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.

The apartment was a sprawling penthouse that smelled of nothing at all. It was sterile, minimalist, and cold.

Black leather, chrome, and gray slate dominated the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city, but the effect was less beautiful and more like being watched.

"Sterling had some of your things delivered," Colton said, gesturing down a long hallway. "Your room is the first on the right. Mine is at the end of the hall. We have an hour."

Clarice nodded and headed for her room. Inside, she found several garment bags hanging in a walk-in closet larger than her old bedroom. Her worn suitcase sat in the corner, looking pitiful.

She unzipped the first bag. It held a simple, elegant navy blue sheath dress. The second held shoes. The third, a delicate diamond necklace. It was a costume. The uniform for Clarice Bentley.

She quickly showered and changed, her mind racing. This was a performance. She was an actress, and the stage was a Long Island estate. She could do this. It was just another surgery, of a different kind. Precise, calculated, and with no room for error.

She walked back into the living room. Colton was waiting by the door, wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo. He looked up as she approached.

His gaze lingered for a moment, and for a split second, Clarice felt a flicker of something in his expression behind the dark glasses. Approval? Surprise? It was gone before she could be sure.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

In the car, on the way to the estate, the silence was thick. Clarice's mind was a whirlwind of medical protocols and escape routes, a habit she'd developed as 'The Savior'. Always have a plan B. Always know the exits.

Suddenly, Colton grunted, his body tensing. His hand shot out and gripped his thigh, his knuckles white.

"Colton?" she typed, her concern immediate.

"Spasm," he bit out, his jaw tight with apparent pain. "It'll pass."

But it didn't. His leg muscle seemed to contract under the cashmere blanket—or at least, his whole body stiffened as if it were. Clarice's medical instincts flickered. She didn't hesitate.

She put her hand on his thigh, her fingers searching for the pressure points. She began to apply firm, steady pressure.

And then she paused.

The muscle beneath her palm wasn't truly knotted. It was tense—deliberately, almost theatrically so. There was no fibrillating twitch, no uncontrolled clenching. Just a man holding himself rigid.

Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice strained.

She ignored the question, playing along. She continued the motion, working as if to release a cramp that wasn't there. She felt him relax his forced tension gradually, as if following her cue.

Slowly, he let his body go limp. The tension in his frame eased. He let out a long, shuddering breath.

He was still for a moment, his head leaned back against the leather seat. He turned his head toward her.

"How did you do that?" he asked, his voice quiet, laced with something she couldn't identify. Suspicion.

Clarice pulled her hand back slowly. She had made a discovery. He was faking. But why? She quickly typed on her phone, her heart pounding.

My mother was a nurse. She taught me a few things.

It was a weak lie, but it was the best she had. She tucked the observation away, deep in her mind. She had to be more careful. She was Clarice Bell now, the shy orphan, not The Savior.

Colton didn't respond. He just sat in silence for the rest of the drive, the space between them now charged with a new, dangerous current.

Clarice sat in the car, her chest heaving. The silence was heavy.

She turned to Colton. She gestured to his leg, a silent question in her eyes: Are you okay?

Colton shifted slightly. "The spasm is gone. It's fine."

It wasn't fine. That kind of severe spasm indicated serious nerve damage. But he wasn't going to tell her that.

She felt a pang of guilt, not for the lie, but for the exposure. She had been careless. She typed a quick message.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched you without asking.

Colton pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was silk, monogrammed with a 'B'. He handed it to her, though she wasn't crying.

"Husbands and wives don't apologize," he said. "And... thank you."

Clarice sniffled, taking the handkerchief. She looked at him, confused. This man was a labyrinth of contradictions.

"Where to, sir?" Ford asked from the front. "Straight to the estate?"

"No," Colton said. "She's hungry."

Clarice's stomach growled loudly, betraying her. She blushed.

"And then," Colton said, looking at the expensive dress Sterling had provided, a dress that still somehow looked out of place on her tense frame. "We need to go shopping. Tomorrow. You cannot meet my grandmother's entire social circle looking like you're wearing a costume."

Clarice looked down at herself. She typed: I can't afford new clothes.

"Fifth Avenue," Colton commanded.

"Fifth Avenue?" she typed, her eyes wide. "Colton, no. I can't accept that."

"It's not for you," Colton said coolly. "It's for the role. My wife must look the part. Consider it a business expense."

Clarice hesitated. She hated this, hated being a doll to be dressed up. But he was right. It was part of the contract.

She gave a reluctant nod.

Colton's phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it discreetly.

Sterling: Gavin Mercer is calling your grandmother's assistant. He knows about the marriage. He's trying to get an invitation to the gala.

Colton typed a reply with one hand, without looking.

Block it. Add his name to the Bentley Media blacklist. Make sure he can't get a job as a janitor in this city.

He put the phone away. He looked at Clarice, who was staring out the window at the passing city lights, looking like a refugee in a war she didn't know she was fighting.

"Don't worry," he said. "I handle all threats to my assets."