Christiana

Jordan Pierson thought he had won.

But he hadn’t.

Not even close.

I wouldn’t be bullied into compliance, much less into a marriage. Not to him. Not to anyone.

If he thought I was just going to roll over and let him own me like another one of his acquisitions, then he clearly underestimated me. I had survived worse things than men in expensive suits with god complexes.

This was war, and I would fight him with everything I had.

The meeting with my lawyer was set. Twenty minutes from now, I’d be sitting across from him, drinking terrible office coffee while we strategized ways to get Pierson out of my life for good.

Because God forbid I marry a drop-dead-gorgeous son of a bitch.

Yes, I’d admit it—silently, privately, where no one could ever use it against me—that he was gorgeous. Infuriatingly, unfairly, criminally gorgeous. The kind of man who made waitresses stumble, who made women in elevators suddenly forget which floor they were getting off at.

But I wasn’t everyone else.

I was Christiana Moretti. And I didn’t lose.

…

The law firm smelled like old wood polish and burnt coffee. Classy. My heels clicked on the tiled floor as I strode down the hall, determination in every step.

“Miss Moretti,” the receptionist said, half-nervous, half-awed. Maybe she’d read the headlines. Maybe she’d seen my father’s name rotting in the business section and knew exactly who I was. Either way, I didn’t care.

My lawyer, Mr. Callahan, stood when I entered his office. He was older, clean suit, silver hair, the kind of man who looked like he’d fought wars in courtrooms and won most of them.

“Christiana,” he greeted, gesturing for me to sit. “I hear you’ve gotten yourself into a situation.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I muttered, dropping into the chair. “My father gambled away everything—including my mother’s company—and now some mobster-in-a-suit thinks he can force me to marry him as part of the deal.”

Callahan’s brows lifted, but his face stayed otherwise unreadable. “Mobster-in-a-suit?”

“Jordan Pierson.” I spat the name like poison.

That earned the faintest flicker of recognition. “Ah. Him.”

My stomach tightened. “What do you know?”

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. “Enough to tell you this won’t be simple. Men like Pierson don’t move without making sure the ground beneath them is cemented.”

“I don’t care if it’s cemented or plated in gold,” I snapped. “There has to be a way out. He’s bluffing. He can’t actually force me to marry him.”

Silence.

“Right?” I pressed.

Callahan cleared his throat. “Legally speaking… no one can compel marriage. That said, I reviewed the documents you sent me.” He slid the papers across the desk, the ones Pierson had oh-so-graciously left behind at my house. “Your mother made your father co-owner. And he signed the shares over to Pierson. Completely legal. Ironclad.”

My chest burned. “That doesn’t give him me.”

“No,” Callahan agreed slowly, “but it does give him leverage. He can dismantle everything you’ve built. He can bury your mother’s company into the ground just to prove a point. And from what I’ve heard about him, he’s the type of man who would.”

I slumped back, rage twisting inside me. “So what, I just give up? Let him walk all over me? Smile pretty and say ‘I do’ while he burns my life down around me?”

“You asked for strategies,” Callahan said carefully. “So let me give you one. Fight fire with fire. You want Pierson off your back? You don’t fight him in court. You fight him in the press. Public opinion. Scandal. You make him bleed where it hurts.”

That caught my attention.

He leaned in, eyes narrowing. “He’s ruthless, yes. But reputation is still currency in his world. If you can paint him as the villain—and yourself as the victim—you might force him into retreat.”

My lips curved. For the first time since this nightmare started, something like hope flickered in my chest. “So, ruin him?”

“Precisely.”

Oh, I liked the sound of that.

…

By the time I left the law firm, my blood was buzzing with adrenaline. The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was something. I could work with it. Spin stories. Leak just enough truth to poison his image.

I could fight back.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

I frowned and answered. “Hello?”

“You look good when you’re scheming.”

The voice froze me in place. Deep. Smooth. Terrifyingly familiar.

I spun around, scanning the street. People bustled past, cars honked, the city roared. But I didn’t see him.

“Where are you?” I hissed.

“Everywhere you don’t want me to be.”

I clenched the phone harder. “You’re insane.”

“No, Christiana. I’m patient.” There was a pause, then a low chuckle. “But not that patient. Enjoy your lawyer. He won’t save you.”

The line went dead.

My stomach dropped.

I whipped my head around again, searching the sidewalks, the cars, the shadows between buildings. Nothing. But I swore I could still feel him. Watching. Waiting.

He was already three steps ahead.

When I finally got home that night, my father was passed out on the couch, a bottle dangling from his hand. The room stank of whiskey and regret.

I didn’t even look at him. I just marched upstairs, slammed my door, and locked it.

Then I collapsed against it, sliding to the floor. My body trembled, not from fear—at least, that’s what I told myself—but from rage. Pure, blistering rage.

He thought he could scare me into surrender. He thought lurking in shadows and whispering into my phone would make me cave.

But he didn’t know me.

I wasn’t my father. I wasn’t weak.

If Jordan Pierson wanted a war, then a war he would get.

…

Lying in bed later, I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing. I imagined his smug smile. His cold green eyes. The way he had leaned across my kitchen table as though it was his throne.

And for just a second—a shameful, damning second—I wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth instead of curse it.

Heat rushed to my face, and I buried myself under the covers. “God forbid,” I muttered to the empty room.

Because the only thing worse than marrying him… would be wanting to.