"Miss Henson, Mr. Sanchez is hosting a banquet at the Imperial Monarch Hotel today to celebrate his two-year anniversary with Secretary Cobb."
"He's specifically requested that you come and perform for Miss Cobb. If you'll follow us, please."
I frowned.
"Get out of my way, or I'm calling the police."
The lead bodyguard, George Whitney, let out a contemptuous laugh.
"Go ahead. We'll file a report of our own."
"Mr. Sanchez says that dress you burned yesterday was worth a hundred grand. That's enough to land you behind bars for a good while."
I laughed in disbelief. So this was the trap they'd been setting.
"A hundred grand? I'll wire it to him right now."
George snatched the phone from my hand and smashed it on the ground at my feet.
"The hell is wrong with you? Someone offers you an inch and you take a mile?"
"Without Mr. Sanchez, you couldn't even feed yourself. Who do you think you're fooling, acting all high and mighty? You two haven't even registered the marriage. You really think you're some CEO's wife?" He jerked his chin at the others. "Take her."
They dragged me into a car and sped off.
When we arrived, the entire banquet hall had been decorated to the nines.
Shirley, dripping in designer couture and jewels, hung on Neil's arm as they greeted guests together.
She looked every bit the role of his real wife.
The irony cut deep.
Neil had said he didn't want to make a fuss. So yesterday's wedding had been a bare-bones affair in a cheap little hotel, with only a handful of his personal friends in attendance. Most people in their social circle didn't even know the wedding had happened.
I'd understood. I knew how hard he'd worked to earn his money. Besides, once I brought him home to meet my family, we'd throw a proper celebration. Everyone would see the news coverage and know about us then.
So I hadn't minded.
But the Imperial Monarch was the most exclusive hotel in Capital City, operating on an elite membership system. Only those who met a certain threshold of wealth and status were even allowed through the doors. A single banquet here cost millions.
And he'd booked it for Shirley's anniversary party. He'd even invited the press.
When Neil spotted me, he walked over with a frown.
"The owner of the calligraphy studio said you quit. Said you're leaving town. Where do you think you're going?"
My voice was flat. "Home. To take care of my grandfather. Is that a problem?"