“You have exactly one hour to get off my property,” I said calmly, lowering my sunglasses as I watched my ex-husband go completely pale. His vicious mother dragged a cheap suitcase through the mud while his mistress frantically tried to rescue her stolen designer bags — and that was when they finally learned the maid they had humiliated was secretly a billionaire.“You are a liability, Camila. Sign the damn papers.”My husband, Grant Callaway, slammed the gold pen down onto the mahogany table. Beside him stood Jessica Vain, his beautiful business consultant and very obvious mistress, smirking behind her champagne flute.My name is Camila. Three years ago, I married the heir to the enormous Callaway logistics empire, but instead of becoming a wife, I became an unpaid servant for Grant and his poisonous mother, Beatrice. I had no money, no influential family, and no voice. Tonight, they had decided they were finally finished with me. The company was preparing to go public, and my lack of rich pedigree had become, in their eyes, a serious public relations problem.

“The car is waiting outside to take you to a motel,” Beatrice lied smoothly from the doorway. “Leave the jewelry. Take only what you brought into this house.”Numb and completely shattered, I signed my name, grabbed my small suitcase, and was violently pushed out the front door. The heavy lock clicked behind me. There was no car waiting. Only a freezing, torrential downpour. As I dragged my luggage down the endless driveway, their celebratory laughter rang from the windows. I was entirely alone, completely broke, and terrified.Just as I reached the massive iron gates, an intimidating, pitch-black Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up silently, blocking my way. My heart pounded in my chest. Had Grant sent someone to finish the job?The tinted window slid down. An older gentleman in a perfect bespoke suit looked at me with an intensity that made me freeze.“Camila,” he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the heavy rain. “Please, get in the car.” don’t know you,” I choked out, clutching my suitcase like a shield.name is Adrien Cross. I am the senior counsel for the Wakefield Trust,” he said, stepping out and holding an umbrella over my head. “Your parents died before they could tell you the truth. Your grandfather was Arthur Sterling, the industrial magnate.”