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."

The sales associate's face went white as she clutched the hundred-dollar bill from Tiffany.

"Yes... yes, of course, Mrs...?" the manager stammered.

"Sanders," Colette said.

The name hit the group like a physical blow.

Meredith grabbed the counter for support. "Sanders? You... you really married him?"

The manager ignored Tiffany completely. "Mrs. Sanders, my deepest apologies for my staff's... oversight. The salon is yours. We can close it to the public immediately."

Tiffany's face turned a blotchy red. "That card is stolen! She's broke! Her dad is dying!"

She lunged for the card.

A security guard stepped in, blocking Tiffany with a massive arm.

"Miss," the manager said, his voice like ice. "Do not harass our VIP client."

"It's fake!" Tiffany screamed.

"It is very real," the manager said. "Now, please leave. You are disturbing Mrs. Sanders."

"You're kicking us out?" Meredith shrieked.

"Immediately."

Security ushered them toward the exit. Chad looked back at Colette, his eyes full of regret. Colette didn't even blink.

When they were gone, Colette let out a breath she felt like she'd been holding for days.

"Holy shit," Zoe whispered. "You just... put a hold on everything."

Colette looked at the rows of shoes now inaccessible to anyone else. "I did."

She felt a rush of victory. But as the adrenaline faded, a hollow, cold feeling settled in her stomach. The power wasn't hers. It was his. She had just used his shield to fight her battle, becoming the very kind of person she despised-someone who wielded money like a weapon.

"Let's go," Colette said abruptly, turning away from the spoils. "I need... air."

Back at the penthouse, the silence was waiting. August wasn't home yet. The shopping bags from the store-the few things she'd actually purchased for Zoe and herself-felt like accusations sitting in the foyer. She stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, seeing the ghost of the woman in the silver dress from the night before. Who was she becoming?

Colette went to the kitchen. It was pristine, unused. She needed to do something real, something with her own hands. Something that was hers. She found pasta, tomatoes, garlic. She started chopping. The rhythm of the knife against the board calmed her, a familiar meditation that smelled of home and her mother.

The front door opened. August walked in, loosening his tie. He looked exhausted.

He stopped when he saw the shopping bags piled in the foyer. He raised an eyebrow.

Then he smelled it. Garlic. Basil.

He walked into the dining room. Colette was there, wearing an apron over her jeans, placing a steaming bowl of pasta on the table.

"You're home," she said. "I... made dinner. It helps me think."

August stared at the pasta. No one had cooked for him in this apartment. Ever. His meals came in boxes or were served by staff.

"You cook?" he asked.

"I'm Italian on my mother's side," she said. "Sit. It's better when it's hot."

August sat. He took a bite. It was simple. It was perfect.

He looked at her. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the stove. She looked... like a home.

The ice around his chest, the ice that had been there for years, cracked a little more.

Bzzt.

His phone vibrated on the table.

August looked at the screen. His expression hardened instantly. The warmth vanished.

Caller: Grandfather.

He picked up the phone. "Yes, sir."

He listened for a moment, his eyes locking onto Colette's.

"Yes," August said. "She spent a lot today. Yes, she has spirit."

He paused.

"Sunday dinner? We'll be there."

He hung up. The silence in the room was heavy now.

"What is it?" Colette asked.

"The Lion wants to meet the lamb," August said grimly. "My grandfather knows about the shopping spree. He wants to meet you on Sunday."

Colette felt a chill. "Is that bad?"

"My grandfather eats people for sport, Colette," August said, standing up. "Get ready." The words hung in the air, cold and heavy. Colette felt a knot of dread tighten in her stomach. She looked at August, searching his face for reassurance, but his expression was unreadable. He looked like a man preparing for battle, not a family dinner.

"What do I wear?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

August sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Something armored. He'll pick you apart if you show any weakness."

The days leading up to Sunday were a silent, cold war. August was a ghost in the penthouse, disappearing into his study before dawn and returning long after Colette had gone to bed, his focus absolute. He left her alone, an isolation that was more unnerving than any argument.

On Saturday evening, a garment bag appeared on her bed. Inside was a midnight blue velvet gown. There was no note. There didn't need to be.

Now, standing by the elevator, Colette felt the weight of the fabric on her shoulders. August was waiting, impeccably dressed, his face a mask of cold composure. He held out his arm.

"It's not a dress, Colette," he said, his voice low as she took his arm, his grip firm. "It's a uniform. Remember your role."

The Maybach glided through the city, the tension inside radiating from him like a physical force. He hadn't spoken since, and now, as they turned off the main road, Colette felt her pulse hammering against her throat.

The driveway was a winding ribbon of crushed white stone, lined with ancient oaks that loomed like sentinels.