He Built a Marriage to Punish Me—So I Wore the Red Dress Straight to His Worst Enemy's Bed

Adrian didn't look like an uninvited intruder; he looked like a guest arriving fashionably late to a play he had co-written. He walked leisurely toward the driver’s side of Dominic’s Bentley, tapping the corner of the manila envelope against his thigh with a casual, mocking rhythm.

Dominic’s hand instantly slipped from my wrist, his fingers curling into a tight fist as he hit the master unlock button and pushed his door open.

“Cross,” Dominic growled, stepping out of the car and placing himself squarely between Adrian and the passenger door where I sat. “You’ve crossed a lot of lines in this city, but trespassing on private Lake Forest property is a very efficient way to ensure you don’t see tomorrow morning.”

Adrian smiled, unfazed by the lethal chill in Dominic’s voice. He didn't even flinch as Dominic closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away.

“Relax, Russo. I didn’t come here to start a turf war,” Adrian said smoothly, holding up the manila envelope. “I came to return something that belongs to your lovely wife. Or rather, something your late father-in-law carelessly left behind in a poker den downtown before he traded her off to settle his tab.”

My heart skipped a beat. I pushed my door open and stepped out onto the cold concrete floor, ignoring Dominic’s sharp warning glance.

“What is that?” I asked, stepping up beside my husband.

Adrian’s eyes flicked over to me with genuine, albeit dangerous, admiration. “It’s the original ledger of your father’s debts, Claire. Not the sanitized corporate version Marcus Vance drafted for Dominic’s legal files. The real one. The one that proves your father didn't just owe money to anonymous syndicates—he owed it directly to the Cross family.”

Dominic’s head snapped toward Adrian, his expression darkening into pure, unadulterated fury. “You manipulative bastard. You set up the whole debt transfer from the beginning.”

“Of course I did,” Adrian laughed softly, tossing the manila envelope onto the hood of the Bentley. “I wanted to see how the great Dominic Russo would handle a wife he didn't ask for. But I have to hand it to you, Claire—you’ve got more backbone than your old man ever had. Walking into my ballroom in that red dress? Absolute masterpiece.”

Before Adrian could finish his sentence, Dominic’s fist shot out, catching him squarely on the jaw with a sickening crack of bone.

Adrian staggered back, hitting the side of his Maybach, but instead of swinging back, he simply wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth and chuckled.

“Hit me all you want, Russo,” Adrian wheezed, straightening his jacket. “It doesn’t change the numbers in that envelope. Your marriage was built on a lie, and the second those papers go public, your board will tear you both to shreds.”

With that, Adrian climbed back into his car, started the engine, and sped out of the driveway into the Chicago night, leaving behind a silence heavier than the falling snow.

Dominic stood frozen for a long moment, breathing heavily, before slowly turning to look at me. The moonlight caught the raw frustration etched across his face.

“Claire,” he began, his voice tight. “That envelope... everything inside it—it doesn't matter. I own the board, I own the shipping lanes, and I will burn down every asset I have before I let Adrian use you as leverage.”

I didn't answer right away. I reached out, picked up the manila envelope from the hood of the car, and slid the thick ribbon free. I pulled out the yellowed, handwritten pages, scanning the columns of numbers and signatures until my eyes locked onto the final page.

And then, a slow, cold realization washed over me.

“Dominic,” I whispered, holding up the final sheet of paper. “My father didn’t trade me to settle his debt. The debt was already paid in full three days before our wedding.”

Dominic stared at me, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Look at the signature at the bottom,” I said, pointing a trembling finger at the bottom of the page. “It’s not my father’s signature. And it’s not yours.”