My father shoved me into a fountain at my sister’s wedding. Four hundred guests watched me fall.

Outside the Grand Conservatory, the rain was falling in heavy, dramatic curtains against the glass windows, blurring the bright neon lights of the valet entrance.

A long, pitch-black Maybach Exelero glided smoothly up the wet cobblestone driveway, its engine uttering a low, powerful rumble that drowned out the sound of the storm.

The valet attendant, a young guy soaked in a yellow raincoat, rushed forward to open the rear passenger door, his mouth agape at the sight of a eight-hundred-thousand-dollar custom vehicle pulling up to a mid-tier wedding venue.

A long leg clad in charcoal-grey bespoke trousers stepped out onto the wet pavement, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a double-breasted Tom Ford tuxedo.

Daniel Reyes stepped out into the rain.

He didn't bother using an umbrella. His dark hair was immaculately styled, his jawline sharp and hard as chiselled marble, and his dark brown eyes burned with an intense, quiet authority that made the valet boy instantly take three steps back in unconscious deference.

Daniel adjusted the platinum cufflinks at his wrists, his gaze fixed on the glowing glass doors of the ballroom.

His phone vibrated in his inner pocket. He pulled it out, looking at the second text message I had just sent him from the dressing room:

They put hands on me, Daniel.

Daniel’s breathing went utterly still. The warmth in his eyes vanished, replaced by an absolute, terrifying void of cold, calculating fury.

He didn't yell. He didn't rush. He simply slid his phone back into his coat, nodded once to his head of personal security, Marcus—a seven-foot-tall former military operative who stepped out of the front passenger seat—and walked up the marble steps toward the entrance.

Inside the grand foyer, the air was warm and smelled of expensive perfume and alcohol.

I was standing near the grand double doors of the ballroom, waiting behind the sheer silk curtains, watching Daniel through the glass.

The second he crossed the threshold into the lobby, his eyes locked onto mine across the thirty-foot room.

He walked straight toward me, his long, heavy strides silent against the carpet. When he reached me, his hand immediately came up to gently frame the side of my face, his thumb softly tracing my jawline.

He felt the lingering chill of the fountain water on my skin. He looked down at the tiny, faint dampness near my hair line.

"Nora," his deep voice was a low, dangerous murmur that vibrated in his chest. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Daniel," I whispered, resting my hand over his broad wrist, feeling the steady, thumping pulse beneath his skin. "The water was just cold."

Daniel’s eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening gently against my cheek. "Who did it?"

"My father," I said plainly, looking him dead in the eye. "He shoved me into the center fountain in front of all four hundred guests. Allison told me not to ruin her photos. They laughed, Daniel. The whole room laughed and applauded."

Daniel didn't flinch, but I felt the muscle in his jaw snap tight as iron. The air around him seemed to drop twenty degrees.

"Arthur Hayes," Daniel said, the name sounding like a death sentence on his tongue.

"He thinks I'm alone," I murmured, my voice unshakeable. "He thinks he can humiliate me one last time to make Allison look bigger."

Daniel slowly dropped his hand from my cheek and took my left hand in his. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small velvet box, and opened it.

Inside lay my real wedding ring—an eleven-carat flawless emerald-cut diamond ring flanked by platinum bands, a piece of jewelry worth more than Arthur’s entire house. I had kept it in his safe for three years to hide my identity.