The Kirk Gallery in SoHo loomed against the gray sky, a monument to artistic passion that was rapidly being dismantled by corporate greed.

Grace directed the driver to her small apartment above the gallery. The front door to the gallery itself was chained, a notice of seizure plastered over the glass. She dragged her battered suitcase through the side entrance. The stairwell was silent, the worn wooden steps groaning under her weight. A former colleague hurried past on the landing below, keeping her head down, pretending Grace wasn't there.

"I thought you'd be in a jail cell by now," a voice drawled from inside her apartment. The door was ajar.

Collins Raymond sat on her small sofa, sipping her whiskey. He hadn't bothered to use a glass.

Grace tightened her grip on the suitcase handle. "Get out of my apartment, Collins."

She headed for the bedroom. She just needed her clothes, her laptop, and the few sketches she had managed to save.

Collins followed her, his presence filling the small space. He was Alaric's opposite-ostentatious where Alaric was restrained, his suit a flashy Italian cut, his cologne overpowering.

"I heard the news," Collins said. "You're marrying Hunter? Congrats on becoming a corporate asset."

"Move, Collins," Grace said, trying to step around him.

Collins stuck out a foot. It was childish, petty, and effective. Grace tripped, stumbling forward. She braced herself for the impact of the floor, but instead, she slammed into a hard chest.

Hands gripped her arms. The smell of sandalwood and overly sweet cologne filled her nose. Grace gagged.

She shoved herself away, looking up into the face of her ex-boyfriend, Tyler Brock.

"Careful there, babe," Tyler said, his smile slick and practiced. "You look shaky. Facing a subpoena?"

Grace felt her skin crawl. Tyler had been her gallery's financial advisor, until she found him in this very hallway, falsifying provenance documents.

"Don't touch me," Grace snapped.

Collins giggled, linking his arm through Tyler's. "Oh, leave her alone, Ty. She's stressed about her merger. The biggest, most hostile takeover of her life."

"Actually," Grace said, straightening her spine. "The lawsuit has been dropped."

Tyler frowned, his brow furrowing. "Grace, don't be stupid. You know what those documents implicated. You don't have a choice."

Grace pushed past them into her old bedroom. It was already half-empty, tagged with seizure notices on her most valuable art books. She opened her suitcase and started throwing clothes in-jeans, sweaters, anything she could grab.

The door clicked shut behind her. Tyler was there. Alone.

"Get out," Grace warned.

Tyler stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Look, I know you're desperate. If you need money... I can help. I can make the documents disappear." His eyes raked over her body. "We could work something out. A loan. For old times' sake."

Grace stared at him, disgust pooling in her stomach. "I have a husband, Tyler."

Tyler laughed. It was a barking, ugly sound. "A husband? Who? Some public defender you picked up?"

Grace whipped out her phone and shoved the photo of the certificate in his face. "Hunter. Alaric Hunter."

Tyler squinted at the screen, then snorted. "Hunter? I know three Hunters. One is in rehab, and the other two are in jail. Good luck with that."

The door burst open. Collins stood there, eyes blazing. "What are you doing in here with her?"

Tyler jumped back, raising his hands. "She was trying to bribe me! To destroy evidence! I told her no!"

Grace let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You are unbelievable."

"You're leaving?" Collins screeched. "Your father is going to kill you! Hunter will bury you both!"

"Let him try," Grace muttered. She zipped the suitcase and shoved past them, heading for the stairs.

She made it to the bottom step just as the front door slammed open. Richard Kirk stormed in, his face a mask of red fury. He was clutching a sheaf of papers-a contract, torn in half.

"You!" He pointed a shaking finger at Grace. "What did you do? My deal with Collins is dead! He says Hunter voided the side agreement!"

Grace gripped the handle of her suitcase until her knuckles ached. The storm had arrived.

Richard charged up the remaining steps. He raised his hand.

Grace flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. But the blow didn't land. She had swung her suitcase up instinctively, the hard plastic shell taking the impact of her father's hand with a loud thwack.

She opened her eyes. The fear was still there, pounding in her chest, but something else had joined it. Anger. Cold and sharp.

"I'm married," Grace said, her voice shaking but audible. "You don't own me anymore."

Richard's face turned a shade of purple Grace had never seen. "Married? To who? That corporate shark you hired?"

"His name is Alaric Hunter," Collins yelled from the top of the stairs. "The man who just cost us millions!"

Richard laughed, a cruel, grinding sound. "Fine. Excellent. Since you're a married woman, your husband can pay for your mother's specialized care facility."

The blood drained from Grace's face. "No."

Richard pulled out his phone. He dialed a number, putting it on speaker. "Dr. Evans? This is Richard Kirk. Cancel the private payments for Catherine Kirk. Move her to the state ward. Effective immediately."

"No!" Grace screamed. She lunged for the phone, but Tyler caught her arm, holding her back.

"Grace, stop," Tyler whispered, his breath hot on her ear. "Just apologize. I can fix this with your dad. Just beg him."

Grace stomped on Tyler's instep with her heel. He yelped and let go.

"I will find the money," Grace hissed at her father. "I will figure it out. And when I do, you will never see either of us again."

"Get out!" Richard roared. "And don't come crawling back when that monster dumps you!"

Grace turned and ran. She burst out the front door into the night. It had started to rain-a cold, biting downpour that soaked her shirt in seconds.

She didn't stop running until she reached the corner, the Maybach still waiting patiently where she'd left it. She collapsed into the back seat, shivering violently.

She had nowhere to go. Her apartment wasn't safe; her father knew where it was. She was legally shielded but financially and emotionally devastated.

Her phone rang. Unknown Number.

She stared at it, then swiped answer. "Hello?"

"Grace?" The voice was deep, calm. Alaric. "Where are you? My security detail lost visual."

Grace let out a sob. She couldn't help it. The dam broke. "My father's house. I... I got kicked out."

There was a pause on the line. "Send me your location. I'm coming to get you."

"You're in a meeting," Grace asked, wiping her eyes. She remembered he had to go to his office.

Alaric hesitated. "The meeting is over. Sit tight."

He hung up. Inside the climate-controlled interior of his office, Alaric turned to Marcus.

"Find me the location of the nearest state-run long-term care facility to this address," he ordered. "And get me the administrator on the phone. I am making a donation. An anonymous one. It will cover the care of a Catherine Kirk. In perpetuity."

Marcus looked like he was about to cry. "Sir, you want me to arrange a multi-million dollar endowment in-"

"Ten minutes, Marcus."

Thirty minutes later, a black Maybach, identical to the one she was in, rattled up to the curb. The engine was silent, a predator in the rain.

The driver's door opened. Alaric stepped out. He was wearing the same perfect suit, now shielded by a black umbrella.

Grace looked up at him, her hair plastered to her skull, her eyes red and swollen.

Alaric didn't say a word. He walked over, opened her car door, and extended a hand.

"Let's go home," he said.

Grace took his hand. It was warm. She climbed out of one car and into the other. The new car smelled of nothing but clean leather and power. The heater was blasting.

For the first time that day, Grace stopped shaking.

The Maybach purred as Alaric's driver parked it in the private garage beneath a glass tower in Tribeca.

He looked up at the structure. It was a gleaming spear of steel and light. Exposed art installations hung in the lobby. A flickering holographic display cast long, dancing shadows against the polished marble. It looked more like a modern museum than the derelict warehouses Hunter Industries was scheduled to demolish next month.

"This is it," Alaric said, his voice small. "Penthouse. Direct elevator."

Alaric didn't blink. He grabbed her heavy suitcase from the trunk as if it weighed nothing. "Lead the way."

The elevator was silent, ascending with unnerving speed. The doors opened directly into the apartment. By the time they arrived, Grace was panting. Alaric wasn't even winded.

Alaric used a thumbprint to open the massive steel door. It swung open with a faint hiss.

Alaric made a mental note: Add her biometrics.

The apartment was a cavern of glass and white furniture. The living room held a sprawling sectional sofa and a wall that was a single television screen. The kitchen was a gleaming expanse of stainless steel.

Grace turned to him. "Per the agreement, we have separate rooms. But... I don't see any other doors."

Alaric looked around. "This is the guest wing. My quarters are on the second floor. This entire level is yours." He rubbed the back of his neck, a feigned gesture of casualness. "Actually, Grace, I have bad news. The holding company that absorbed your gallery's debt? It got shut down today. Your professional accounts are frozen."

Grace's eyes widened. "What? So you have nothing?"

"Zero," Alaric lied smoothly. "I can't access your professional funds. But I'll handle your expenses. Consider it an advance."

Grace's face softened. The tension in her shoulders dropped. "It's okay. We're both in the same boat. We'll... figure it out." She pointed to the en-suite bathroom that was larger than her old bedroom. "You should shower. You're soaked."

Alaric stepped into the bathroom. It was so large his footsteps echoed. The showerhead was a rainfall fixture the size of a dinner plate. When he turned the knob, the water was instantly and perfectly hot.

He stood under the powerful spray, a billionaire in a perfect shower, wondering what the hell he was doing.

"I found the guest closet!" Grace called out.

Alaric turned off the water and wrapped a thick, plush towel around his waist. He stepped out.

Grace was holding up a pair of pajamas. They were charcoal grey silk. They were plain, minimalist, and exquisitely tailored.

"It's from the closet," Grace explained, her face turning bright red. "It was in a drawer marked 'Guest Attire'. It's a men's large. It's the only thing that will fit you."

Alaric stared at the dark silk. His left eye twitched. "Thank you."

"Take it or leave it," Grace said, tossing it at him. "Or sleep naked."

She ducked into the kitchen to hide her blush.

Alaric sighed. He pulled on the pajamas. They were ridiculously soft. He looked in the mirror, ran a hand through his damp hair, and snapped a selfie. He texted it to Marcus.

Proof of life. Send the asset protection agreement to my personal email.

Marcus replied with a single thumbs-up emoji.

When Alaric walked out, Grace was placing two steaming bowls of what looked like takeout ramen on the massive marble island. She looked up, saw the perfectly fitting pajamas, and bit her lip to keep from staring.

"Dinner is served," she said.

Alaric sat down. He looked at the noodles. He looked at his wife, who was trying so hard to be brave in a gilded cage. He picked up his fork.

"Thank you," he said.