The East Wing smelled of antiseptic and expensive lilies. It was a suffocating, sterile scent that coated the back of Darcie's throat.

She was back in the wedding dress. The hem was stained with mud and oil from her escape, but there wasn't time to clean it. It felt fitting, actually. A dirty dress for a dirty deal.

The double doors hissed open.

Two nurses pushed a high-tech medical bed into the center of the room.

And there he was.

Fleet Maxwell.

Darcie had seen photos of him-the dashing CEO in tailored suits, the rugged soldier in fatigues. But the man in the bed was different. He was thinner, yes, but the structure was still there. Broad shoulders that filled the width of the mattress. A jawline that looked like it was carved from granite.

He was still. So incredibly still.

His eyes were closed. A ventilator tube was taped to his mouth, the machine breathing for him with a rhythmic whoosh-click.

Hugh snickered from the corner. "Don't expect him to kiss the bride."

Darcie ignored him. She walked to the side of the bed.

She reached out and placed her hand on Fleet's hand. His skin was cool, dry, and calloused.

Darkness. The familiar, suffocating void. It always was. He was a prisoner in his own skull, a ghost in the machine. He couldn't see. He couldn't move. He could only perceive muffled sounds from a world that had forgotten him.

Then... warmth. A sensation. Not muffled. Direct. It pierced the static for Fleet.

Something warm touched his hand. A surge of impotent rage flooded the void where his consciousness floated. Get off. Get... off! The scream was silent, a thought echoing in the abyss of his mind.

"Dearly beloved," the chaplain began, checking his watch. He wanted to be anywhere but here.

Darcie looked at the heart monitor. The green line marched on, steady and indifferent.

"Darcie Mayo, do you take this man..."

"I do," Darcie said. Her voice was stronger than she expected.

"And do you, Fleet Maxwell..."

"He does," Gwendolyn snapped, signing the paper on the clipboard. "Move it along."

"The rings," the chaplain said.

Darcie picked up the heavy gold band from the velvet pillow. It was the Maxwell family crest ring. It looked heavy enough to sink a ship.

She lifted Fleet's left hand. His fingers were stiff, curled slightly inward.

No. No! What is that? Cold. Heavy. The sensation was a violation to Fleet. A shackle sliding over his knuckle. The mental command to resist, to clench his fist, was sent, but the signal died somewhere in the ravaged pathways of his brain. Gwendolyn, you witch, what have you done? he thought.

Darcie struggled to push the ring over his knuckle. It caught. She had to wiggle it, pushing hard.

Beep-beep-beep.

The heart monitor sped up. Just a fraction.

"Is he okay?" Darcie asked, pulling back.

Dr. Aris, the head of the medical team, barely looked up from his chart. "Just a sympathetic nervous reflex. Muscle spasms. It happens."

But Darcie stared at Fleet's hand. For a second, just a split second, she thought she felt resistance. Not stiffness. Resistance.

She leaned down. Her veil brushed against his cheek.

She put her lips right next to his ear.

"I'm sorry I'm using you," she whispered, so low that even the microphones couldn't pick it up. "But I promise, I'll take care of you. Until you... go."

Her voice. Low and rough, like worn velvet. It vibrated through his skull, clearer than any other sound. Using me? A flicker of something-not rage, but... curiosity-stirred within him. The scent of her, like rainwater and something sweet, cut through the sterile air.

"Signed and sealed," Sterling announced. "You are now Mrs. Fleet Maxwell."

Gwendolyn clapped her hands once. A hollow sound. "Show's over. Darcie, the guest room in the servants' quarters is prepared."

Darcie straightened up. She placed her hand on the bed rail.

"No," Darcie said.

Gwendolyn froze. "Excuse me?"

Darcie held up the marriage certificate. "Clause 4, Section B. 'The spouse shall act as primary caregiver.' I'm staying here."

She pointed to the small cot in the corner, usually reserved for the night nurse.

"I sleep there."

Hugh made a gagging noise. "You want to sleep with a vegetable? You're sick."

"I'm his wife," Darcie said, her eyes hard. "Get out of my room."

Gwendolyn looked like she wanted to strangle Darcie, but Sterling ushered her out. "Let her have it. It's only for a few months."

The room emptied.

Darcie was alone with the steady whoosh-click of the ventilator.

She turned to look at her husband.

"Well, Fleet," she said, kicking off her heels. "Looks like we're roommates."

Roommates. Fleet thought.

He focused all his will, a pinpoint of light in the vast darkness, on his eyelids. Open. Open, damn you. Nothing happened. But he was listening.

The next morning, the reality of Darcie's "victory" set in.

She was sitting in the study adjacent to the ICU. Dr. Aris had pinned a series of brain scans onto the light board. They looked like storm clouds.

"Massive trauma to the brain stem," Aris said, tapping a dark spot with his pen. "He's in a persistent vegetative state. Locked-in syndrome is a theoretical possibility, but highly unlikely given the extent of the damage. Optimistically? Three months."

Darcie looked at the scans. A strange pang of sadness hit her. He was a war hero. A titan of industry. And now he was just a timer counting down.

Mr. Sterling cleared his throat. He slid a folder across the desk.

"Since time is short, Mrs. Maxwell, the Trust Committee has activated the 'Widow-Maker' clause."

Darcie frowned. "The what?"

"It's an anti-fraud measure," Sterling said, not meeting her eyes. "To ensure the marriage is... consummated. Or at least, that the spousal duties are fulfilled."

"He's in a coma," Darcie said, her voice rising. "What do you expect him to do?"

"Intimacy is required," Aris interjected clinically. "We call it 'Sensory Stimulation Therapy.' You need to provide two hours of direct skin-to-skin contact massage daily. It stimulates the nerve endings. Keeps the blood flowing."

"And," Sterling added, "you must sleep in the same bed. Every night. The cameras will verify your attendance."

Darcie stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "This is perverted. I'm a human being, not a heating pad," she declared.

"It's the condition for the inheritance," Sterling said calmly.

He opened the last page of the folder.

"If you fulfill these duties until his death, you inherit the Manhattan penthouse portfolio. Estimated value: fifty million dollars."

Darcie stopped breathing.

Fifty million.

That wasn't just money. That was freedom. That was paying off her stepmother's debts ten times over. That was never having to count backward from ten to stop a panic attack again.

She looked at Sterling. She thought of Hugh and Gwendolyn laughing at her.

She sat back down.

"Just massage and sleeping?" she asked. "No... weird stuff?"

Aris coughed. "Strictly medical contact. Unless... well, that's your prerogative."

Darcie picked up the pen.

"Deal. But I have a condition."

Sterling raised an eyebrow.

"For these three months, the East Wing is mine. Gwendolyn and Hugh are banned unless me invites them. I don't want them stressing the patient."

"Reasonable," Sterling agreed. "Sign it."

Darcie signed her name. Darcie Maxwell.

She walked out of the study. A maid was hovering by the door, trying to eavesdrop.

"Get out," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "New rules."

The maid scampered away.

Darcie walked back into the hospital room. Fleet was exactly where she left him.

She sighed and walked over to the bed.

"Well, old man," she said, reaching for the buttons of his pajama top. "Looks like I have to feel you up for fifty million dollars."

Feel me up? Fleet thought.

The thought was a jagged shard of ice in the darkness for him. The indignity burned. He was a soldier. A commander. Now, he was a piece of meat to be groped for cash by a woman with a voice like velvet and the morals of a pirate.

Darcie undid the buttons, exposing his chest.

It was... impressive. Even after weeks in bed, the muscles were defined, scarred here and there from what she assumed were shrapnel wounds.

She poured some lotion onto her hands and rubbed them together to warm it up.

"Sorry if my hands are cold," she muttered.

She placed her palms flat on his chest.

Heat. Her hands were small, but the pressure was firm, sure. The heat seeped through his cold skin, a jolt of pure sensation that bypassed the static and hit the nerve endings that were screaming for input. He hated it. He hated that it felt good. Don't stop, a traitorous part of his brain whispered from the abyss.

In the security booth, Dr. Aris watched the monitor. Darcie had seen the slight flicker in the ECG feed when she touched him-a telltale spike. While his back was turned, she'd discreetly pulled out her phone and activated the data-smoothing script her brother Garey had designed for her. It wouldn't erase major events, but it would soften micro-fluctuations, bundling them into the machine's acceptable margin of error. Dr. Aris, who she suspected was on Gwendolyn's payroll, would see nothing but baseline noise.

He scribbled a note.

Subject heart rate stable. Sympathetic reflex to touch within expected parameters. Therapy initiated.

The bathroom in the master suite was bigger than Darcie's entire trailer back home.

She filled a bowl with warm water and added a few drops of sandalwood oil. The scent was masculine, earthy.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Dark circles under her eyes. Hair messy.

"Just pretend he's a big, unmoving... tractor," she told her reflection. "You've fixed tractors. You can massage a husband."

She carried the bowl back to the bed.

Darcie rolled up her sleeves. Her arms were deceptively strong-years of hauling water buckets and chopping wood in Appalachia did that to her.

She dipped a towel in the water and wiped down Fleet's arm.

The warm water was a map. The sensation traced the lines of his own body, reminding him of its shape. Left arm. Bicep. Forearm.

Darcie started to knead the muscles in his forearm. They were rock hard.

"Jesus," she grumbled, digging her thumbs into a knot near his elbow. "What are you made of? Granite? Did you eat rocks for breakfast?"

MREs and gravel, sweetheart. Special Forces diet. The thought was a flash of dark humor, a ghost of his former self.

Darcie worked her way up to his shoulder. Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone.

Then she saw it.

A jagged, silvery scar running from the base of his neck, disappearing behind his ear. It looked old, but deep.

Her hands slowed down. She traced the scar with her thumb, gently this time. Not a massage. A caress.

"This must have hurt," she whispered.

It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

The simple words struck him with more force than a physical blow. Nobody ever said that. They asked if the mission was successful. They talked about the medal. They never asked if it hurt. Yes. It hurt like hell.

Darcie shook her head, snapping out of it. "Whatever. You have fifty million dollars. Pain is the price of admission, right?"

And there she was again. The gold digger. He felt a surge of disappointment that was sharp and annoying.

Darcie moved to the bottom of the bed and threw back the sheet.

His legs were long, powerful. She started on his calves, pushing the blood back up toward his heart.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted in the hallway.

"I demand to see my sister!"

Floy.

Darcie's blood ran cold.

She stopped massaging. She pulled the sheet back up over Fleet, tucking him in with a protective aggression.

"Stay here," she told him. "I need to take out the trash."

Darcie marched to the door and threw it open.

Floy was trying to push past a security guard. She was holding a basket of fruit wrapped in cellophane.

"Darcie!" She flashed a fake, bright smile. "I brought a wedding gift. Thought I'd see the happy couple."

Darcie stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

She snatched the basket from Floy's hands.

"Thanks," she said.

Then Darcie dropped it directly into the metal trash can next to the nurses' station. It landed with a satisfying crash.

"Hey!" Floy squawked. "That cost fifty bucks!"

"This is a sterile environment," Darcie said, crossing her arms. "No contaminants allowed. Especially you."

Darcie stepped into Floy's space. She was taller than her by three inches, and right now, she felt ten feet tall.

"I'm a nurse with signature authority," Darcie said, her voice low. "I control the household budget now, Floy. Hugh's credit cards? I can freeze them with a phone call. Do you want your shopping spree to get declined?"

Floy's face went pale. The money was her oxygen.

"You wouldn't."

"Try me," Darcie said. "Now get out. Before I have security escort you off the property."

Floy stomped her foot, spun around, and marched away, her heels clicking angrily on the linoleum.

Darcie took a deep breath, counting backward from five.

She turned back to the room.

Inside, the muffled sounds of the confrontation had reached Fleet. Her voice, sharp and cold. Protective. A strange sense of... satisfaction settled in the darkness of his mind. She had defended his territory. He decided he liked her.