Kathern stopped exactly three feet away from the man.

"Are you Eleanor's grandson?" Kathern asked. "Bronson?"

Bronson's eyes dragged slowly from the scuffed toes of her boots up to the messy bun on her head. He let out a low, dismissive scoff from the back of his throat.

The sheer arrogance rolling off him made the back of Kathern's neck prickle with heat. She pressed her lips together and swallowed the sharp remark sitting on her tongue.

Bronson didn't say a word. He simply shoved the blue folder forward, stopping inches from her chest.

"Read it," Bronson said. His voice was flat and hard. "Make your decision."

Kathern took the folder. The cardboard felt stiff in her hands. She flipped it open. Inside was a thick stack of legal papers titled 'Prenuptial Agreement'.

She scanned the dense paragraphs. The terms were brutally clear. Complete financial independence. No interference in each other's personal lives.

She flipped to the second page. The most prominent clause stated the marriage would last exactly six months. Upon termination, the husband would transfer the deed of one apartment to the wife as compensation.

Bronson stood perfectly still, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his cheap trousers.

"If you want to back out, turn around and walk away right now," Bronson said coldly.

Kathern lifted her head. She looked straight into his dark eyes. She reached into the front pocket of her backpack and pulled out a cheap ballpoint pen.

Bronson's jaw tightened slightly as he watched her. Kathern flipped to the very last page of the document. She pressed the pen hard against the paper and signed her name on the dotted line.

She snapped the folder shut. She slapped it flat against the center of Bronson's chest.

"I just need a place to sleep," Kathern said, her voice completely steady. "I don't care about your money."

A flicker of deep suspicion crossed Bronson's eyes. He grabbed the folder, turned his back to her, and walked toward the massive glass doors of City Hall with long, aggressive strides.

Kathern adjusted her backpack straps and hurried to keep up. They walked through the revolving doors and stepped into the chaotic, echoing lobby.

They found the marriage registration line. The space around them was filled with couples holding hands, giggling, and pressing kisses to each other's cheeks.

Kathern and Bronson stood in line. There was a solid two feet of empty space between them. They stood as rigidly as two strangers waiting to testify against each other in court.

The line moved forward. They finally reached the counter. A balding clerk named Walter looked up at them. He took in their stiff postures and blank faces.

"Are you both entering into this marriage voluntarily?" Walter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Bronson said. The word dropped from his mouth like a block of ice.

Kathern didn't want the clerk asking any more questions. She took a steadying breath, kept her expression perfectly neutral, and said "Yes" in a clear, unwavering voice, avoiding the clerk's inquisitive gaze.

Walter shrugged his shoulders. He slid a stack of forms across the laminate counter.

"Fill these out," Walter said.

Kathern picked up a pen. She filled in her basic details. Under the occupation box, she wrote 'Handmade Shop Owner'. She glanced over her shoulder. Bronson was writing 'Vaughan Group' in the employer section.

Kathern looked away. So he was a corporate drone at a massive company. That explained the miserable attitude.

They pushed the forms back across the counter. Walter typed aggressively on his keyboard. The printer behind him whirred to life, spitting out two official marriage certificates.

"Raise your right hands," Walter instructed.

Kathern raised her hand. She repeated the standard vows, keeping her voice even and clear.

Bronson recited the words at a rapid, clipped pace. There was zero inflection in his tone. He sounded like he was reading a quarterly expense report.

"Congratulations," Walter said, sliding the papers toward them. "You're married."

Kathern picked up the thin piece of paper. She stared at her name printed next to a man she didn't know. A hollow, absurd feeling washed over her stomach.

Bronson didn't even look at the paper. He grabbed it, folded it in half with a sharp crease, and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of his suit.

"Let's go outside," Bronson ordered, his tone strictly business. "We need to discuss the living arrangements."

Kathern nodded. They turned away from the counter and walked back through the crowded lobby toward the exit.

They pushed through the heavy doors. A sharp gust of September wind hit them instantly. Kathern shivered, her shoulders pulling inward against the cold. Bronson didn't even blink. He kept walking straight down the concrete steps.

Bronson stopped at the bottom of the steps. He turned around and looked up at Kathern as she walked down to meet him.

He reached into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a silver keyring and a white plastic access card. He held them out in the space between them.

"Maplewood Complex," Bronson said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Building B, Apartment 802. It's on the edge of Queens."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. He extracted a silver credit card and held it out next to the keys.

"This is a secondary card," Bronson stated. "Use it for the household expenses."

Kathern looked at the piece of plastic. Her eyebrows pulled together. She kept her hands firmly at her sides.

"We can split the living expenses fifty-fifty," Kathern said, looking directly into his eyes. "I don't need your card."

Bronson's arm froze in mid-air. A flash of genuine surprise broke through his cold exterior, quickly replaced by a thicker layer of guarded suspicion.

He let out a short, harsh breath through his nose. He pulled the credit card back and shoved it into his wallet.

"Suit yourself," Bronson said. "Just don't cause any trouble."

Kathern reached out and took the keys and the access card from his hand. She unzipped the small front pocket of her backpack and carefully dropped them inside.

Bronson lifted his left arm and stared at his watch.

"I have an important business meeting back at the company," Bronson said, dropping his arm. "Do not tell anyone about this marriage. Especially not anyone from my office."

Kathern rolled her eyes. As if she would ever meet a single person from his boring corporate job. But she nodded her head anyway.

Bronson didn't waste another second. He turned on his heel and walked straight to the rusted Ford van.

Kathern stood on the sidewalk. She watched him pull the heavy door open and slide roughly into the driver's seat.

The van's engine roared to life with a violent shudder. A thick cloud of dark exhaust shot out from the tailpipe as the van sped away from the curb.

The smoke hit Kathern's face. She coughed twice, waving her hand rapidly in front of her nose to clear the foul air.

She walked back to her mint green scooter. She put her helmet on, started the engine, and merged into the traffic.

She followed the street signs, riding across the city until she reached the address Bronson had given her. The Maplewood Complex was a standard, slightly worn residential area.

Kathern parked her scooter in the designated area. She swiped the white card against the scanner at Building B and walked into the elevator.

She pressed the button for the eighth floor. The doors opened. She walked down the hallway and found the door marked 802. She slid the key into the lock and turned it.

The lock clicked loudly. Kathern pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The air inside the apartment was completely dead. It smelled like stale dust and closed windows. Tiny particles of dirt floated visibly in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the blinds.

Kathern looked around. It was a standard two-bedroom apartment. The layout was decent, but the living room was completely barren except for two cheap sofas and a glass coffee table.

She walked into the master bedroom. A massive, unmade bed sat in the center of the room. There was no wardrobe. No nightstands.

She walked back out and pushed the door to the guest room open. It was completely empty. Just bare wooden floorboards.

Kathern walked into the kitchen. She pulled the cabinet doors open one by one. Nothing. Not a single plate, fork, or glass.

Kathern let out a long, heavy sigh. Her shoulders slumped. The man had literally just bought a concrete box to shut his grandmother up.

She dropped her backpack onto the kitchen counter. She rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, walked over to the living room window, and pushed the glass pane up as hard as she could. The fresh breeze rushed in.

She looked down at the layer of grime on the floorboards. She needed to go back to Gussie's house to get her large suitcase and buy a massive amount of cleaning supplies.

Kathern walked into the small bathroom of the new apartment. She turned on the faucet, washed the dust off her hands, and dried them on a paper towel she found in her bag. She walked out the front door and locked it securely behind her.

At that exact moment, in the center of Manhattan, the rusted Ford van rolled slowly down the concrete ramp into the underground VIP parking garage of the Vaughan Group headquarters. It slid into a secluded, oversized parking spot.

Bronson pushed the heavy door open and stepped out onto the concrete. The tension in his jaw remained, but the fake, middle-class posture vanished instantly. He stood tall, radiating the absolute authority of a man who controlled billions.

His personal assistant and head of security, Dwayne, stepped out from the shadows. Dwayne held a perfectly pressed, custom-tailored black suit jacket over his arm.

Bronson ripped the cheap gray suit jacket off his shoulders and handed it to Dwayne with a look of absolute disgust. "Dispose of it," he ordered, refusing to let the cheap fabric touch him a second longer. He then slid his arms into the tailored jacket Dwayne held out for him.

"Madam Eleanor has been waiting in the top-floor office for twenty minutes, sir," Dwayne said quietly.

Bronson's eyebrows pulled together. He reached up and aggressively adjusted his silk tie. He walked past Dwayne, heading straight for the private elevator that required his biometric scan to operate.

The elevator doors slid open on the top floor. Bronson walked down the wide, silent corridor. He pushed the heavy mahogany double doors of the CEO's office open.

Eleanor Vaughan sat on the white leather sofa. She held a delicate porcelain cup of Darjeeling tea. She placed the cup down on the saucer the second he walked in.

"Well?" Eleanor demanded, her eyes bright with expectation. "Did it go smoothly? Is she happy?"

Bronson walked around his massive glass desk and sat down in his leather chair.

"The task is done," Bronson said, his voice flat. "The certificate is signed."

Eleanor narrowed her eyes. She picked up her wooden cane and tapped the metal tip sharply against the floor.

"Do not bully that girl, Bronson," Eleanor warned.

Bronson let out a dark, cynical laugh.

"I will provide the housing as promised," Bronson said. "But she is under a six-month background investigation starting today."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk.

"Until I confirm that woman isn't a corporate spy or a gold digger aiming for the Vaughan estate, my identity remains completely hidden."

Eleanor pointed a trembling finger at him.

"Your paranoia is a sickness," Eleanor snapped. "You will pay for this arrogance one day, mark my words."

Bronson ignored the threat. He reached out and tapped his mouse, waking up his dual monitors.

"I have a cross-border video conference in two minutes," Bronson said, staring at the stock numbers flashing across the screen.

Eleanor let out a heavy sigh. She stood up, leaning heavily on her cane.

"Have a little patience with her," Eleanor said softly before walking out the door.

The heavy mahogany doors clicked shut. Bronson stared at the financial data, but the image of Kathern's clear, defiant eyes as she refused his credit card flashed violently in his mind.

He ground his teeth together. He lifted his hand and rubbed his temples hard, forcing the woman's face out of his brain.

Miles away, Kathern sat on her scooter outside a rundown convenience store. She held a cold bottle of water against her leg. She pulled out her phone and dialed Eleanor's number.

The line connected quickly.

"Kathern, dear," Eleanor's warm voice came through the speaker. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm okay," Kathern said, her voice softening with genuine gratitude. "I just wanted to call and say thank you. You really saved me today."

Eleanor sighed loudly into the phone. "I'm the one who should apologize. I know my grandson is as stubborn and cold as a brick wall."

Kathern smiled slightly. "Mr. Bronson seems very distant, but he kept his word. He's a good man."

There was a pause on the line.

"Mr. Bronson?" Eleanor asked, a bitter chuckle escaping her lips. "Please, dear, just call him Bronson."

"Okay, Grandma," Kathern corrected herself smoothly.

They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Kathern ended the call. She stared at the black screen of her phone for a moment. She took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs.

She shoved the phone into her pocket, pulled her helmet back on, and started the engine. She steered the scooter back toward Gussie's apartment.

The thought of facing Glenwood's smug face again made the muscles in her arms pull tight. Her eyes hardened as she sped down the street.