Chapter 3

Four private bodyguards employed by the Coffey family lunged at Aria like wolves, reaching out to pin her to the floor. Before they could get within arm's reach, the two Whitfield security contractors who had driven Aria here and followed her inside stepped in front of her.

The first Coffey bodyguard swung a fist. The Whitfield contractor caught his wrist, twisted it, and drove an elbow into his jaw, dropping him in one motion. The second Coffey bodyguard went for Aria's arm and got a knee to the stomach from the other Whitfield contractor, then a heel to the back of the thigh that sent him sprawling across the floor.

With both Coffey men down, the path to the console was clear. Aria darted forward and jammed the silver USB drive into the backup port of the DJ console. The sound technician reached out to yank the drive free, but Aria grabbed him by the collar and shoved him hard against the mixing board.

"Hit play. Now," Aria ordered, her eyes glaring coldly into his.

Shaking violently, the terrified technician slammed his finger onto the enter key.

Above the main stage, the giant LED screen meant for the engagement montage went black with a screech of static. A second later, high-definition night-vision footage lit up the hall before hundreds of New York elites and press cameras.

On screen, Jax and Genie were tangled together naked on white sheets. Genie's breathless, mocking voice blasted through the surround-sound speakers.

"Jax, if that idiot Aria knew we were doing this right on her wedding bed..."

Dead silence fell over the ballroom for three seconds before a deafening wave of gasps and camera shutters exploded through the room.

"Turn it off! Turn it off right now!" Genie shrieked, dropping to her knees and burying her face in her hands as reporters swarmed the stage to photograph her meltdown.

Shaking with rage, Jax bolted to the console and smashed his fist into the keyboard until the screen flickered out. He spun around, his eyes bloodshot as he glared at Aria.

"Bitch! I'm going to kill you!"

Jax yanked a stun gun from his belt and charged straight at her. Aria tensed, shifting her weight to kick him, when the sound of heavy, synchronized footsteps thundered from the broken ballroom doors.

Not ten—nearly thirty heavily armed Whitfield security contractors wearing tactical headsets and black combat gear flooded into the hall, spreading out in a coordinated sweep that sealed every exit in seconds. They moved like a trained private army, not hired muscle.

The Whitfield team leader delivered a brutal side kick that sent the stun gun flying from Jax's hand, then twisted Jax's arm behind his back and slammed his face into a velvet-covered banquet table.

"Who the hell are you? Do you know who I am? Let me go!" Jax roared, his cheek pressed flat against a cold silver platter.

The Whitfield team leader pulled out a plastic zip tie, bound Jax's wrists tightly behind his back, and spoke in a flat voice.

"Shut up."

The remaining Coffey family bodyguards exchanged one look at the thirty Whitfield rifles now leveled at their chests and slowly raised their hands. A few tried to edge toward the side doors, only to find Whitfield contractors already blocking them. Outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched, the Coffey men dropped their weapons to the floor one by one.

Screams echoed as guests scrambled backward, knocking over chairs.

Aria blinked, recognizing the silver crest on the contractors' chests—the Whitfield family insignia. The team leader walked up to her, lowering his chin respectfully.

"Miss Dale, Mr. Whitfield is waiting for you in the car."

Aria glanced down at Jax, who was squirming helplessly on the table, and smiled.

"Thank your boss for taking out the trash."

Lifting the hem of her slip dress, she walked out of the ruined ballroom escorted by the Whitfield guards, leaving Jax choking on his own humiliation. Outside the hotel entrance, an armored black Maybach sat idling in the night. The rear window rolled down halfway, revealing Caesar's cold, sculpted profile in the dim street light.

Estill opened the rear door. Aria took a deep breath, bent down, and slid onto the leather seat. The heavy door clicked shut, cutting off the city noise and trapping her in the scent of cedarwood and tobacco.

As the Maybach glided into the Manhattan traffic, the air inside the cabin grew suffocatingly heavy. Caesar didn't look at her, his long fingers flipping a solid gold lighter open and shut, the blue flame flickering against his jaw.

"It seems my new wife enjoys putting on a monkey show for the public," Caesar said, his deep voice dripping with ice.