Chapter 1: The Three-Million-Dollar Bride

The young heir of Chicago’s elite circles crashed his sports car during a reckless midnight street race, ending up with a traumatic brain injury that sent shockwaves through the city’s rumor mill. The whole thing played out on social media like a cautionary tale—his red Lamborghini twisted around a lamppost just off Lakeshore Drive, blue lights painting the night.

My engagement to him was suddenly moved up—no grand proposal, no candlelit rooftop dinner, just a blunt text from my mother and a meeting at the Andersons’ Gold Coast brownstone. The family patriarch, Gerald Anderson, cornered me in his paneled study, the air thick with the scent of old bourbon and money. He didn’t mince words: if I could get pregnant with Luke’s child, he’d wire three million dollars, no questions asked, to my bank account the very next day. It was transactional, cold, and somehow so American—like a plot ripped from a Netflix thriller.

On our wedding night, I stared at the man I’d known my whole life, lying on the king-size bed with thousand-thread-count sheets—he completely ignored my lacy Victoria’s Secret nightgown, eyes glazed over and utterly absorbed in his Captain America action figure. He tapped the shield against the headboard, lost in his own world. I could feel my blood pressure spike; fury twisted in my chest, sharp as a paper cut.

Outside, the distant rumble of the L train cut through the Gold Coast quiet, a reminder that real life was still out there.

I snatched the figure from him, ignoring his startled protest, and tucked it right into my cleavage, the plastic pressing cold and awkward against my skin, barely hidden by the sheer fabric. The ridiculousness of it all almost made me laugh.

With a wicked smile, I crooked my finger at him, channeling every ounce of boldness I’d learned from nights out in River North. "Find it, and I’ll give it back to you."