Ethan reaches out. His long, elegant fingers gently wrap around my wrist. The contrast between his dark, furious eyes and the extreme gentleness of his touch makes my breath hitch.

He pulls a pure silk handkerchief from his pocket. Without a word, he peels away the bloody paper towels and wraps the silk tightly around my wound.

The warmth of his hands seeps into my freezing skin. My heart performs a strange, rapid flutter.

"Thank you," I whisper. "I'm fine."

Doris stops thrashing against the officers. She stares at Ethan. Her eyes rake over his unbranded suit and the cheap Ford parked outside. Her upper lip curls into a sneer.

"So this is the bastard," Doris spits, ripping her arm away from the cop. She marches right up to us. "You slept with my daughter," Doris snarls, pointing a finger at his chest. She sizes him up. He looks clean, and his suit, while plain, is impeccably fitted. He has to have more money than that loser Clarnce. "That means you owe me. I want one hundred thousand dollars for family compensation," she declares, deciding to aim high. "Right now. Or I'll make sure this shop is in ashes tomorrow."

By the door, Gale rolls his eyes so hard it hurts. He bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. She's extorting Ethan Patterson for a hundred grand. She has no idea she is standing in front of a man who could buy this entire city block and bulldoze it for fun.

Ethan finally turns his head. He looks at Doris. It is the look of an apex predator staring at a dying insect. A cruel, terrifying smirk plays on his lips.

He opens his mouth. I know that look. It's the look of a man about to do something drastic.

Before he can speak, I step sideways.

I plant my feet firmly on the floor, throwing my arms out, placing my small body entirely in front of Ethan. I shield him from my mother.

Ethan freezes. His breath catches in his throat.

For thirty years, he has been the shield. He has been the weapon. No one-absolutely no one-has ever stepped in front of him to protect him.

"Don't you dare bully him!" I yell at Doris, my voice echoing in the ruined shop. "My marriage is my business. You aren't getting a single cent from him!"

Doris's face contorts with rage. She raises her hand, aiming a vicious slap right at my face.

Ethan's eyes go black. He shifts his weight, ready to grab her wrist and snap it in half.

But I anticipate the strike. I duck, letting her hand swing through empty air.

I know my mother. I know the only thing she cares about is money. If she thinks Ethan has money, she will never stop hunting him.

I stand up straight, looking Doris dead in the eye. I lie through my teeth.

"He doesn't have any money!" I scream. "He's bankrupt! His trust fund is locked until he's sixty, and he has fifty thousand dollars in credit card debt! He's broke!"

Behind me, Ethan's chest brushes against my back. I feel him stiffen. He lets out a sound that is half-cough, half-choke.

By the door, Gale spins around, facing the street. His shoulders are shaking violently. He is suffocating himself to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter.

Doris stops. The word bankrupt hits her like a physical blow. The color drains from her face.

"Bankrupt?" she whispers, her eyes darting to the cheap Ford outside.

"Yes!" I lie, my voice full of fake despair. "I have to pay for his meals! If you take him on, you take on his debt!"

Doris looks at Ethan like he is covered in a contagious disease. She takes three rapid steps backward.

"You stupid, blind idiot," Doris shrieks at me. "You married a useless loser! Don't you dare bring his debts to my door!"

She turns to the cousins. "We're leaving! This is bad luck!"

Doris tries to push past the police to the door. Gale steps in her way, his face instantly turning to stone.

"Not so fast," Gale says coldly. "You're under arrest for felony destruction of property."

The officers grab Doris. She screams, kicking her legs, howling curses at me as they drag her out of the shop and shove her into the back of the cruiser.

The sirens wail as the police cars drive away, leaving the street eerily quiet.

I stand in the middle of the wreckage, my chest heaving.

I turn around to face Ethan. He is looking down at me. The coldness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a strange, dark amusement that makes my stomach do a nervous flip.

The red and blue lights fade from the street. The silence inside the shop is deafening, broken only by the sound of glass crunching under my boots.

The adrenaline leaves my body in a sudden rush. My knees buckle.

I look at the crushed roses, the shattered pots, the dirt smeared across the floor. This shop was my life. It was my only income. And the tiny attic upstairs was my only home.

A sob tears from my throat. I drop to my knees, my hands hovering over the broken pieces of a ceramic pot. I try to push the pieces together, but my fingers are shaking too badly. The sharp edge of a shard slices into my index finger.

Before the blood can even pool, a strong hand grips my wrist.

Ethan pulls me up. His grip is firm, hauling me away from the dangerous debris.

"Stop," he commands.

He glances around the wrecked shop, spots a first-aid kit under the counter, and pulls a sterile wipe from it. He wipes the fresh blood from my finger.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, tears spilling over my eyelashes. "I'm such a burden. You helped me, and now look at this. I don't even have a place to sleep tonight. The attic is a crime scene."

Ethan's hand pauses. He looks at my tears. A strange, uncomfortable tightness grips his chest. He thinks of his massive, empty estate in New York. He thinks of the penthouse in Center City Philadelphia that he rarely uses.

He clears his throat. His voice is stiff. "We are legally married. You can stay with me."

I look up, wiping my eyes with the back of my good hand. "But we're annulling it tomorrow. I can't impose. I'll find a cheap motel."

Ethan's jaw tightens. He remembers my lie about his finances.

"Hotels are expensive," he lies, his face perfectly blank. "And as you told your mother, I have massive credit card debt. I can't afford to pay for a room for you. Just come to my place."

A small, watery laugh escapes my lips. The tension in my chest eases. "Okay. Thank you, Ethan."

Ethan turns away. He pulls out his phone and rapidly texts Jennings: Buy a standard, middle-class apartment in Center City. Fully furnished. I need the keys in five minutes.

Five minutes later, Ethan walks back into the shop. He helps me dig my small suitcase out from under a fallen shelf. We pack my ledger and a few changes of clothes.

He takes the suitcase from my hand. We walk out, and I lock the broken door behind me.

We get into the Ford. Ethan drives toward Center City. The car is quiet. I lean my head against the cold window, exhaustion pulling at my eyelids.

The car parks in front of an older, brick townhouse building. We take a creaky elevator to the third floor. Ethan pulls a shiny new key from his pocket and unlocks the door.

The apartment is small but warm. The furniture is basic IKEA. There is a small kitchen and a cozy living room.

"This is nice," I say, genuinely impressed. "It feels very... lived in."

Ethan looks at the cheap fabric sofa. He suppresses a physical shudder of disgust. His bespoke suits cost more than this entire room.

I open my mouth to thank him again, but my phone vibrates violently in my pocket.

It's a text from my sister, Eloise. Gracie, please help. Boss is forcing me to work a double shift. I can't pick up Rosie from daycare. They close in an hour.

Panic spikes in my veins. I grab my coat.

"I have to go," I tell Ethan, rushing toward the door. "My sister is stuck at work. I have to get my niece."

Ethan frowns. "I'll drive you."

"No!" I say quickly. "You've done enough today. Gas is expensive, and you need to save money. I'll take the subway."

Before he can argue, I grab the spare key off the counter and run out the door.

Ethan stands in the middle of the cheap living room. He watches from the window as I sprint down the street toward the subway station.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He walks into the small kitchen and opens the fridge. It is packed with groceries. Jennings works fast.

Ethan stares at the raw vegetables and meat. A massive headache begins to throb behind his eyes.

The subway is packed with the evening rush hour crowd. I am pressed against the doors for forty agonizing minutes before I reach the suburban daycare.

The sun has completely set. The temperature has plummeted below freezing.

Outside the daycare, five-year-old Rosie is sitting on the concrete steps, shivering in a thin winter coat. A teacher stands beside her, looking annoyed.

"Auntie Grace!" Rosie cries, launching herself into my arms.

"I'm so sorry, baby," I whisper, wrapping my own wool coat around her tiny shoulders. I apologize profusely to the teacher and hurry Rosie down the street.

We stop at a cheap fast-food joint. I buy two dollar-menu cheeseburgers. While Rosie eats her fries, I text Eloise the new address of the apartment so she knows where to pick Rosie up later.

By the time we take two buses back to Center City, it is past eight o'clock.

Meanwhile, inside the apartment, Ethan's encrypted phone rings.

It's a video call from his board of directors in London. A multi-billion-dollar acquisition is on the table, and they need his immediate authorization.

Ethan walks into the guest bedroom and locks the door. He opens his laptop. To ensure absolute silence, he switches his personal cell phone to 'Do Not Disturb' and tosses it onto the bed.

At 8:15 PM, I arrive at the front door of the townhouse building with a sleepy Rosie.

I reach for the door handle. It doesn't move.

I look closer. There is a black electronic scanner next to the door. The building requires a key fob for entry after 8 PM. I only have the metal key for the apartment upstairs.

I am locked out.

Panic flutters in my chest. I pull out my phone and dial Ethan's number.

It goes straight to voicemail.

I dial again. And again. Five times. Nothing.

I send a text. I'm locked out. The door needs a fob.

No response.

The wind howls down the street, biting through my thin sweater. Rosie sneezes, burying her face into my leg.

"I'm cold, Auntie," she whimpers.

I look at the intercom panel, but there are no names, just numbers. I don't know which apartment is his.

I have no choice. I pick Rosie up and carry her to a bus stop bench at the corner of the street, trying to use the glass shelter to block the wind. I take off my scarf and wrap it around Rosie's head. My lips are turning blue.

An hour passes.

I stare at my dark phone screen. A heavy, suffocating weight settles in my stomach.

He's ignoring me.

The thought is a physical ache. Why wouldn't he? I am a mess. I brought my crazy mother to his life, I lied about him being bankrupt, and now I'm bringing a kid to his apartment. He probably regrets letting me stay. He locked the door on purpose.

Tears prick my eyes, freezing on my lashes. I feel like a stray dog left on the curb.

At 9:15 PM, inside the guest room, Ethan slams his laptop shut. He just killed the billion-dollar deal.

He rolls his neck, walking out into the living room. It is pitch black. Empty.

Ethan freezes.

He turns and strides back into the bedroom, snatching his phone off the bed.

The screen lights up. Five missed calls. Eighteen text messages.

I'm locked out.

Rosie is really cold.

Are you asleep?

I'm sorry for bothering you.

That last text-the sheer, pathetic apology in it-hits Ethan like a bullet to the chest. His breath stops. His heart drops into his stomach.

He doesn't grab a coat. He doesn't grab his shoes. He grabs the key fob and sprints out the door.