From Pawn To Power Player

I was born with a ridiculous kind of gravity. But instead of pulling objects toward me, I pull luck.

Anyone who spends a little time in my orbitwhether we shake hands or just share a cup of coffeeinevitably stumbles into a windfall. Their stocks skyrocket. Their dead-end projects suddenly get green-lit. Miracles fall into their laps.

The cruel irony? None of that luck ever rubbed off on me. I remained spectacularly, chronically broke.

Until three years ago, when Richard St. James, the patriarch of the St. James real estate empire, tracked me down.

His eyes were bloodshot when he begged me to marry his daughter, Gemma. He told me his familys legacy was bleeding out, teetering on the edge of a catastrophic bankruptcy, and that I was the only one who could stop the hemorrhage. He promised that if Gemma ever treated me poorly, I could walk away with zero contest. In the meantime, Id receive a hundred thousand dollars a month in walking-around money.

I figured I had nothing to lose and no assets to be scammed out of. Plus, the man was offering me a lifeline. I said yes.

Over the next three years, the St. James empire didnt just avoid going under; they dominated the market and went public with a valuation that made Wall Street salivate. I traded my cramped, windowless Bronx apartment for a sprawling Hamptons estate with a heated infinity pool.

Which brings me to a sunny Tuesday afternoon. I was doing laps in that very pool when I caught the voices of Gemma and her best friend lounging on the terrace.

"Toby flies back next week," her friend said, the ice clinking in her glass. "What are you going to do about your... charity case husband?"

Gemmas voice was as smooth and unbothered as a silk sheet. "Ill wire him fifty grand and tell him the companys accounts are frozen again. Hes gullible enough to believe it."

"And if he refuses to sign the divorce papers?"

Gemma scoffed, a sound dripping with aristocratic disdain. "Please. The man married me for a paycheck. If he dares to make a scene, Ill make sure he leaves with nothing."

Hearing that, I broke the surface of the water, pushing my wet hair back, and rested my arms against the imported Italian tile of the pool's edge.

"So," I called out, wiping water from my eyes. "When are we signing those papers?"

I knew for a fact that Gemmas biggest corporate rival was currently being squeezed to the brink of liquidation. I figured it was the perfect time to go offer my services.

...

"My father was desperate. He threw five million dollars at some mystic who claimed this guy had a 'Midas aura.'" Gemma let out a breathy, condescending laugh. "Its been three years. We both know the St. James IPO was my doing."

"Ive already booked the restaurant," Gemma continued. "The night Toby lands, Im proposing."

That was my cue. I pushed myself up from the water, elbows braced on the ledge.

"So, when do we get this divorce over with?"

Both women jumped, nearly spilling their mimosas.

Gemmas face drained of color. "What... how long have you been in there?"

I casually shook the water from my hair. "As your kept husband, I have a strict regimen to maintain this physique. One hour of cardio a day." I offered a tight, utterly hollow smile. "Lets skip the pleasantries, Gemma. When do we sign? Id hate to delay my search for a new sugar mama."

Gemma recovered quickly, her shock hardening into a sneer. "Youre a fraud, Kieran. Without me, youre nothing but a street rat."

I looked at her, a strange, quiet pity settling in my chest. If only she knew.

I wasn't a fraud. I really was a human rabbit's foot. Whoever touched me, prospered. Just never me.

And frankly, three years in the St. James manor had suffocated me. Richard had been good to me, yes. The allowance, the black card, the designer clothes. But Gemma? In three years of marriage, I doubt we had exchanged more than three hundred words. Mostly variations of fine, okay, and don't wait up.

I was treated like an expensive porcelain figurine. Put me on a shelf, dust me off occasionally, and ignore me.

Fine. I got to live in a mansion and swim in a private pool. But right now, I couldn't wait to cut the cord.

I hauled myself out of the pool, dripping onto the pristine deck, and walked inside. Ten minutes later, I returned, fully dressed, holding two copies of a divorce agreement I'd had a lawyer draft months ago, just in case.

"Sign them," I said, dropping the papers on the glass patio table. "Lets make this a clean break."

Gemma stared at the documents, a muscle feathering in her jaw. "You're serious?"

"Wasn't it your idea?" I tilted my head. "What, are you going to miss my lucky touch?"

Her expression darkened. She glared at me as if I were a stain on her rug. "All you do is eat, sleep, and drain my accounts. What luck have you ever brought me? You can't even win a hand of blackjack when you're dealt twenty. You aren't a lucky charm, Kieran. You're a goddamn jinx."

My eyes widened. Calling me a gold-digger was one thing. Calling me a jinx? She had officially crossed the line.

I tapped the paper against her chest. "Sign it. This is happening. But remember this moment, Gemma. Remember that it was me who decided to walk away."

The second I turned my back on her, I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled to a number Id had saved for three years. Never called. Never texted.

Rowan Mercer. The CEO of the Mercer Group. Gemmas most ruthless, hated rival.

The line rang twice before a voice, low and textured like crushed velvet, answered.

"Hello?"

"Rowan Mercer?" I asked, keeping my stride even as I walked down the long driveway. "This is Kieran. Gemma St. Jamess soon-to-be ex-husband."

A beat of absolute silence. "Why is Gemma's husband calling me?"

"Because I want to marry you."

Another pause. Slower this time. "...Excuse me?"

"Youve had a massive city zoning permit for the Hudson Yards project stalled in bureaucratic hell for three years, haven't you?"

Rowans tone shifted, the temperature dropping a few degrees. "How do you know about that?"

"Come down to your lobby. Im standing across the street from your headquarters. Shake my hand, and you'll have that permit approved in ten minutes."

Three minutes later, the revolving doors of the Mercer tower spun, and a woman in a sharply tailored black trench coat stepped out into the Manhattan wind.

Rowan was taller than Gemma, with striking, deep-set eyes that looked like they could cut glass. She crossed the street, stopped directly in front of me, and didn't say a word. She just held out her hand.

I took it. Her grip was firm, her skin cool.

Ten seconds later, she let go. Almost instantly, the phone in her coat pocket buzzed. She pulled it out, read the screen, and I watched the faint, almost imperceptible widening of her pupils.

"The permit," she murmured, staring at the email. "Its signed."

I smiled. "Believe me now?"

She studied my face for three long seconds, dissecting me. "What do you want?"

"Like I said. Marriage."

"Why?"

"Because Gemma just told me I'm a jinx who ruins everything I touch," I said, lifting my chin, letting the cold wind hit my face. "I want to show her just how high a 'jinx' can elevate her worst enemy."

When we walked out of the City Clerk's office later that afternoon, I had a marriage certificate tucked into my jacket.

Rowan slid her copy into her briefcase and glanced at me. "Do you need to go back for your things? Ill have my driver take you."

"No, if you come, it'll just cause a scene."

She didn't push it. She simply instructed her driver to take me back to the Hamptons and stepped out of the black SUV. "Call me if you need anything."

I gave her the address, feeling a strange flutter of adrenaline in my chest.

Twenty minutes later, I walked through the double doors of the St. James estate.

Toby was sitting on the velvet sofa, wearing a crisp white button-down, two Louis Vuitton suitcases parked by his feet. Gemma sat next to him, the space between them virtually non-existent.

Pippa, Toby's sister and Gemma's constant shadow, was draped over an armchair, swirling a glass of Pinot Noir.

All three heads snapped toward me.

Toby spoke first. His voice was soft, overly sweet, like artificial syrup. "Oh, Kieran, youre back. I was just about to help pack your things. I didn't want you to have to do it all by yourself." He offered a sickeningly sympathetic smile. "I heard Gemma gave you fifty thousand? Thats more than enough for someone with your... background to start over."

I stopped dead in the foyer and turned to face him. "Someone with my background?"

Toby covered his mouth, feigning a giggle. "I didn't mean anything by it. Don't be so sensitive."

Pippa chimed in, swirling her wine. "You're too kind, Toby. The guy is a con artist. He leeched off the St. James family for three years, and now hes walking away with fifty grand? He could buy a whole farm back in whatever trailer park he crawled out of."

Gemma didn't move from the sofa, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward in a smirk.

I dropped my duffel bag onto the hardwood floor. The heavy thud echoed in the massive, vaulted room.

"Toby, do you know why I married into this family in the first place?"

He tilted his head, playing dumb. "For the money, obviously."

"Because your future father-in-law got down on his actual knees and begged me," I said, my voice eerily calm. "He said the St. James empire was burning to the ground and I was the only one who could put out the fire. Now that the house is saved, youre trying to throw me out into the cold?"

Toby's face faltered. He looked nervously at Gemma.

Gemma stood up, smoothing the front of her designer slacks, and walked toward me. She looked down her nose, a queen addressing a peasant.

"Don't try to paint yourself as a martyr, Kieran."

"Do you have any idea how much money youve burned through? A hundred grand a month. The black card charges. Youve cost me millions." She let out a dry, bitter laugh. "I don't care if you think you're a lucky charm or a curse. Not a single thing that belongs to the St. James family is leaving this house. That Tom Ford suit youre wearing? Paid for with my money. Take it off before you walk out that door."

I looked down at the dark wool of my suit jacket.

Her father had bought it for me. Richard had picked it out himself, paid for it from his personal, private account.

But I was too exhausted to explain the nuances of her own fathers kindness to her.

"Fine." I nodded. "But while we're doing the math, shouldn't we calculate the billions of dollars in market cap I helped your family generate over the last three years?"

Gemma scoffed. "You generated? You slept till noon and swam in my pool. What exactly did you 'generate'?"

Toby stood up, hovering safely behind Gemmas shoulder. "Just give it a rest, Kieran. Gemma's giving you three days to wire back every cent you spent during the marriage, or we're calling the police and pressing fraud charges."

Police? Fraud?

I stared into Gemmas eyes. There wasn't a flicker of hesitation in them. Only a cold, clinical disgust.

Three years. I had anchored her sinking ship, turned a dying legacy into a Wall Street titan. I hadn't expected love. But I had expected basic human decency. Instead, she was trying to destroy me.

I took a deep breath, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone.

"Who are you calling?" Gemma snapped, her brow furrowing.

I ignored her. I hit the contact I'd saved barely two hours ago. It rang once.

"Is there a problem?" Rowan's voice was crisp.

"Wife," I said, grinding the word out between my teeth. "Gemma is demanding I pay her back for three years of living expenses. Says if I don't give her the millions she claims I spent, she's calling the cops."

Silence hummed through the receiver for two seconds.

"Text me her routing number."

"What?"

"Tell her to wait right there. Shell have it in ten minutes."

I lowered the phone and looked right at Gemma. "Wait right here."

Seven minutes later, Gemmas phone vibrated on the coffee table. She picked it up, glancing at the screen. Her face went ashen. She snapped her head up to look at me, her eyes wide with shock.

"Who... who just wired me ten million dollars?"

Toby stepped forward, his voice shrill. "Ten million? Kieran, who the hell gave you ten million dollars? Did you find some desperate old widow to leech off of?"

I picked up my duffel bag and turned to face him.

"Take a wild guess."

"You" Tobys face flushed an ugly, blotchy red.

I let out a low laugh. "You called me a street rat, Toby. But this street rat just got a ten-million-dollar buyout. Tell me, golden boy... how much is Gemma paying you?"

The red drained from his face, leaving him pale and sickly.

Gemma marched toward me, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You're crossing a line, Kieran."

"Me? Crossing a line?" I tilted my head, studying the woman I used to share a bed with. "You threatened me with the police, Gemma. But let me give you a piece of advice. You don't mistreat a lucky charm and expect to get away with it. Just wait."

Rowans driver dropped me off outside a sleek, glass-fronted luxury high-rise overlooking the East River.

Now that her massive development project was finally unblocked, Rowan was drowning in meetings, but she still managed to call me to discuss the wedding logistics.

I sat cross-legged on the leather sofa of my new apartment, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. "Whenever works for you," I said casually. "It's not like you married me because you're swept off your feet."

"You needed a weapon to use against Gemma. I needed my project green-lit. It's a mutually beneficial transaction."

If my cursed luck would just work on myself, I wouldn't have needed to marry Rowan to slap Gemma in the face.

On the other end of the line, Rowan was quiet for a long moment. "Right," she finally said.

On my third day in the high-rise, I was curled up on the couch eating an apple when my phone lit up with a notification. Toby had posted a picture on Instagram and tagged me.

I opened the app. Tobys caption read:

#StJamesGroup hits a new all-time high!

Finally helped Gemma close the European logistics deal thats been stalled for three years. She said its the best engagement present she could ask for!

So grateful the universe brought me back to New York. And thankful that a certain someone finally left the picture. Once you take out the trash, the blessings start pouring in.

The photo was a close-up of their intertwined hands resting on a white tablecloth at some Michelin-starred restaurant. A massive, gaudy diamond ring sat heavily on Gemma's finger.

The comments were flooded with verified accounts and obvious PR bots:

"Toby is the real lucky charm! He lands and immediately secures a massive international deal. Way better than that imposter who leeched off her for years."

"Did you hear the ex tried to extort ten million from Gemma on his way out? Actual garbage human."

"Gemma is too nice. I would have let him rot in jail for fraud."

Some of Gemmas more rabid socialite followers had found my old Instagram account and were spamming a photo of me by the pool from last summer.

"Con artist! Pay her back!"

"Thinks hes Midas, actually just a parasite. Disgusting."

I stared at the screen, tapping my finger rhythmically against my phone case.

This "European logistics deal" that had been stalled for three years... I remembered it perfectly. Back when Richard first brought me into the house, Id been wandering through Gemmas home office and had absentmindedly dragged my hand across a thick, leather-bound folder on her desk.

The deal was approved three days later. At the time, Gemma had just shrugged it off as "good market timing."

And now Toby was claiming the credit?

My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Rowan.

Do you want my PR team to handle this?

I thought about it for a second, then typed back:

No. Let them dig their own graves.

By the way, youre bidding against St. James for that AI tech contract tomorrow, right?

Yes. Why?

I'm coming with you. I sent a little black cat emoji. Let's show them exactly whose luck is running out.

The next morning, I walked into the conference room at the Four Seasons, where the Mercer Group and St. James Group were going head-to-head for the biggest AI infrastructure contract of the decade.

I was wearing a bespoke, deep crimson suit. My lucky color.

When I strolled in, my leather shoes clicking softly against the marble, Toby, who was sitting next to Gemma at the negotiation table, practically leaped out of his chair.

"How did you get in here? This is a closed corporate bidding, Kieran, not a soup kitchen."

"I'm here for the entertainment," I said, pulling out the empty chair right next to Rowan and sitting down.

The entire room went dead silent.

Gemmas eyes narrowed into slits. Her gaze shifted from my red suit to Rowans impassive face, and a muscle ticked in her jaw.

Toby covered his mouth, laughing into his hand.

"Kieran, did you really come here to cheer for Rowan? You can't even read a balance sheet. Aren't you embarrassed sitting there?"

"Oh, this is too good," Pippa chimed in, suddenly appearing from the sidelines, her phone held high. She was live-streaming. "Hey guys, look who it is! The fraud of the century, crashing a corporate buyout to beg for scraps."

Pippa shoved the phone lens right into my face. I could see the comments on her screen scrolling at lightspeed:

"Omg is that the guy who scammed Gemma St. James?"

"Why is he sitting next to Rowan Mercer? Does she really want St. James's sloppy seconds?"

"Mercer's bid is 15% higher than St. James. No way they win. What is she doing, hoping this guy uses his voodoo magic?"

"Toby is the real king. Send the scammer home!"

Pippa read one of the comments aloud and laughed hysterically. "Hear that, Kieran? The whole internet knows youre a jinx. Just leave before security drags you out."

I barely glanced at the screen. Instead, I looked down at the thick stack of contract papers resting on the table in front of Rowan.

"Touch it," Rowan said quietly, sliding the binder a fraction of an inch toward me.

I placed my palm flat against the heavy cardstock cover. Just a light, lingering touch.

Toby burst out laughing. "What are you doing? Blessing the paperwork? God, you really think youre some kind of wizard, don't you? It's pathetic."

The words had barely left his mouth when Rowans assistant practically sprinted into the room, leaning down to whisper frantically in Rowans ear.

Rowan looked up. Her eyes met mine, and the very corner of her mouth curved upward.

Toby noticed the exchange and his face pinched. "Don't tell me you're actually falling for his grift, Rowan." He leaned across the table, his voice loud, meant for the room. "Ms. Mercer, as a professional courtesy, Id advise you to check your wallet. He spent three years in our house doing absolutely nothing but sleeping and spending. All this 'lucky charm' nonsense is smoke and mirrors. He conned Gemma, and if you keep him around, hell run Mercer Group into the ground."

Rowans gaze shifted to Toby. Her eyes were like glacial ice.

"Mr. Toby... whatever your last name is. A man who can't even recite the index numbers of his own project proposal has no right to lecture me on fraud."

Tobys face flushed an angry, mottled pink. "You"

"Furthermore," Rowan cut him off smoothly, "I do not require outside counsel on Kieran's character. How I operate my business and my life is none of your concern."

The room fell into a stunned silence.

At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors of the conference room swung open. Mr. Caldwell, the CEO of the tech firm fielding the bids, walked in with a wide, beaming smile, trailed by his legal team.

"Apologies for the delay, everyone. Traffic on the FDR was a nightmare."

Gemma stood up immediately, smoothing her jacket, extending a hand to greet him.

But Caldwell walked right past her. He marched directly to Rowan Mercer, holding out a sleek leather folder.

"Ms. Mercer. Its a pleasure. My board of directors just held an emergency vote. We are unanimously awarding the contract to the Mercer Group."