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.

They ate at a bistro near the park. It was quiet.

Clarice cut Colton's steak into bite-sized pieces. She did it naturally, without asking, placing the plate back in front of him.

Colton 's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. He could have done it himself. Sterling usually did it before they went out. But he let her do it. It was... different.

"We need to talk about money," Clarice typed, after she had finished her own meal. "For the house. Groceries. Utilities. I will contribute."

Colton paused, a piece of steak halfway to his mouth. He looked at Sterling, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

"I am your husband," Colton said. "I provide."

"No," Clarice typed firmly, pushing her phone across the table. "This is a business arrangement. I will not be a kept woman. I will pay for my own expenses from the contract fee."

Colton looked at her. She was serious. She was wearing a dress worth three thousand dollars and was arguing about splitting the electric bill.

"Fine," he said. "Sterling will set up a household account. You may contribute to it as you see fit."

They stopped at a grocery store on the way to the apartment. Clarice bought generic brand toothpaste and toilet paper.

When she wasn't looking, Colton signaled to Ford, who threw a jar of truffle pesto and imported olives into the cart.

Clarice frowned at the receipt later. She held it up, pointing at the twenty-dollar olives with a questioning look.

"Inflation," Colton said.

The car pulled up to the pre-war building on the Upper East Side.

They went up in the elevator. The apartment was massive. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art. It was cold. Everything was black, white, or gray.

"It's... nice," she typed. "A bit empty."

"I don't need decorations," Colton said.

"Right."

He pointed down the hall. "That is the master bedroom. You take it."

"And you?" she typed.

"Guest room," he said. "Down the hall."

Clarice felt a pang of disappointment. She scolded herself. Rules. No marital duties.

She nodded.

She went into the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. It was luxurious. Marble everywhere.

She noticed something. There were no grab bars in the shower. No non-slip mat. The vanity was standard height, impossible to use from a wheelchair.

She frowned. How does he function in this apartment?

She walked out into the hallway. Colton was wheeling himself toward the kitchen. There was a suitcase Sterling had left in the middle of the floor.

He was heading straight toward it. He was going to get stuck.

Clarice opened her mouth to warn him.

But her warning died in her throat. She watched, her eyes narrowing.

His front wheels were about to hit the bag. At the very last second, he executed a flawless, sharp turn, his wheels missing the corner of the suitcase by less than a millimeter. It wasn't the clumsy turn of someone who almost made a mistake. It was the precise, fluid motion of a driver avoiding an obstacle he saw from a mile away.

Clarice narrowed her eyes.

"Colton!" she called out sharply, the sound rusty in her own ears.

Colton froze. Then, his chair jolted, as if he'd been startled. He fumbled with the wheels, making the chair bump clumsily into the wall.

"Damn," he muttered. "What was that?"

Clarice ran over. She put her hand on the back of his chair. Are you okay? I'm sorry, that suitcase is in the way.

She looked up at his face. His glasses were slightly askew. His eyes were a piercing, icy blue. They were focused directly on her, sharp and intelligent, before he quickly shifted them to look past her ear.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just... tired."

He pulled away and went into his room, closing the door.

Clarice stood in the hallway. Her heart was beating fast.

She looked at the suitcase. She looked at the closed door.

For a second, just a second, she could have sworn he saw it. And for a split second, she could have sworn his legs tensed under the blanket.

She shook her head. You're paranoid, Clarice. He's a paraplegic. He just has good spatial awareness.

She dragged her suitcase into her room.

Inside his room, Colton leaned against the door. He let out a long breath.

That was close. Too close.

She was observant. Dangerous.

He pushed himself up from his chair and walked silently to the window, his legs perfectly fine. He looked out at the city lights, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.