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."

Sunday Brunch at the Maxwell Estate was a blood sport disguised as a meal.

The back lawn was manicured to within an inch of its life. Tables were set with white linens and crystal. The elite of New York society were there-senators, bankers, socialites.

Floy was there, wearing a pink dress that Darcie recognized. It was hers. Floy was sipping champagne, acting like she owned the place.

Darcie took a deep breath.

"Ready, Fleet?" Darcie asked.

She pushed his wheelchair out onto the terrace. It wasn't just a wheelchair; it was a mobile ICU, complete with a portable ventilator and a heart monitor discreetly built into the frame. Standing near the french doors, looking like part of the security detail, was Jeremiah Bailey, a former Army medic who had served with Fleet. Darcie had found his name in Fleet's old files and hired him herself. He was the only one she trusted.

It was his first public appearance since the accident.

The chatter stopped instantly. The silence was heavy, respectful, and terrified.

Fleet sat in the high-tech chair, head supported by a brace, eyes covered by dark aviator sunglasses Darcie had put on him. He looked like a fallen king.

Darcie was wearing a deep navy velvet dress that matched his suit. They looked like a unit.

She parked him at the head of the main table. She fussed with the blanket over his knees, smoothing it out.

"Oh, look at her," a dowager whispered loudly. "She really loves him."

Floy sashayed over, holding her glass.

"Hey, sis," she said loudly. "Isn't it a bit morbid to bring a corpse to brunch? People are trying to eat."

Darcie didn't flinch. She picked up a glass of water.

"Fleet built this empire, Floy," Darcie said, her voice carrying over the lawn. "Without him, you wouldn't be drinking that champagne. You'd be drinking moonshine in a trailer."

A few people chuckled.

Gwendolyn stepped in. "Darcie, dear. We appreciate your... dedication. But this is a high-society event. It's about pedigree."

She signaled a waiter. He placed a glass of orange juice in front of Darcie, while everyone else had vintage Dom Pérignon.

"Children drink juice," Gwendolyn smiled sweetly.

Darcie picked up the juice. She dipped a small, sterile sponge swab into the glass of water on the table, then gently moistened Fleet's lips. It was a standard procedure for intubated patients, but in this context, it looked like an act of profound intimacy.

"Pedigree?" Darcie asked. "Interesting choice of words, Gwen. Considering you were the second wife. The secretary, wasn't it?"

Gwendolyn stiffened.

"I am the first wife," Darcie said. "And the current matriarch. So, technically..."

Darcie pushed Gwendolyn's purse off the chair next to Fleet.

"I sit here."

Darcie sat down.

Fleet heard the gasp from the crowd, the rustle of her dress as she took the seat of power. She'd just physically displaced Gwendolyn. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to roar with it.

Hugh, emboldened by alcohol, leaned across the table. "He looks like a giant baby. Does he need a bib, Auntie?"

Darcie picked up a steak knife. She didn't look at Hugh. She looked at the steak on her plate.

Scrape.

The serrated blade screeched against the fine china. It was a horrible sound that made everyone wince.

"Hugh," Darcie said calmly. "If you insult your uncle one more time, I will release the photos of you from the hotel room. The unedited ones."

Hugh turned beet red. He shut his mouth.

Suddenly, the heart monitor on Fleet's chair started beeping. Beep-beep-beep.

"Oh my god, is he dying?" someone gasped.

Darcie looked at the monitor. Heart rate 110.

She looked at Fleet's hand under the blanket. His fist was clenched. Actually clenched.

He was furious. Not at Darcie. At Hugh. The disrespect. A primal urge to stand up and break the boy's nose surged through him.

Darcie put her hand over his fist. She squeezed hard.

"It's okay, darling," Darcie said, loud enough for him to hear but soft enough to sound intimate. "I've got this. Calm down."

She rubbed his knuckles with her thumb.

Her touch. It was the anchor again for him, grounding him. The red rage receded, replaced by the focused sensation of her skin against his.

The beeping slowed. Beep... beep... beep.

Darcie looked up at the table of stunned guests.

"Fleet finds the conversation boring," Darcie announced. "We're leaving."

She unlocked the brakes and wheeled him away, leaving Gwendolyn and Hugh staring at their backs.