakes."

"Sounds like a real charmer."

"The turnover works in our favor. No one expects his assistants to last long, so you won't be under unusual scrutiny for being new."

Oboy... This is going to be tougher than I imagined.

****

Saturday, Cargo took me shopping for what he called "appropriate work attire," which apparently meant clothes that cost more than I'd ever spent on anything in my entire life. Standing in the dressing room of some boutique where the salespeople looked like they belonged in fashion magazines, I tried on blazers and dresses that transformed me into someone who looked like she belonged in a corporate office.

"This feels wrong," I told my reflection. "I'm not this person."

"You are now," said the Chloe in the mirror, and she looked convinced.

****

Sunday night, I lay in my expensive bed in my fake husband's house, wearing silk pajamas that cost more than my last three paychecks combined, and tried to figure out if I was brave or just completely insane, I have somehow managed and sent a little money to my Mom for her drugs and upkeep. I don't know if I will be seeing her anytime soon.

In twelve hours, I was going to walk into Alec Baldwin's office and start working for the man who'd killed Danny. I was going to smile and take his meetings and organize his calendar and pretend I was just another ambitious young woman trying to climb the corporate ladder.

And somehow, while doing all of that, I was going to find a way to make him pay for destroying my life.

The plan was insane. The risks were enormous. The chances of success were probably close to zero.

But for the first time since Danny died, I had something that felt like hope. Dark, twisted, potentially self-destructive hope, but hope nonetheless.

Monday morning couldn't come fast enough please.