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.

"I don't run a charity," Grace whispered, wiping broth from her lip. "I cooked. You clean."

Alaric looked at the two bowls. He had negotiated billion-dollar mergers. He had fired executives. He had never washed a dish in his life.

"No problem," he said, standing up with unearned confidence.

He carried the bowls to the sink. He grabbed the bottle of dish soap and squeezed. A massive glob of blue liquid shot out.

"Whoa!" Grace cried. "That's concentrated! You only need a drop!"

Alaric turned, startled. The soapy bowl slipped from his hand.

Crash.

Ceramic shards exploded across the polished concrete floor.

Silence filled the room. Alaric stood there, hands dripping with blue foam, looking like a guilty toddler in a silk suit.

Grace sighed, rubbing her temples. "Okay. You are banned from the kitchen. Go figure out the television."

Alaric retreated to the living room. The sofa was long enough for three of him. When he lay down, his feet were nowhere near the end. Grace brought him a thin, knitted blanket.

"It was my grandmother's," she said softly. "Goodnight, Alaric."

"Goodnight, Grace."

The lights went out. The apartment was plunged into darkness, save for the constellation of city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Alaric couldn't sleep. The sofa was too comfortable, too quiet. He could hear the faint hum of the air filtration system, but not Grace, in her soundproofed room a hundred feet away.

He pulled out his phone, dimming the screen. He began typing a list to Marcus.

1. Biometric access for Grace K. to penthouse and all facilities.

2. Full background check on Tyler Brock. I want dirt.

3. Set up a shell company. 'GK Restoration.' Fund it with 500k. Make her the sole proprietor.

A faint beeping sound came from the corner.

Alaric froze. He turned on his phone's flashlight.

A small, red light on a smoke detector was blinking rhythmically. It was a model he didn't recognize. One with a lens in the center.

Alaric sat up, his heart rate spiking higher than it had during the market crash of '08. He walked over to the device, pulled a chair over, and twisted it off the ceiling.

The back was stamped: RAYMOND SECURITY.

"What happened?" Grace's voice called out from the bedroom. The door creaked open.

Alaric shoved the device into his pocket. He lay back down, pulling the blanket up to his chin. "Nothing. Just... dropped my phone."

Grace squinted at him, then closed the door.

Alaric exhaled. He picked up his phone again.

4. Sweep the penthouse. Immediately. Tomorrow while she's out.

A drop of water landed on his forehead.

Plip.

He looked up. A sprinkler head was dripping slowly. Plip.

Alaric closed his eyes. He wasn't going to sleep tonight. He was going to plan. This apartment was going to get the most covert, high-tech security overhaul in the history of Tribeca, and he was going to find out which one of his partners was spying on him.

Grace stumbled out of the bedroom at 7:00 AM, eyes bleary. Alaric was already dressed in a fresh suit, looking annoyingly alert.

He pointed to a bucket in the middle of the floor. "Sprinkler's leaking. I'm going to fix it."

Grace groaned. "I'm so sorry. I don't have money for a plumber."

"I'll do it," Alaric said. "I know the building manager."

"Right." Grace pulled out her phone. "I have five hundred dollars left in my personal account. I'll transfer it to you for materials. Is that enough?"

Alaric's phone pinged. $500.00 received from Grace Kirk.

He looked at the number. It wouldn't cover the cost of the security consultants he planned to hire.

"It's plenty," he lied. "I know a guy. He owes me a favor."

Grace grabbed her coat. "I'm going to the library. Research. Don't kill yourself, okay? If it's too hard, just leave it."

The moment the door closed behind her, Alaric was on the phone.

"Marcus. Bring the team up. Now."

Five minutes later, the apartment was swarming with men in dark tactical gear. They carried spectrum analyzers and thermal cameras.

"Listen up," Alaric barked. "We are sweeping for every listening device, camera, and tracker in this building. I want a full diagnostic on the network. But-and this is crucial-everything must be put back exactly as it was. I want them to think their surveillance is secure. If a single picture frame is crooked, you're not getting paid."

The lead security tech looked at him with horror. "Sir, you want us to find a Raymond Security bug and... leave it active?"

"Yes," Alaric said. "And install our own parallel system. I want to see what they see."

The team worked with military precision. A camera in a light fixture was left untouched, but its feed was now routed through Alaric's servers. The sprinkler head was replaced, with the old, dripping one carefully put back in place.

By 4:00 PM, the apartment was silent. It looked exactly the same, but the air was now thick with competing layers of surveillance.

Alaric loosened his tie for effect and sat on the sofa.

Grace walked in at 5:30. She stopped, sniffing the air. "It smells... the same."

She looked at the ceiling. The bucket was still there. Still dripping. "You couldn't fix it?"

"No," Alaric said, trying to look modest. "The building manager is out of town."

Grace walked to the kitchen sink and turned it on. The water flowed in a perfect, steady stream. Hot water was instant.

"At least the plumbing works," she whispered. She turned to him, her face falling. "Alaric, I'm sorry. This place is a disaster."

She ran over and threw her arms around his neck.

Alaric stiffened. He wasn't used to spontaneous physical affection. But then, slowly, his arms came up to circle her waist. She smelled like old books and rain. It wasn't unpleasant.

Grace pulled back, looking exhausted. "Did you spend it all?"

"Down to the penny," Alaric said.

She sank onto the sofa. "Wait, did you at least look at the springs? It feels so soft now."

Alaric looked away. "I... fluffed the cushions."

"You are the best husband ever," Grace declared. "That's it. I'm taking you out to dinner. My treat."