My fiancé cheated with my sister at our engagement party, so I flipped the table and married his uncle

The municipal annex in San Rafael was deserted at eight in the morning, save for a tired clerk who looked as though she lived on nicotine and lukewarm municipal coffee. She didn't recognize Julian Mercer at first, but she certainly recognized the seal on the certified cashier’s check he laid on the counter.

Beside the marriage license lay a secondary document—a thick, bound stack of creamy vellum prepared by Julian’s private legal counsel overnight.

"Section four," Julian murmured, standing close enough behind me that his breath stirred the stray hairs at my temple. His hand reached over my shoulder, pointing a manicured forefinger at the bottom clause. "Your grandmother’s parcel remains entirely in your name. In exchange for the right-of-way easement my logistics terminal requires, you receive ten percent non-voting equity in Mercer Pacific Logistics, fully vested upon signature."

I glanced back at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You gave me the terminal equity? Leo told me you'd strip the Whitaker land for pennies and leave us with debt."

"Leo is an idiot whose business acumen extends no further than choosing which club bottle service to charge to his father's trust fund," Julian said without a trace of malice—just pure, clinical truth. "I don't rob my partners, June. Especially not the ones who share my bed."

My throat went dry at the words, but his eyes never wavered.

"We sign the marital covenant under community property statutes, but the corporate assets remain distinct," he continued, holding out the pen he had given me the night before. "To the world, we are madly, shockingly in love. To the family, we are an unbreakable wall. To each other... we are an alliance until you decide you have extracted every ounce of blood you came for."

"And if I never want out?" I asked quietly, looking straight into those unyielding gray eyes.

A slow, dark heat flickered beneath his composed facade. "Then you stay. Now sign."

The clerk stamped the documents. I took the heavy silver pen and scratched *June Whitaker* across the crisp paper. Beside my name, Julian signed with a single, decisive stroke of black ink.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Mercer," the clerk droned, sliding our certified copy across the counter.

Julian didn't kiss me. He took my left hand in his, turned it over, and pressed his thumb against the pulse fluttering wildly in my wrist. Then, from his vest pocket, he produced a ring.

It wasn't the modest princess-cut diamond Leo had presented to me after consulting my mother on what was "tasteful."

It was an untreated, deep-sea sapphire the size of a pigeon's egg, flanked by two shield-cut diamonds set in platinum. It was heavy, cold, and ancient.

"My mother's," Julian said quietly as he slipped it over my fourth finger. It fit as though it had been cast from my bone. "She hated the Whitakers. She would have adored you."

He turned to his assistant, who was waiting near the exit with an open laptop.