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."

The boutique on Fifth Avenue was quiet the next day. It smelled like money-vanilla and new leather.

Clarice walked in, pushed by Sterling in a tasteful transport chair while Colton followed in his own, feeling like she was going to break something just by breathing.

The manager rushed over. She was a tall woman with severe glasses. She looked at Colton, then at Clarice.

She didn't sneer. She smiled warmly.

"Mr. Bentley! So good to see you."

"Hi," Colton said. He gestured with his head toward Clarice. "We need a wardrobe. For my wife."

The manager nodded. She knew the code. Wife meant a full seasonal collection. Mr. Bentley meant put it on the family account but send the receipts to his private office.

"Right this way," the manager said to Clarice. "We have a private suite ready for you."

She led Clarice to a room filled with stunning clothes. Clarice touched a pale blue silk dress. It felt like water.

She looked at the price tag hidden in the seam. Her heart stopped. It was more than her annual salary at her old job.

She looked at the manager and shook her head, then pointed at a simple, much less expensive-looking rack of blouses.

"Nonsense," the manager said kindly but firmly. "Mr. Bentley's instructions were clear. The best of everything."

She went into the changing room.

Colton sat on a velvet sofa. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The moment they were off, his eyes were sharp, missing nothing as he watched the reflection of the changing room door in a nearby mirror.

Clarice stepped out.

The dress fit her like a second skin. It hugged her waist and flowed to her knees. The blue made her eyes look huge.

She stood in front of the mirror. She had never looked like this. She looked... powerful.

She turned to Colton, a questioning look on her face.

He put his glasses back on before turning his head toward her. "I know you can't see it," she typed on her phone, her tone self-deprecating. "But... I feel ridiculous."

Colton wheeled his chair over to her.

He stopped inches from her. He reached out, his hands hovering for a second before settling on her shoulders. His thumbs brushed her collarbone.

"I can feel it," he said. His voice dropped an octave. "You are beautiful."

Clarice's breath hitched. His hands were warm. The heat seeped through the silk.

Colton reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small, foil-wrapped caramel. He had swiped it from the reception desk.

He peeled it. "Open."

Clarice parted her lips. He placed the candy on her tongue.

"Reward," he said. "For surviving the day."

The sugar melted on her tongue, sweet and rich. Clarice felt a tear slide down her cheek. It was the first kind thing that had happened to her in a nightmare of a day.

She quickly wiped it away and typed: Thank you.

At the register, Clarice watched as the bill climbed into the six figures. She felt sick.

"It's handled," Sterling said, materializing at her side and tapping his card.

"Points?" Clarice typed to Colton as they left the store. "You shop for women's clothes often?"

Colton put his glasses back on. "Ex-girlfriends," he said.

Clarice felt a sharp pinch in her chest. Jealousy. She pushed it down. She had no right to be jealous. This was a contract.

But as she walked down Fifth Avenue, next to the wheelchair of her stranger husband, she felt a strange, unwelcome sense of possession.