Jilted Girlfriend? I Am The Tycoon's Wife

Cara tapped the screen and brought the phone to her ear.

"Nemesis, thank God—do not hang up on me," Julian Kensington gasped, the words tumbling out so fast they practically collided.

Through the speaker, Cara could clearly hear his rapid pacing on the gravel outside, his voice tight with genuine, unadulterated panic.

Cara stepped toward the curb, lifting an amused eyebrow. "Joker? Did you finally get traced trying to mine crypto on your school's mainframe again?"

"Worse! A billion times worse!" Julian wheezed, clearly pacing on gravel. "I'm at Auden Academy. I got into a fight!"

Cara paused, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. Auden Academy was the crown jewel of Upper East Side prep schools—a neo-Gothic fortress built exclusively for old generational dynasties, senatorial bloodlines, and hedge fund royalty.

"A physical fight?" Cara mused. "With your keyboard-warrior upper body strength, you actually threw hands?"

"I didn't throw hands, I threw my custom noise-canceling headset!" Julian yelled hysterically. "The kid's nose leaked a little blood, and now his mother—who happens to sit on the board of trustees—is in the Dean's office demanding my public execution!"

"So wipe their disciplinary server," Cara suggested casually. "You have the backdoor exploit."

"There's no time! The Dean has me cornered in the administrative lobby right now!" Julian gasped, his voice cracking into sheer panic. "They're demanding immediate family representation. My parents are stuck at a summit in Geneva. If my uncle finds out... Nemesis, he will end me. He's not a man, he's a cold-blooded financial machine! He will literally liquidate my existence!"

A vague mental image of an uptight, balding corporate tyrant crossed Cara's mind.

"So what's your genius play, kid?"

"You have to come!" Julian begged, bargaining with desperate speed. "You have to pose as my family! Tell them you're my new aunt! The one who just married my uncle in secret! Nobody in high society has seen her yet anyway!"

Cara nearly choked on the crisp night air. "An aunt? Are you entirely out of your mind?"

"Please! I'll transfer my entire allowance for the next six months! I'll buy you that limited-edition mechanical keyboard you wanted!" Julian wailed. "Auden Academy, 79th and Madison. Just walk in and look intimidating!"

Cara stood under the streetlamp, the cool wind whipping dark strands of hair across her face.

Dealing with Bradyn had left her veins humming with pure adrenaline. Going home to an empty loft sounded painfully boring. Crashing an elite Upper East Side prep school to play the fictitious, glamorous aunt of a chaotic internet hacker?

"Give me twenty minutes," Cara said.

A jubilant shriek blasted through the speaker before Cara terminated the call. She hailed a yellow taxi, slid into the leather backseat, and leaned back, letting the neon skyline blur past her window.

Twenty-five minutes later, Cara pushed through the heavy wrought-iron gates of Auden Academy.

Julian was pacing near the stone arches, his sandy-blond hair a wild mess above his navy school blazer. The moment he caught sight of Cara—dressed in high-waisted tailored trousers, a minimalist silk top, and an oversized trench that screamed effortless understated luxury—his blue eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

"Nemesis?" he whispered in sheer awe. "You're... wait, you're actually hot?"

"Shut up, Joker," Cara said smoothly, flicking his forehead. "Brief me on the script before I change my mind."

"Right, right," Julian babbled as he dragged her down the mahogany-paneled corridor. "His name is Mark Croft. His mom is a snob. And my uncle's name is Beck Greer. You guys got married quietly last month."

"Beck Greer?" Cara stopped dead in her tracks, her stilettos clicking sharply against the marble.

The name sounded eerily familiar—like a headline flashing on a Bloomberg terminal.

"Yeah, that Greer," Julian urged, giving her no time to process as he threw open the frosted double doors labeled Dean of Students. "Just don't touch him if he shows up! The man has pathological germaphobia and hasn't let a woman within three feet of him in a decade! But don't worry, he's never in New York anyway!"

Inside, the tension was suffocating.

Behind a massive walnut desk sat Dean Peterson, a stout man sweating profusely in his tweed suit. On the leather chesterfield to the left sat Mrs. Croft, draped in pastel Chanel and radiating generational arrogance, hovering over her sniffling son.

Every eye in the room snapped toward the door.

Dean Peterson adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, frowning. "Julian, who is this young woman?"

Julian took a bold breath, puffing out his chest while desperately gripping Cara's elbow. "This is my aunt! My uncle's wife!"

Cara smoothly stepped into the light, letting a radiant, impeccably composed smile curve her lips.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Mrs. Croft," Cara said, her voice dropping into a flawless, aristocratic cadence. "Apologies for the delay. Manhattan traffic was atrocious."

She smoothly took the leather armchair opposite the Dean, crossing her slender legs with lethal elegance.

Within four minutes of sharp, clinical interrogation, Cara completely dismantled their case.

"A compound nasal fracture from an aluminum frame weighing barely one point eight pounds?" Cara remarked, leaning forward and pinning young Mark Croft with her sharp amber eyes. "If Julian had truly swung that headset with malicious intent, Mark would be in an emergency surgical bay at Presbyterian, not sitting here drinking cold-pressed apple juice."

Dean Peterson's collar suddenly felt three sizes too tight.

Mrs. Croft rose from the sofa, her face mottled with rage. "How dare you interrogate my son! Peterson, call campus security and have this fraud—"

A sharp, violent rap rattled the heavy oak door.

The administrative secretary cracked the door open, her voice trembling so violently she could barely speak.

"Dean Peterson... Mr. Greer is here."

The air was instantly sucked out of the room.

Julian went paler than paper, staring at the floor as if praying for an earthquake to swallow him whole.

Cara's breath caught in her throat.

Beck Greer wasn't out of town.

The heavy double doors swung wide, and a tall, commanding figure stepped over the threshold.

He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit without a tie, the top two buttons undone to reveal a strong, sharp collarbone. The man radiated an aura of absolute, crushing authority that made the spacious office feel suddenly claustrophobic.

His features were carved from unforgiving granite, anchored by piercing, ice-blue eyes that swept across the room with razor-sharp lethality.

Cara's breath violently caught in her throat.

It was him.

The man from the mezzanine at Serafina. The dangerous stranger who had watched her dismantle Bradyn not forty minutes ago.

Julian's terrifying uncle... is the man from the restaurant?!

A cold shock hit her chest. He had witnessed the entire breakup. He knew she was single, furious, and fabricating a marriage out of thin air.

We are so completely, hopelessly dead, she thought.

Beck's glacial gaze scanned the terrified room, passing his trembling nephew, and landed squarely on Cara.

Their eyes locked in the heavy silence.

Cara saw the faint, sharp flicker of assessment in his icy gaze. If he uttered a single word of denial, she would be escorted out in handcuffs for corporate-level fraud.

In that razor-thin fraction of a second, Cara made an insane, reckless gamble.

She didn't run. She didn't flinch.

Instead, Cara rose gracefully to her feet, closed the distance between them, and smoothly slipped her arm through Beck Greer's left arm, pressing her side against the solid, warm wool of his jacket.

Beck's entire frame stiffened instantly, the muscle beneath his sleeve turning to rock. Julian squeezed his eyes shut, practically waiting for his pathologically germaphobic uncle to violently shrug her off.

Cara tilted her chin up, offering the most dazzling, helplessly sweet pout she could muster.

"Honey," Cara murmured, her voice dripping with affectionate reproach. "What took you so long? Julian and I were being bullied."

The entire room froze in absolute terror.

Julian stared at his gaming partner, his jaw practically hitting the Persian rug.

Beck looked down. His glacial blue eyes traced the delicate hand resting securely on his bicep, then moved slowly upward to meet her defiant, mischievous amber gaze.

One beat. Two beats.

Then, before anyone could breathe, Beck lifted his large, calloused right hand and gently covered Cara's fingers, lightly stroking her knuckles with deep, possessive familiarity.

"My apologies, darling," Beck's deep, velvety baritone rumbled through the quiet room. "The board meeting ran late."

He turned his chilling gaze toward the sweating Dean.

"Now," Beck said softly, the quiet tone infinitely more terrifying than a roar. "Who in this room had the audacity to touch my wife?"