Clarice hailed a yellow taxi. It wasn't large enough. Sterling dismissed it with a wave of his hand and spoke into his wrist. The black sedan, a modified Maybach with a discreet wheelchair lift, pulled up silently.

Sterling opened the wide door, and a ramp extended. Clarice watched as Colton expertly maneuvered his chair into the vehicle, locking it into place. The interior was more like a private jet than a car.

She slid in next to him. The backseat was spacious, but the tension made it feel small.

Colton didn't move. He sat with his hands resting on the wheels of his chair, his posture rigid.

"Sterling will brief you on the rules," he said. He didn't turn his head.

"Okay," Clarice typed on her phone, showing the screen to Sterling, who sat in the opposite-facing seat.

"First," Sterling said, all business. "Mr. Bentley's finances. Officially, he lives on a fixed income from a trust. We cultivate an image of modest means to discourage opportunists. You will adhere to this narrative."

Clarice nodded vigorously. She typed: I understand. Protect his assets.

Sterling's eyebrow twitched in approval. "Exactly."

"Second," he continued. "Due to Mr. Bentley's... condition. And his preference for privacy. The marriage is in name only. There will be no fulfillment of marital duties. You will have separate quarters."

Clarice felt heat rush to her cheeks. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

She typed quickly: That's fine. Perfect, actually. I'm not looking for... that.

"Good."

"I have conditions too," Clarice typed, feeling bold. She showed the screen to Sterling.

"Name them."

"I need the funds specified in the contract wired to an offshore account within 24 hours of the ceremony. And... I require absolute privacy regarding my personal projects. No one enters my room or accesses my computer without my permission."

Colton turned his head toward her. "I will handle the funds. Your privacy will be respected."

The driver was watching them in the rearview mirror, his face a mask of professional indifference.

Clarice's phone buzzed again. A text from Gavin.

Gavin: You'll regret this. Tiffany is going to ruin you if you make a scene.

Clarice blocked the number. She shoved the phone into her bag.

The car pulled up to the curb. "City Hall," the driver announced.

Sterling exited first, opening the door and deploying the ramp. Clarice watched as Colton wheeled himself out onto the wet pavement.

His wheel caught in a crack in the sidewalk, jarring the chair to a sudden halt. He pitched forward.

Clarice lunged. She wrapped her arms around his torso, catching him before he could fall out of the chair.

Her face pressed against his chest. She smelled cedarwood and something crisp, like expensive gin.

"I've got you," she whispered, the words escaping her lips in a raw, instinctual puff of air.

Colton steadied himself. He didn't pull away immediately. He leaned his weight against her, just for a second.

"Apologies," he murmured. "Balance is... tricky."

Clarice pushed him back gently until he was secure in his chair. Her hands lingered on his shoulders. Her professional instincts kicked in. She subtly assessed his posture, the tension in his upper body. No sign of atrophy in his shoulders or arms. Interesting.

She pulled away, tapping his cane on the concrete.

She shook her head, clearing the thought. He was her husband now. A business partner.

They entered the sterile building. It was late, but the night clerk was there.

Sterling approached them, holding a thick stack of papers.

"Bentley party?" the clerk asked.

"Yes," Colton said.

Sterling handed Colton the stack. "Standard forms. The full two-hundred-page prenuptial. Sign at the bottom."

Colton passed the folder to Clarice. She looked at the papers. Prenuptial Agreement. Separation of Assets.

It stated that whatever he had before the marriage was his, and whatever she had was hers.

She signed it without hesitation. She had nothing. He had everything. It was fair. And all she cared about was the wire transfer.

Colton's hidden eyes tracked the pen as she signed. No hesitation. No reading the fine print to see if there was a loophole.

She passed the test.

The room smelled like floor wax and old paper. The clerk droned on, his voice monotone.

"Do you, Clarice Bell, take this man..."

Clarice looked at the stranger sitting in the wheelchair next to her. He was tall, dark, and terrifyingly quiet.

She thought of Gavin's face when he'd slid the check to her. She thought of her looming eviction and the grant deadline that could change the world.

She nodded firmly. Her "I do" was a silent, resolute gesture.

"And do you, Colton Bentley..."

"I do." His voice was low, devoid of emotion. It sounded like a verdict.

"Rings?" the clerk asked.

Clarice froze. She hadn't even thought about rings. This was a transaction.

Colton reached into his pocket. He pulled out a simple platinum band. It looked plain, but the metal caught the light with an understated gleam.

"My mother's," Colton lied smoothly. "I carry it for luck."

He reached out. Clarice lifted her hand.

He didn't fumble. He found her finger instantly, sliding the cold metal over her knuckle.

It fit perfectly.

Clarice stared at it. She glanced at his large hands, then back at her own, a silent question in her eyes. How?

"I estimated," Colton said. "When you caught me earlier."

The clerk stamped the paper. "By the power vested in me... you are married."

There was no kiss. Colton just nodded. He offered his hand, and Clarice shook it. A business deal concluded.

They exited into the cool night air. Clarice held the marriage certificate.

Colton Bentley.

The name tickled the back of her brain. Bentley Media? No. That family lived in penthouses and on yachts. They didn't arrange sham marriages with orphans in City Hall at 10 PM.

"Where to?" Clarice typed, showing the phone to Sterling. "My apartment to get my things?"

Colton paled, a flicker of an expression she couldn't read. "No. We go to my residence. Sterling will have your belongings collected and delivered tomorrow. Clean slate."

Clarice hesitated, then nodded. A clean slate sounded good. It sounded safe.

Colton raised his hand. The black Maybach pulled up to the curb instantly.

The driver, a large man with a shaved head, stepped out. He wore a simple polo shirt.

Clarice recognized him from the coffee shop. This wasn't an Uber.

"This is Ford, my head of security," Colton said. "He'll be your driver as well."

He wheeled himself into the car.

As Clarice got in, her phone dinged. A news alert from a financial app she followed.

"Bentley Media stock soars as reclusive heir, Colton Bentley, is rumored to be taking steps to unlock his controlling shares from the family trust..."

The article featured a blurry paparazzi photo of a man in a wheelchair, wearing sunglasses, being pushed by a man in a gray suit. It was from an hour ago. Outside The Grind.

The shrill voice of the news alert filled the quiet luxury of the car.

Clarice scrambled to mute it, her face burning with shame.

She looked at Colton, then at the phone, then back at Colton. The pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity.

Colton sat staring straight ahead. His fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat on his knee.

He didn't say a word, but the temperature in the car seemed to drop ten degrees.

The car crossed the bridge, leaving the glittering skyline of Manhattan behind for the equally glittering, but more secluded, towers of the Upper East Side.

A phone rang. Not Clarice's.

Colton reached into his jacket pocket. The screen lit up. Grandmother.

He answered, pressing the speaker button.

"Colton," an imperious voice barked. It sounded like old money and steel. "Where are you? The gala starts in an hour. You need to meet the oil heiress."

Clarice's eyes widened. She looked at Colton. This was the "unwelcome social obligation" she was hired to prevent.

"I'm not coming, Grandmother," Colton said. His tone was bored. "I'm married."

Silence. Then, a sound like a cane hitting a wooden floor. Hard.

"You did what? With who? Which family?"

Colton glanced at Clarice. "Her name is Clarice. She's a good girl. You'll like her."

"I will be the judge of that," the old woman snapped. "Bring her to me. Tonight. If I don't like her, the marriage is annulled before the ink is dry."

The line went dead.

Clarice felt a wave of anxiety. She looked at Colton and typed on her phone: Your grandmother... she sounds intense. Is this part of my job?

"She likes to think so," Colton said. "She's just loud. Our story is simple: we met, it was a whirlwind romance, we eloped. You are deeply in love with me. Your silence is due to you being shy and overwhelmed. If she thinks we are happy, she will back off."

Pretend we're in love, Clarice repeated in her head. She gave a short, sharp nod. Okay. I can act.

She typed again: But she said "tonight." We're going now?

Colton shook his head. "I called Sterling while you were changing. Grandmother's charity gala runs until midnight. We'll go tomorrow evening. It gives you time to prepare—and me time to make sure the guest list is properly vetted."

He paused, then added, "She won't like being kept waiting. But she'll dislike a poorly presented wife even more. Tonight, we eat. Tomorrow, we shop. Then we face the dragon."

Clarice nodded, relieved.

"Where does she live?" she typed.

"The Bentley Estate. Long Island."

Clarice exhaled. So much for the 'modest means' narrative.

In the front seat, Ford bit his lip to keep from laughing.

The car slowed, pulling into the private, circular driveway of a towering pre-war apartment building with a doorman who looked like a retired secret agent.

Colton caught her wide-eyed stare. "My grandmother believes I live in a rundown walk-up. This apartment is off the family's books. One of the few places I have any privacy."

He unbuckled his seatbelt. "We go up. You change. Then we face the dragon."

"They will eat you alive," Clarice thought, looking at her simple polyester dress.

"I'm not very tasty," Colton said dryly, as if reading her mind. He pushed a button, and the ramp deployed.

Clarice rushed to his side, standing by as he wheeled himself out.

"Just... don't listen to them," he murmured as they headed for the entrance.

She walked beside his chair into the marble-floored lobby.