For the next week, I was a ghost in the Williamson estate.

Brandon froze all my credit cards and even had the butler turn off the heat in my room. He, my stepmother Monica, and Lily spent their days laughing in the living room, planning Lily’s upcoming birthday party as if I didn’t exist.

“Has that bitch come back begging yet?” I heard Lily ask downstairs.

“She will soon,” Brandon sneered. “She has no money, and her black card is cut off. Once that waiter spends her ten grand, she’ll come crawling back to us.”

I sat in my cold room, looking at my birth certificate, and let out a cold laugh.

Beg for mercy?

In their dreams.

On Monday morning, I put on a simple white satin dress my mother had left me. I didn’t pack a single bag, only taking a photo of my mother with me.

I stood on the steps of City Hall.

The morning air was chilly. I checked my watch; there were five minutes until our scheduled time.

What if he didn't show up? What if this was all just a cruel joke?

Just as my anxiety peaked, I heard the low rumble of an engine in the distance.

It wasn't one car. It was a motorcade.

Six black Cadillac Escalades, silent steel beasts, arrogantly took over the entire street in front of City Hall.

A burly man in sunglasses and an earpiece quickly exited each vehicle. They wore matching black tactical suits, their movements synchronized and radiating a deadly seriousness. These weren't ordinary security guards; they were the kind of private security only the world’s top billionaires could afford.

Passersby stopped in their tracks, pulling out their phones to take pictures.

“Who is that? Is the president here?”

“No, that’s the Foster family crest!”

I froze. Foster?

The door of the middle car opened slowly.

Rhys stepped out.

He wasn’t wearing his waiter’s uniform or the white shirt from the other day. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored, handmade charcoal-gray suit. His hair was slicked back, revealing a strong, confident forehead.

In that moment, the disguise of a humble waiter was completely torn away, revealing the aura of an emperor who held the power of life and death.

He stood in the sunlight, so dazzling it was hard to look at him directly.

I was completely stunned, having forgotten to breathe. “Rhys? What is this… Did you rob that hotel?”

Rhys saw my bewildered expression, and a hint of a fond smile flickered in his eyes.

He walked up the steps, ignoring the stares, and opened the car door for me with impeccable grace.

“Don’t worry, I get an ‘employee discount’,” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. “Get in, Mrs. Foster. If we’re going to put on a show to piss off your snobbish brother, the props have to be convincing, right?”

“But this is too much…”

“If you like it, this is just the beginning, baby.”

He gently pushed me into the car. The motorcade started moving, heading toward the heart of Manhattan.

At the same time, the massive NASDAQ screen in Times Square suddenly changed.

The Coca-Cola ad vanished, replaced by simple, bold white text on a black background:

“Congratulations to Mr. Rhys Foster & Ms. Aria Williamson on their marriage.”

And below it, in a smaller font that sent shivers down the spine of Wall Street: Foster Global Group.

All of Manhattan looked up at that moment.

Back at the Williamson estate on Long Island, the atmosphere had turned ice-cold.

The butler stumbled into the dining room, nearly dropping the tablet in his hand. “Mr. Brandon! Something terrible has happened!”

Brandon, who was cutting his steak, frowned. “What’s all the panic about? Did that waiter pick Aria up on a motorcycle? I knew it…”

“No… it’s not that…” The butler handed over the tablet, his hands shaking. “Miss Williamson got married… and… look at this.”

Brandon snatched the tablet.

On the screen was a photo snapped by a reporter.

The man he had dismissed as a “waiter” was holding my hand, escorted into City Hall by a phalanx of armed bodyguards. Though it was only a side profile, it was a face that frequently appeared on the front page of The Wall Street Journal.

The news ticker at the bottom of the screen flashed frantically:

[BREAKING] Mysterious Heir to Foster Group Revealed! Confirmed Marriage to Williamson Family’s Eldest Daughter! Williamson Group Stock Plummets in Pre-Market Trading!

“Foster…” Brandon’s face went pale, and he collapsed back into his chair, the steak knife clattering to the floor. “Not that Foster… It can’t be the one who controls half of America’s energy grid…”

Lily bit her lip so hard her nail broke. “It has to be fake! Aria must have hired actors! How could she possibly marry Rhys Foster? He’s the man even Alex has to kneel to!”

But despite her words, an emotion called “fear” had, for the first time, truly descended upon their home.

The girl they had thrown away like trash had, it seemed, become a queen they could no longer afford to provoke.