Flora stood on the marble steps of the Manhattan City Hall.

She wore a faded navy-blue skirt suit. It was clean, but the fabric was worn thin at the elbows. She clutched her ID in her hand. Her palms were slick with cold sweat.

Josiah walked up the steps precisely at nine o'clock. He wore the same dull expression, but today, he held a small bouquet of white roses. He held them out to her.

Flora blinked. She took the flowers. The soft, sweet scent of the petals hit her nose, and the tight knot of anxiety in her chest loosened just a fraction.

They walked into the building together. The hallway was packed with couples. People were laughing, holding hands, and kissing against the walls.

Flora and Josiah stood exactly two feet apart. The space between them felt like a physical wall of ice.

When the clerk called their names, they stepped up to the counter. The clerk looked at them with tired eyes and asked if they were entering the marriage willingly.

Flora sucked in a sharp breath. "Yes," she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

"Yes," Josiah said. His response was clipped, efficient, like he was closing a corporate merger.

The clerk told them to exchange rings. Josiah reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain, silver-colored band. Flora glanced at the inside of the ring. There was no engraving, no brand mark. It looked like it came from a vending machine.

Josiah took her left hand. His long, lean fingers wrapped around hers. Despite the cold morning air, his skin felt unnaturally warm, sending a sudden, grounding heat straight up Flora's arm that made her breath hitch. She looked up and crashed straight into his dark, bottomless eyes.

For a split second, the coldness in his gaze melted. Something heavy and intense flared in his pupils. Then, he blinked, and the flat, dead-eyed programmer returned.

The clerk stamped the paperwork with a loud thud.

"You're married," the clerk said, already looking at the next couple in line.

Flora stared at the piece of paper. Her name and Josiah's name were printed side by side. Her stomach did a slow, nauseating flip. It didn't feel real.

They walked out of the building. The morning sun glared off the concrete. They stood on the steps, the silence between them stretching until it became unbearable.

"We should go our separate ways from here," Josiah said.

The words were practical, but they sliced through Flora's chest. She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat and nodded.

She turned toward the subway station.

A massive, black luxury van suddenly swerved toward the curb, its tires splashing a puddle of dirty water just inches from Flora's worn shoes.

The tinted window rolled down halfway. An older man with a face carved from granite stared out at them. His eyes were sharp, calculating, and terrifyingly familiar.

Cornelius Vance looked at Flora, then shifted his gaze to his son.

"I bet this marriage will take an interesting turn," Cornelius said. His voice was low, carrying a weight that made the air feel heavy.

Flora frowned, stepping back from the vehicle. She looked at Josiah.

"This is my distant uncle," Josiah said quickly. His jaw was tight.

Cornelius chuckled. The sound was rough. He reached out of the window and handed Flora a thick red envelope.

"A wedding gift," Cornelius said.

Flora felt the weight of the envelope. It was thick with old, wrinkled bills. It smelled like stale cigars and old paper.

"I can't take this," Flora said, trying to hand it back.

"Keep it," Cornelius commanded. He didn't wait for her to argue. The window rolled up, and the van merged aggressively into the Manhattan traffic.

Flora stood holding the envelope, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. At least someone in his family cared enough to show up.

Josiah watched the van disappear. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He turned back to Flora, his expression hardening.

"Don't tell anyone about the details of today," Josiah said. "Especially not the man bothering you."

Flora nodded. She clutched the red envelope and the white roses to her chest, turned around, and disappeared into the sea of pedestrians.

Josiah stood perfectly still until he could no longer see her navy-blue suit.

He pulled out his phone.

"Milo," Josiah said, his tone shifting into something far more clinical. "Access the City Hall's public server for marriage licenses. I need our entry digitally corrupted or temporarily firewalled from any external searches."

Milo laughed through the speaker. "You play a convincing poor man, Boss, but your hacking requests are starting to sound a lot like corporate espionage."

Josiah hung up. He looked up at a massive billboard towering over the street. The glowing letters spelled out Knight Group.

The game had officially started. Now, he needed to lose everything.

He raised his hand and hailed a yellow cab. Before he got in, he looked one last time down the street where Flora had vanished, his chest tightening with an emotion he refused to name.

The air in the hospital's underground archive room smelled of bleach and rotting paper.

Flora stood between two towering metal shelves, shoving thick medical files into boxes. The fluorescent light above her flickered, casting long, erratic shadows across the concrete floor.

The heavy iron door groaned open.

Grant Holloway stepped inside. He wore a custom-tailored navy suit. A slick, arrogant smile stretched across his face, making Flora's stomach heave with instant nausea.

Grant reached behind him and pushed the door shut. The heavy metal deadbolt clicked into place. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the cramped space.

Flora's spine hit the cold metal of the filing cabinet behind her. The clipboard in her hands slipped from her sweaty fingers and clattered to the floor.

"You ignored my text last night," Grant said, taking a slow step toward her. "Playing hard to get only works for so long, Flora."

"Back up, Grant," Flora snapped. Her voice shook, but she forced herself to stand tall. She raised her left hand, shoving the cheap silver ring into his line of sight. "I'm married."

Grant stopped. He looked at the ring. A harsh, barking laugh erupted from his throat.

"That?" Grant sneered. "That piece of vending-machine trash? You expect me to believe a cheap piece of tin changes anything?"

He lunged forward. His large, rough hand reached out, aiming for her cheek.

The smell of his expensive cologne hit her face. Panic seized her throat, choking her.

Then, Josiah's voice echoed in her head. I am your legal shield.

A violent surge of adrenaline ripped through Flora's veins. She didn't think. She just reacted.

Flora planted her feet, twisted her hips, and swung her right hand with every ounce of strength she possessed.

Her palm connected with Grant's left cheek. The crack of flesh on flesh was deafening.

Grant's head snapped to the side. He stumbled back, his expensive leather shoes slipping on the linoleum. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across his jaw. His eyes widened in pure, unadulterated shock.

Outside the archive room, standing in the dim hallway, Eleanor Holloway froze.

She had been looking through the blinds of the small window in the door. The insulated thermos in her hand slipped. It hit the carpeted hallway floor, spilling scalding hot coffee everywhere. Eleanor didn't flinch. Her skin turned to ice.

Inside, Grant touched his burning cheek. His shock morphed into ugly, twisting rage.

"You crazy bitch," Grant spat, taking a threatening step forward.

Flora didn't back down. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned with a fierce, terrifying light. She pointed a trembling finger at the locked door.

"Get out," Flora screamed, her voice tearing her throat.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway outside. The head nurse was doing rounds.

Grant froze. He adjusted his silk tie, his hands shaking with fury. He glared at Flora, his eyes promising violence.

"This isn't over," Grant hissed.

He spun around, unlocked the deadbolt, and ripped the door open.

Grant stepped into the hallway and stopped dead.

Eleanor stood there. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just stared at him with eyes so dead and empty they looked like glass.

All the blood drained from Grant's face. "Eleanor, wait-"

Eleanor turned her body, avoiding him like he was a rotting corpse. She stumbled backward, then turned and ran down the long, sterile corridor.

Flora stood in the doorway, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She watched Eleanor's retreating back. A heavy, suffocating wave of guilt crashed into her, instantly followed by a fierce, undeniable sense of liberation.

Grant shot Flora one last venomous look before sprinting after his wife.

The hallway fell dead silent.

Flora's knees gave out. She slid down the doorframe until she hit the floor. She stared at her stinging right hand, her whole body trembling.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the sudden vibration startling her.

She pulled it out with trembling fingers. The screen lit up with a text from an unknown number, though the tone was unmistakably familiar.

Heard things got heated at work. Hope you're okay. Stand your ground.

Flora's breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs. It was Josiah. How did he know? Had someone in the hallway texted him? Or had he been waiting outside?

She stared at the glowing screen, a strange mix of apprehension and comfort washing over her. She swallowed hard, forcing her shaky legs to straighten as she stood up. She bent down and began picking up the scattered medical files, the words of his text echoing in her mind.

She knew slapping Grant had just painted a massive target on her back. He would ruin her for this.

But as she looked at her red palm, she didn't regret a single thing.

Outside the small window at the end of the hall, thunder rumbled in the dark clouds, signaling a storm.

The rain hammered against the thin glass of Flora's Brooklyn apartment window.

She had just taken off her damp scrubs when a heavy, desperate knock rattled her front door.

Flora walked to the door and peered through the peephole.

Josiah stood in the dimly lit hallway. He was soaked to the bone. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his shoulders. In his right hand, he gripped the handle of a battered, scuffed suitcase.

Flora threw the deadbolt and pulled the door open.

Before she could ask what happened, Josiah looked up. His jaw was tight, his eyes hollow.

"My company went under," Josiah said. His voice was hoarse. "The bank seized everything. My accounts, the apartment. I have nothing."

Flora froze. Her hand gripped the doorknob so hard the metal bit into her palm. The fragile sense of security she had built over the last two days shattered into a million pieces.

Josiah swallowed hard. He lowered his head, his wet hair hiding his eyes. "Can I stay here? Just until I figure it out."

Flora looked at his shivering frame. She remembered the white roses. She remembered the text message.

Her chest tightened. She stepped aside.

"Come in," she said quietly.

Josiah dragged the suitcase over the threshold. The broken plastic wheels scraped loudly against the cheap laminate flooring.

He stood in the tiny entryway and looked around. Peeling wallpaper. A window that looked out at a brick wall. A kitchen so small he could touch both walls at once. The air smelled of old grease and damp wood.

His lungs constricted. He had never been in a place so suffocatingly small.

But he forced his facial muscles to relax. He looked at Flora and offered a weak, grateful smile. "It's cozy."

Flora's cheeks burned. She rushed to the worn-out sofa, scooping up a pile of folded laundry to make room.

"You can take the bed," Flora said, pointing to the tiny bedroom. "I'm used to the couch."

"No," Josiah said immediately. "I'll take the couch."

He reached for the laundry basket in her hands. Their fingers brushed.

Josiah's skin was warm and rough. Flora's fingers were ice-cold.

A sharp, electric jolt shot up Josiah's arm. He looked down at her pale, tired face. For the first time since he started this game, a heavy stone of guilt dropped into his stomach.

Flora pulled her hands back. She handed him a clean towel. "I'll make something to eat."

She went into the cramped kitchen. Soon, the sound of boiling water and the smell of cheap beef bouillon filled the apartment. Steam clouded the small space, softening the harsh lines of the room.

Flora set a steaming bowl of instant noodles on the wobbly coffee table.

Josiah sat on the edge of the sofa. He stared at the yellow, curly noodles. His stomach violently rejected the idea of eating it. But he picked up the cheap plastic fork and took a large bite.

The salty, artificial broth burned his throat. He swallowed it down.

"I need to ask you for a favor," Josiah said, keeping his eyes on the bowl. "I have some urgent debts. Small ones. I need to borrow some money."

Flora's chewing slowed. She set her fork down.

She thought about her bank account. She thought about the money she had starved herself to save for her health consulting business.

Josiah watched her face. He saw the panic. He saw the hesitation. He wanted her to say no. He wanted her to prove she was just like everyone else.

Flora looked him dead in the eye. "I'll figure something out. I'll help you."

Josiah's breath hitched. His fingers tightened around the plastic fork until it snapped in half.

The rain lashed against the window, but inside the apartment, the silence was deafening.

Flora stood up to take the empty bowls. Josiah watched her walk to the sink. He realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that he had severely underestimated this woman.

"I'm going to take a shower," Josiah muttered, standing up abruptly.

He walked into the bathroom. The tiles were chipped. Black mold grew in the grout. The showerhead was rusted.

He turned on the cold water and stepped under the freezing spray. He let the ice-cold water shock his system, forcing himself to remember that this was just a test.

Outside the bathroom, Flora sat on the edge of the bed. She opened her banking app. She stared at the numbers.

She opened her text messages and found the number Milo had used when he pretended to be Josiah's friend.

Is it true? Did he lose everything? she typed, her thumb shaking. She hit send.