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.

The storm hit at midnight.

Thunder rattled the windowpanes of the East Wing, shaking the old stone foundation.

Darcie hated storms. In the trailer, a storm meant leaks. It meant the roof might fly off. It meant fear.

She had showered and changed into silk pajamas-part of the "wardrobe" Gwendolyn had provided for the role.

Darcie climbed onto the massive medical bed. It was wide enough for two, but she stuck to the very edge, as far away from Fleet as possible.

"Just three months," she muttered to the ceiling. "Ninety days."

She turned her back to him and closed her eyes.

CRACK-BOOM.

Lightning struck somewhere close. The room lit up in a flash of strobe-white.

Darcie gasped, her body jerking instinctively.

The mattress was designed to prevent bedsores, which meant it was soft and slightly fluid. Her sudden movement shifted the center of gravity.

She slid backward.

Her back collided with Fleet's side.

Darcie tried to scramble away, but another clap of thunder roared overhead, louder than the first.

Panic overrode logic. She didn't move away. She sought the anchor.

She turned and buried her face in his shoulder. She threw her arm across his chest and tangled her legs with his. He was solid. Immovable. Safe.

Fleet was drifting in the void when the weight hit him. Soft curves. Trembling limbs. A foreign, living heat against his inert body. She was shaking.

Scared, the realization came to him, a clear signal through the noise. The tough girl was terrified of thunder.

Her hair was under his chin. Her breath was warm against his neck. It was sensory overload for him. His brain, long starved of input, fired neurons like fireworks.

"Momma..." Darcie mumbled into his shirt, half-asleep, half-delirious with fear. "Don't go..."

Momma? Fleet thought.

A strange, protective ache formed in the center of his consciousness. She wasn't asking for money. She was asking for comfort.

Move, he commanded his body, a desperate, silent roar. Dammit, move. She needs you.

Another crash of thunder. Darcie whimpered and squeezed him tighter. Her hand pressed flat against his pectoral muscle, right over his heart.

The electricity of the storm seemed to jump from the air, through her, and into him.

MOVE! Fleet thought.

He focused everything on his right hand. Every ounce of willpower. Every scream of frustration.

And then, it happened.

His index finger twitched.

It wasn't much. Just a jerk. A spasm. But against her palm, it felt like an earthquake.

Darcie froze. Her eyes snapped open.

She lifted her head. The room was dark, lit only by the lightning flashes.

"Fleet?" she whispered.

She stared at his hand.

"Do it again," she begged. "Please."

She waited. One minute. Two.

Nothing. His hand was as still as stone.

Darcie let out a shaky breath, laughing at herself. "I'm losing it. Plants don't move, Darcie."

But she didn't move away. The storm was still raging outside.

She laid her head back down on his shoulder.

"Goodnight, big guy," she whispered. "Thanks for the twitch. Even if I imagined it."

I moved, Fleet thought, a savage, roaring triumph echoing through the darkness. I moved for her.

He felt her breathing slow down as she fell asleep. He stayed awake all night, a silent sentinel in the dark.

The boardroom of Maxwell Industries was a shark tank in expensive suits.

The air conditioning was set to arctic. Twelve men sat around the oval table, waiting for the meeting to start.

The double doors swung open.

Darcie walked in.

She was wearing a white power suit that she had tailored to fit like armor. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, sleek ponytail.

Gwendolyn, sitting at the head of the table, stood up. "What are you doing here? This is a closed session."

Darcie didn't answer. She walked straight to the empty chair at the head of the table-Fleet's chair.

She pulled it out and sat down.

"As Fleet Maxwell's legal proxy and power of attorney," she said, placing her leather folder on the table, "I am representing his vote."

Mr. Sterling, sitting to her right, nodded. "It is in accordance with the bylaws."

Hugh, sitting at the far end, scoffed. He was playing with a pen. "Go back to the hospital, Darcie. You don't know the difference between a balance sheet and a bedsheet."

She thought of the encrypted call she'd had at 3 a.m. with her brother. Garey, a ghost on Wall Street, his face obscured by code on the screen. "The shell company is called Blue Ridge Transport," he'd said, his voice a calm whisper. "It's sloppy, Darcie. He's siphoning money through inflated logistics contracts. But don't use this yet. It's your nuke. For today, use the scandal. They understand humiliation better than fraud."

Darcie opened her folder.

"I might not have an MBA, Hugh," she said, her voice projecting clearly. "But I know math. Numbers don't lie. People do."

She pulled out a single sheet of paper and slid it down the polished table until it stopped directly in front of him. It wasn't a spreadsheet. It was a high-resolution still from the Plaza's hallway security camera, showing his naked, slime-covered escape.

"Your recent... extracurricular activities have made you a liability to this company's shareholders," she stated. "Your judgment is compromised."

"This is a personal matter!" Hugh blustered, his face turning red.

"It wiped three billion dollars off the company's value in a single day," Darcie countered coldly. "It's a fiscal matter now." She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice so only he and the people next to him could hear. "And this is just the appetizer. We can discuss Blue Ridge Transport later. In private."

Hugh's face went from red to white. The mention of the shell company, Darcie's ace in the hole, landed like a punch to the gut. He knew she had him.

Darcie looked at the board. "I move to suspend Hugh Maxwell's executive privileges pending a full internal review of his conduct. All in favor?"

Hands went up. One by one. Sterling raised his. Then the CFO. Then the others.

Capitalism has no loyalty to family. Only to profit.

"Motion carried," Sterling announced.

Hugh's face was purple. He stood up, shaking. "I am the heir! You can't do this!"

Darcie leaned forward, resting her chin on her steepled fingers.

"Sit down, Hugh," she said softly. "And show some respect to your elders."

"You're twenty-four!" he shouted.

"I'm your uncle's wife," Darcie said. "That makes me your aunt. Say it."

Hugh looked around the room. Everyone was watching. He was cornered.

He gritted his teeth so hard Darcie thought they would crack.

"Aunt... Darcie."

"Good boy," Darcie smiled. "Now go to your office and pack your things. Security will escort you out."

Hugh stormed out of the room.

Darcie held her composure until the elevator doors closed behind her in the lobby. Then, she leaned against the metal wall, her knees shaking. She hyperventilated for ten seconds.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

She pulled it together.

Darcie ran back to the East Wing.

She burst into the room. "Fleet! You won't believe it!"

She grabbed his hand-the one that had twitched.

"I got him! I suspended Hugh! We won!"

She was grinning like an idiot. She squeezed his hand, swinging it slightly.

'We won.' (She thought.)

The vibration of her excitement, the triumph in her voice, it was another clear signal to him. She wasn't just surviving. She was fighting. For the company. For him. My wife is a killer, Fleet thought with a grim, fierce admiration. Attagirl.

Darcie realized what she was doing. She dropped his hand gently.

"God, I'm talking to a wall," she laughed nervously. "Okay. Reward time. I'll use the expensive oil tonight."