The Maybach idled outside the brownstone like a spaceship that had landed in the wrong century.

"You have one hour," August said, not looking up from his tablet. "Take only what matters. I will replace the rest."

Colette stepped out. The cool night air hit her face, but for the first time in years, she didn't feel cold. She felt armored.

She unlocked the front door. Laughter drifted from the living room. Meredith and Tiffany were clinking glasses.

"Did Gorsky like the dress?" Meredith called out, not even turning around.

Colette walked into the room. She stood in the center of the Persian rug. "He didn't see it. He was arrested."

Meredith spun around, her glass sloshing wine onto the floor. "What?"

"I'm moving out," Colette said calmly. "I'm here for my things."

Tiffany jumped up. "You can't leave! Who's going to pay the bills? If you leave, Dad dies!"

"Dad is paid for," Colette said. "In full. His treatment is covered for the next year. You don't have to worry about him. Or me."

Meredith narrowed her eyes. "Where did you get that kind of money? You stole it. You stole the silver!"

"I didn't steal anything."

"I'm calling the police!" Meredith shrieked, reaching for her phone.

The front door opened. Two men walked in. They were massive, wearing earpieces and suits that strained against their shoulders.

"Mrs. Sanders," one of them said, nodding to Colette. "We are here to assist with your luggage."

Silence crashed into the room.

"Sanders?" Tiffany whispered. "Like... the Sanders?"

Colette didn't answer. She turned and walked up the stairs. She packed quickly. Her mother's photo albums. Her restoration tools. A few sweaters. She left the silk dresses, the heels, the things that belonged to this life.

When she came back down, the bodyguards took the bags from her hands.

Meredith was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her face pale. "Colette... honey. If you're... if you're married... we're family. We should celebrate."

Colette stopped. She looked at the woman who had made her life a living hell.

"You stopped being family the moment you put a price tag on my father's life," Colette said.

She walked out the door.

Tiffany ran to the doorway. "You can't just leave us! We have debts!"

Colette got into the car. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing out the noise, the demands, the toxicity.

She slumped against the leather seat. She felt drained, hollowed out.

August glanced at her. "Done?"

"Done," she whispered.

"Good." He handed her a black card. It was metal, heavy and cold. "Buy clothes. Tomorrow. I don't want my wife looking like a refugee."

Colette took the card. She looked at him. He was cruel, transactional, and cold. But he had just saved her life.

"Thank you," she said softly.

August didn't respond. He just signaled the driver. The car pulled away, leaving the brownstone-and her past-in the rearview mirror.

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. The space was vast, walled with glass, overlooking the glittering spine of Manhattan. It was beautiful, but it felt like a museum. There were no photos. No clutter. No life.

An older woman in a crisp uniform stood waiting. Mrs. Higgins.

"Mr. Sanders," she said. "Dinner is served."

August nodded. "This is Colette. Put her bags in the master bedroom."

Mrs. Higgins blinked, a crack in her professional veneer. "The master bedroom, sir?"

"Yes," August said. "She is my wife."

Colette felt her stomach drop. She tugged on August's sleeve. "The contract... it said we have to sleep together?"

August leaned down, his voice low. "My grandfather has spies everywhere, Colette. Even the cleaning staff. We sleep in the same room. It's part of the show."

"But-"

"The bed is a California King," he cut her off. "It's big enough that you won't even know I'm there."

Colette followed Mrs. Higgins. The bedroom was the size of her entire old apartment. The view was dizzying.

She showered in a bathroom that had more marble than the Vatican. She didn't have pajamas, so she wrapped herself in a thick, white robe that swallowed her whole.

When she walked back into the bedroom, August was already in bed. He was wearing reading glasses, looking at a file. The sight of him-domesticated, stripped of the suit jacket-did something strange to her chest.

"Which side?" she asked awkwardly.

"Left," he said without looking up. "Stay on your side. Don't snore. Don't steal the covers."

Colette climbed in. She lay on the very edge of the mattress, stiff as a board.

August turned off the light.

Darkness swallowed the room.

Colette stared at the ceiling. She couldn't sleep. Her mind was racing.

Beside her, August shifted. Then he shifted again. His breathing was jagged.

"Are you okay?" she whispered into the dark.

"Go to sleep," he gritted out.

He groaned, a low sound of pain.

Colette sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. August was curled on his side, his hands pressing against his temples. His face was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat.

"It's a migraine," she said. It wasn't a question. Her father used to get them.

"Lights off," August gasped.

"No." Colette moved closer. "You need to relax the tension in your neck."

"Don't touch me." His voice was a razor's edge, a clear warning. He recoiled as if she were holding a hot iron.

She ignored him. But instead of a soft, comforting touch, her approach was clinical, like the art restorer she was. She reached out, her cool fingers finding the knotted muscles at the base of his skull. He flinched, his whole body going rigid.

"Relax," she commanded softly. "This is a sternocleidomastoid muscle spasm. Common with severe tension headaches. I'm not comforting you, I'm applying pressure to release it." She began to knead the muscle, finding the pressure points with practiced ease. "Breathe, August."

He tried to pull away, but the pain was blinding, and her hands... her hands were magic. They were strong, sure, and cool against his burning skin. He hated the intrusion, hated the vulnerability, but his body betrayed him, craving the relief she offered.

Slowly, the tension began to bleed out of him. His breathing deepened.

"My father gets these," Colette murmured, her thumbs working the tension out of his shoulders. "Stress triggers them."

August didn't answer. He couldn't. He was floating in a space between pain and relief. For the first time in months, the pounding in his head receded to a dull throb.

He felt her weight on the mattress, the warmth of her body near his. It should have been intrusive. It should have triggered his anxiety.

Instead, his eyes grew heavy.

"Just sleep," she whispered.

And for the first time in years, August Sanders fell asleep without a pill.

Colette woke up with her face pressed against something warm and solid. She inhaled. Sandalwood and skin.

Her eyes flew open. She was draped over August like a starfish. Her leg was thrown over his hip, her arm across his chest.

She scrambled back, nearly falling off the bed.

August was awake. He was watching her, his eyes clear and amused.

"If you're done drooling on me," he said dryly, "we have a schedule."

Colette's face burned. She fled to the bathroom.

Breakfast was silent. August was back in CEO mode, reading the Financial Times.

"Charity auction today," he said, not looking up. "The Met. Be ready at noon. The styling team will be here in ten minutes."

The "styling team" was an army. They plucked, polished, and painted her. When they were done, Colette stared at the mirror. The woman looking back wore a silver gown that shimmered like liquid mercury. Her hair was swept up, revealing her neck. She looked expensive. She looked like she belonged.

August walked in. He stopped. His eyes swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second on the curve of her neck.

"Adequate," he said. But his voice was a little rougher than usual.

The arrival at The Met was a war zone. Flashbulbs exploded like strobe lights. Reporters shouted questions.

"Mr. Sanders! Is it true?"

August didn't speak. He simply wrapped his arm around Colette's waist. His grip was firm, possessive. He pulled her flush against his side.

"Smile," he whispered in her ear. "You adore me."

Colette smiled. It felt brittle.

Inside, the room was filled with sharks in tuxedos. Colette felt the eyes on her. Assessing. Judging. Gold digger, they whispered. Who is she?

A woman in a red dress approached. She held a glass of red wine. Colette recognized her from the tabloids-Genevieve, a close friend of the Golden family.

"So," Genevieve sneered, "you're the little charity project August picked up from the gutter."

"Excuse me?" Colette said.

Genevieve "stumbled." The wine glass tipped.

Colette's reflexes, honed by years of catching falling paintbrushes, kicked in. She sidestepped smoothly.

The wine splashed onto Genevieve's own red dress, darkening the fabric instantly.

Genevieve gasped. "You clumsy bitch!"

The room went silent.

August turned around. He looked at Genevieve, then at Colette. He saw the dry silver dress. He saw the wine on Genevieve.

"Apologize," August said. His voice was quiet, but it carried across the room.

Genevieve smirked. "I'm waiting for her apology."

"To my wife," August clarified. He stepped closer to Genevieve, his height intimidating. "You just attempted to assault my wife with a beverage. Apologize. Or I pull my funding from your father's foundation tomorrow morning."

Genevieve went pale. "August, you can't be serious. She's nobody."

"She is Mrs. Sanders," August said. "And she is worth more than this entire room."

Genevieve looked down. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Sanders."

August turned to Colette. He took her hand. There was a tiny drop of wine on her knuckle. He pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped it away.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his eyes searching hers.

Colette looked at him. He was acting. She knew he was acting. But the way his thumb brushed her skin... it didn't feel like a lie.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

"Good." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. "Let's go buy something expensive."