I bought her father's empire for pennies on the dollar. I took her name as part of the liquidation.To the financial press, my marriage to the fallen heiress is a masterstroke of corporate mercy. Inside the walls of my glass penthouse, we both know the truth. She is a trophy acquired in a hostile takeover, a collateral asset designed to keep her ruined bloodline on a short leash while I strip their boardrooms bare.She wears my diamond on her finger and ice in her veins. She plays the dutiful billionaire's wife at charity galas, pouring my scotch and smiling for the cameras.Then my private servers are breached at two in the morning.My new bride is not mourning her family's dynasty. She is inside my encrypted network, bleeding my accounts dry and selling my proprietary trade secrets to my deadliest rivals from the comfort of our marriage bed.Any sane man would hand her over to federal prosecutors and annul the contract before the opening bell. Instead, I change the security codes on the penthouse elevator and lock us both inside. If my ruthless little wife wants a war of attrition, she can fight it on her knees in the dark.Because in my world, insider trading carries a lethal penalty, and I intend to collect my debt straight from her skin.