Surviving My Deadly Contract Beast Husbands

She grabbed a heavy, platinum-studded handbag off the shelf. It felt ridiculous in her hands.

She tapped her terminal, activating the valuation scanner. A blue laser swept over the bag.

"Estimated Retail Value: 150,000 credits. Current Market Resale Value: 12,000 credits."

She frowned. A ninety percent drop?

"Host reputation penalty applied," Sev supplied helpfully. "Buyers in the elite secondary market refuse to purchase items associated with Kenzie Banks. The social stigma is considered toxic."

She threw the bag onto the plush carpet. "Great. I'm financially radioactive."

She walked out of the closet and over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the bedroom. She grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them open.

She expected to see a sprawling, manicured estate. Instead, she saw a graveyard.

The massive swimming pool was drained and cracked. The imported alien grass was dead and brown. There were empty stone pedestals where expensive statues used to sit.

The original Kenzie had sold everything that wasn't nailed down just to maintain the illusion of her wealth in this one room.

She walked back to the vanity mirror. She started opening drawers, looking for anything practical.

Underneath a velvet jewelry tray, she found a stack of thick, physical envelopes. She ripped one open.

It was a final notice from a loan shark syndicate. The interest alone was enough to buy a small warship.

She tossed the paper onto the desk. But beneath the envelopes, her fingers brushed against a sleek, biometric datapad. The screen flickered to life, recognizing her DNA. It was the original Kenzie's private blackmail ledger. She skimmed the encrypted files, her eyes widening. There were surveillance photos of a woman named Adelia—Kayson's fiancée—coordinating illegal spice smuggling drops at the outer spaceports. Even worse, there were detailed notes proving Adelia had planted encrypted military files on Dallin to frame him, terrified he was getting too close to her operation. And Kayson? The great Major? The ledger contained a signed 'loan agreement' where Kayson manipulated Kenzie into lending him the priceless 'Tear of the Stars' handbag so he could gift it to Adelia and pretend he bought it. The sheer toxicity of this woman's obsession was staggering. She had all the proof to clear Dallin, but kept it hidden to blackmail Kayson into spending time with her.

Panic tried to claw its way up her throat, but she forced it down. She didn't have time to panic.

She needed a buyer who didn't care about her name.

She opened the anonymous browsing network on her terminal. She typed in search parameters for black market liquidators.

A few minutes later, she found it. The Dark Zone Virtual Pawn. No questions asked. Instant credit transfers.

She stripped off the silk robe she was wearing. She dug through the back of the closet and found a sleek, black tactical combat suit. It was tight, functional, and completely unlike anything the original Kenzie wore. She pulled her hair back into a tight, high ponytail.

She grabbed a massive black duffel bag and started throwing bags, watches, and necklaces into it. She didn't care if they scratched.

She dragged the heavy bag to the center of the room. She picked up the VR neural-link visor from the nightstand and slipped it over her eyes.

The real world vanished.

Her boots hit a wet, neon-lit pavement. The air smelled like synthetic cigars and ozone. She was standing in a cyberpunk alleyway.

She pushed open the rusted door of the pawnshop. A bell chimed.

Behind a scratched plexiglass counter sat a goblin merchant. He had a mechanical eye that whirred as he looked her up and down. His lip curled in a sneer.

She walked up to the counter and slammed the virtual duffel bag down. It hit the surface with a heavy, satisfying thud.

The goblin unzipped it. He poked at a diamond necklace with a dirty fingernail.

"A hundred thousand," he grunted, not even looking at her. "For the lot."

She leaned forward, planting both hands flat on the counter. She stared right into his mechanical eye.

"Three hundred thousand," she said, her voice flat and hard. "The Birkin alone is worth two. Don't insult me."

He scoffed. "It's hot merchandise, lady. Or you wouldn't be here."

"It's clean," she shot back. "And if you don't want it, the broker across the street will. I hear he pays a premium for vintage Earth-leather."

She reached for the bag, making a show of zipping it up.

The goblin's hand shot out, stopping the zipper. His mechanical eye whirred frantically, calculating the profit margins.

He looked at her face, trying to find a bluff. She gave him nothing. Just cold, dead-eyed patience.

"Two-fifty," he growled.

"Three hundred," she repeated. "Transfer it now, or I walk."

He ground his teeth. He slammed his hand onto a biometric pad on the counter.

Ding.

Her terminal vibrated. "Deposit received: 300,000 credits."

She didn't smile. She didn't say thank you. She just turned around and walked out the door.

She ripped the VR visor off her face. The bright lights of the closet blinded her for a second.

She quickly routed the funds into an untraceable, encrypted sub-account, bypassing the loan sharks' automatic deduction algorithms. She looked at her terminal. The glaring red overdue warnings flashing on her screen were finally gone. She actually had a positive, usable balance.

She let out a long, shaky breath. She had the money. Now, she needed to keep her husbands alive.