Paige had set her up in a cramped but safe apartment on the Lower East Side, a temporary sanctuary far from Devonte's reach. But the peace didn't last. At 2:00 AM, the lights flickered and died, plunging the apartment into darkness.

Audrey fumbled for her phone, her heart pounding. The old building's electrical hum had gone completely silent. She called the emergency number Paige had left, and the superintendent promised to send someone immediately.

Twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. Audrey opened it cautiously.

A man stood in the hallway. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the doorframe. He was wearing a worn leather jacket over a dark henley, and faded jeans tucked into scuffed work boots. His hair was dark and slightly too long, falling across his forehead. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and his face was unreadable.

"Electrical issue?" His voice was deep, rough around the edges.

Audrey swallowed. "Yes. I'm Audrey."

"Curtis," he said. He didn't offer to shake her hand. He just stepped past her into the dark apartment, his tool bag clinking softly.

He moved with an easy confidence through the shadows, his penlight sweeping over the fuse box. As he worked, a sudden, violent pounding shook the front door.

"Open up, Vaughn!" a slurred voice yelled from the hall. "Your husband wants to talk!"

Audrey's blood ran cold. Devonte's men had found her.

Curtis straightened, his posture shifting from relaxed to alert in a fraction of a second. He walked to the door and pulled it open. Two large men in cheap suits stood there, reeking of alcohol.

"Wrong apartment," Curtis said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"Mind your business, handyman," one of the men sneered, trying to push past. "The lady is coming with us."

Curtis didn't budge. His hand shot out, gripping the man's wrist and twisting sharply. The man let out a yelp of pain and stumbled backward into his companion.

"I said," Curtis repeated, his eyes cold and unblinking, "wrong apartment."

The two men exchanged a panicked glance, then scrambled down the hallway, their footsteps fading into the stairwell.

Curtis shut the door and turned the deadbolt. He looked back at Audrey, who was standing frozen in the center of the room, her hands trembling.

"Friend of yours?" he asked dryly.

"My husband's," she whispered, the reality of her vulnerability crashing over her. "He's trying to force me into a psychiatric hold. If I don't have a legal guardian or spouse to counter him, he can take me away."

Curtis set his tools down on the kitchen counter. He studied her face, his sharp eyes missing nothing—the fear, the exhaustion, the desperate resolve. "Why don't you just sign the papers and walk away?"

No one had asked her that. Not her mother-in-law, not the lawyers. They had all assumed she was fighting for money or out of spite. But this stranger, this blue-collar worker in a dingy apartment, was asking for the core of it.

Audrey looked down at her hands. They were bare, the fake Cartier watch left on the desk at the house. "Because I lost myself," she whispered. "I spent twenty-five years being his wife, his hostess, his caretaker. And somewhere along the way, I forgot who I was. But more than that... he knows what happened to my son. If I walk away, I'll never find the truth."

Curtis looked at her for a long moment. Then he crossed his arms, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his henley. "I'm a union electrician. I make seventy-five thousand a year. I have a daughter. I'm not rich, and I'm not fancy. But I'm reliable, and I don't like men who use goons to intimidate women."

Audrey stared at him, confused by the sudden turn in the conversation. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, if you need a husband to keep you out of a psych ward and give you time to fight this bastard, I'll marry you. Tonight."

Audrey's breath caught. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he said. "You need a shield. I happen to be available."

Audrey reached out and shook his hand. The grip was firm, warm, and strangely comforting. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick.

"Don't thank me yet," Curtis said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "We have a long day tomorrow."

Across town, in the dimly lit study of the Vaughn mansion, Devonte was pouring himself a scotch. The door creaked open, and Erma walked in, her face pinched with worry.

"Is she really going to do it?" Erma asked. "Is she really going to file for divorce?"

Devonte took a sip of his drink, his expression unconcerned. "She can file all she wants. She's broke, she's alone, and she's crazy. No judge is going to side with her."

"You need to be careful," Erma warned. "If she pushes for the Leo file, we frame her as delusional. The hospital records from her breakdown are enough to get her committed."

Devonte set his glass down with a thud. "I'll make sure she's locked away by the end of the week. She'll never know the truth about that kid."

Erma wrung her hands. "It was a risk, Devonte. Hiding the child's whereabouts from her all these years..."

"It was the only way!" Devonte hissed. "I couldn't have her dragging my name through the mud. This way, she mourns a missing son, and I get my freedom. It was perfect."

"And if she finds out the truth?" Erma pressed.

"She won't," Devonte said, his voice cold. "Because nobody cares about a delusional woman's ramblings. Now stop worrying. By this time tomorrow, Audrey will be out of the picture, and we'll be rid of her for good."

Audrey walked through the front door of the Vaughn mansion the next morning, Curtis right behind her. She had spent the night at the apartment, staring at the ceiling, but Curtis looked as put together as he had the night before, his jaw set in a hard line.

The living room was quiet. Too quiet.

Devonte was standing by the fireplace, a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked up as they entered, his eyes immediately zeroing in on Curtis's worn jacket and scuffed boots.

"Well, well," Devonte said, a smirk spreading across his face. "You actually did it. You found someone desperate enough."

"Audrey, wait in the hall," Curtis said, his voice low.

"No," Audrey said, stepping forward. "I want him to see."

Devonte set his coffee down and walked toward them, circling Curtis like a shark. "A handyman? I can smell the working class from here."

Curtis didn't react. He just stood there, his hands loose at his sides, his eyes tracking Devonte's movement with a predatory stillness.

"I told you, Audrey," Devonte continued, his tone mocking. "You have no money. You have no assets. You're signing up for a life of food stamps and section eight housing."

He picked up a remote from the coffee table and pointed it at the TV on the wall. A spreadsheet appeared on the screen. "Look familiar? It's our entire portfolio. Or rather, what used to be our portfolio. I liquidated everything last night. The brokerage accounts, the mutual funds, the savings. It's all sitting in a nice, safe place far away from your grubby little hands."

Audrey stared at the screen. The numbers were all zero. The realization hit her like a physical blow. He hadn't just hidden the money; he had destroyed their financial life together.

"And the best part?" Devonte laughed. "Those offshore companies I set up? They have loans. Big loans. And guess whose name is on the personal guarantee? Yours, my dear. If those companies default, the creditors come after you. You'll be paying off my debt for the rest of your life."

Audrey felt the room spin. Debt. He was going to bury her in debt. She looked at Curtis, panic rising in her chest. This wasn't just about walking away anymore. This was about survival.

Curtis stepped forward, placing himself between Audrey and Devonte. "Are you done?"

Devonte raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"I asked if you were done," Curtis repeated, his voice dropping an octave. The quiet authority in his tone made the hair on the back of Audrey's neck stand up.

Devonte scoffed. "This doesn't concern you, blue collar. Go back to your wrench."

Curtis didn't move. He just stared at Devonte, his eyes cold and unblinking. For a second, the smirk faltered on Devonte's face. He took a step back, suddenly looking very small under Curtis's gaze.

Audrey took a deep breath. She stepped out from behind Curtis, her spine straightening. "I don't care about the debt," she said, her voice clear. "I don't care about the money. I want a divorce. And you are going to give it to me."

Devonte recovered his composure, sneering at her. "You'll be bankrupt within a year."

"Maybe," Audrey said. "But I'll be free of you."

She turned and walked toward the door. Curtis followed, pausing just long enough to look back at Devonte. The look was brief, but it was heavy with a promise of retribution that Devonte couldn't quite understand.

As they stepped outside into the morning sun, Curtis pressed a piece of paper into Audrey's hand. "Ten A.M. tomorrow. My lawyer's office. Don't be late."

Audrey watched him drive away in his beat-up pickup truck, her heart hammering in her chest. She was stepping off a cliff, and the only thing holding her up was a stranger with rough hands and eyes that saw right through her.