Burke deposited Aria into the backseat of his Maybach. The leather was cool and smelled of new money.
Donato looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening slightly. It was the most emotion Burke had seen from his assistant in years.
"Where to, sir?"
"There's a twenty-four-hour chapel in New Jersey," Burke said, his voice flat. "Drive."
Donato didn't argue. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
In the backseat, Aria leaned her head on Burke's shoulder. She was muttering to herself. "Revenge. Sweet revenge."
Burke pulled out his phone. He texted his legal team. Draft a digital NDA and a prenup. Standard protection. Send it now.
Aria began to play with the buttons on his shirt. Her fingers were cold. She fumbled with the top button, her coordination shot.
Burke captured her hands in his. "Behave," he murmured against her hair. "Future Mrs..." He let his voice trail off, not finishing the name. She just giggled.
The car arrived at a tacky, neon-lit chapel an hour later. A plastic cupid fountain spat recirculated water near the entrance.
Burke shook Aria gently. "Wake up. Time to pay up."
Aria stumbled out of the car. She looked at the plastic statues and laughed. "It's perfect. Ideally hideous."
They entered. The officiant, a man with a stained tie, looked up from a magazine. He saw Burke's suit and straightened up immediately.
"We need a ceremony," Burke said. "Now."
He produced his ID. He reached into his pocket-Donato had handed him Aria's purse, recovered from the bar. He pulled out her ID. Aria Chaney.
He knew the name. Everyone in finance knew the name. Berg's stepdaughter.
The officiant rushed through the ceremony, intimidated by the sheer force of Burke's presence.
"Do you take this man?"
"I do," Aria said. She felt like she was floating. It was a dream. A weird, feverish dream.
"I do," Burke replied. His voice was heavy, anchoring her to the ground. His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that burned.
He placed a simple silver band on her finger-he had taken it from his own pinky. It was loose, but it stayed.
They signed the papers. Burke slid the document in front of her, the text a meaningless blur in her drunken haze. "Sign here," he commanded, his finger tapping a blank line. Aria scrawled her name, the letters barely legible, not even glancing at the name printed beside hers: Burke Justice. Her mind was a fog of whiskey and rebellion; the legal print was just static.
Back in the car, the adrenaline crashed. Aria fell into a deep sleep before they even hit the Lincoln Tunnel.
Burke watched her sleeping face. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.
"Home," he ordered. "The Penthouse. 432 Park."
Donato cleared his throat. "Sir. Is this wise? The Berg connection..."
Burke silenced him with a look in the rearview mirror. "She's mine now."
The car glided through the city, arriving at the ultra-luxury tower that pierced the clouds. Burke carried her through the private lobby, nodding to the security guard who knew better than to ask questions.
The elevator ascended ninety floors in silence.
He laid her on his king-sized bed. The city lights sprawled below them, a grid of diamonds.
Burke removed her shoes. He covered her with a duvet.
He stood by the window, looking at the reflection of his sleeping wife in the glass. He was plotting.
