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."

"You married him?" Zoe shrieked, nearly dropping her latte. "August Sanders? The man who makes Christian Grey look like a teddy bear?"

They were walking down Fifth Avenue. August was at a board meeting, so Colette had escaped for an hour.

"It's complicated," Colette said, adjusting her sunglasses. "I can't talk about the details. NDA."

"Okay, but is he... you know?" Zoe waggled her eyebrows.

"Zoe, stop."

They walked into Bergdorf Goodman. Colette felt the familiar knot of anxiety. She usually only came here to look, never to touch.

"I need shoes," Zoe said. "For my sister's wedding."

They headed to the shoe salon. And there, sitting on a velvet ottoman, was Tiffany.

Meredith was hovering over her, holding three different boxes. Chad was standing awkwardly to the side, holding Tiffany's purse.

Colette tried to turn around, but Tiffany spotted her.

"Well, well," Tiffany called out, her voice shrill. "If it isn't the runaway bride. Come to spend your allowance?"

Colette stiffened. "Leave me alone, Tiffany."

"We're just shopping," Meredith said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Tiffany needs shoes for the gala. You know, the one you weren't invited to."

Tiffany pointed to a pair of crystal-encrusted Jimmy Choos. "I want those. Size seven."

The sales associate, a woman with a pinched face, looked at Colette and Zoe. She saw Zoe's worn sneakers and Colette's simple jeans. Then she looked at Tiffany's designer bag. Tiffany discreetly slid a hundred-dollar bill into the associate's hand as she pointed at Colette.

"I'm afraid that's the last pair in size seven," the associate said to Colette, her tone dismissive. "And this young lady asked first."

"We were looking at them!" Zoe protested.

"Can you afford them?" Tiffany sneered. "They're two thousand dollars. Chad, pay for them."

Chad fumbled for his wallet. He pulled out a credit card. It was a standard card.

"Actually," Tiffany laughed, "give me the card. It's my dad's anyway."

That stung. It was Colette's father's money. Money that should have gone to his surgery.

"Cole, don't embarrass yourself," Meredith said. "Go back to your little apartment."

Tiffany stood up, deliberately bumping into Zoe. Zoe stumbled, gasping as her ankle twisted.

"Oops," Tiffany said.

Something inside Colette snapped.

She looked at Zoe, who was rubbing her ankle. She looked at Chad, the coward. She looked at Meredith and Tiffany, the leeches.

She remembered the black card in her pocket. I don't want my wife looking like a refugee.

She reached into her bag. Her fingers closed around the cold metal.

"I'll take them," Colette said clearly.

"Honey, you can't afford the tax," Tiffany laughed.

Colette pulled out the card. It was black. It was titanium. It was the American Express Centurion.

The air left the room.

The sales associate's eyes bulged. She knew what that card meant. It meant no limit. It meant royalty.

Colette held the card out between two fingers.

"I'd like to schedule a private appointment," Colette said, her voice steady and cool, addressing the manager who was suddenly at her side. "And update my client profile. Please note that this sales associate is not to handle my account in the future. Also, place a temporary hold on the entire new season collection in size seven for my consideration. Effective immediately."