"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."

"This," Grace announced, gesturing grandly to a rusted food truck on the corner, "is the best dining experience in New York."

Alaric looked at the paper boat in his hand. The tacos were overflowing with meat and salsa. Grease was already soaking through the cardboard.

"Three dollars," Grace said, taking a massive bite. "Eat."

Alaric took a tentative bite. The flavor exploded in his mouth-spicy, savory, fresh. It was, annoyingly, better than the wagyu beef he'd had at the gala last week.

They sat on a wooden bench nearby. The street was loud, alive with music and chatter.

"My mom used to bring me here," Grace said, her voice softening. "Before the gallery went under. I want to buy it back one day. The gallery, I mean."

Alaric watched her. The neon sign reflected in her eyes. "You will," he said quietly.

A low, aggressive rumble cut through the air. A bright red Ferrari screeched to a halt at the curb, double-parking illegally.

The door opened. Tyler Brock stepped out, wearing sunglasses at night. A flashy blonde slid out the passenger side.

Grace froze, her taco halfway to her mouth.

"Well, well," the blonde's shrill voice cut through the noise. "Look who it is. Eating trash on the street."

Tyler sauntered over, sneering. He looked at Alaric, taking in the perfectly tailored but deliberately understated suit. "So this is him? The new money?"

Alaric didn't stand up. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his movements slow and deliberate. "Can I help you?"

The blonde looked Alaric up and down. Even in a simple suit, his face was symmetrical, his jawline sharp. She licked her lips. "You're kinda cute for a guy slumming it. Shame you picked a loser. Her dad is finished, you know."

Grace stood up, stepping between them. "Leave us alone, Tyler."

Tyler laughed. "Grace, come on. Look at this guy. Does he even make in a year what I paid for the rims on that car?"

Alaric glanced at the Ferrari. It was the entry-level model. He had three in his garage that he let the interns drive.

He stood up then. He towered over Tyler.

"That's a 488, right?" Alaric asked.

Tyler puffed out his chest. "Yeah. Jealous?"

"Not really," Alaric said calmly. "The transmission on that model is notorious for slipping in second gear. And those rims? They're aftermarket. Cheap alloy. You're going to crack one on a pothole."

Tyler blinked. "What do you know? You push paper."

"I read prospectuses," Alaric lied effortlessly. "And I know that your front left tire is underinflated. It's a blowout waiting to happen."

Tyler scoffed. "Let's go, babe. I can't stand the smell of poverty."

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer about the harassment," Grace called out.

"Yeah, yeah," Tyler waved her off. "Enjoy your tacos."

The Ferrari roared to life and peeled away, leaving a cloud of exhaust.

Grace was shaking. Alaric reached out, his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder.

"Ignore them," he said. "He's an idiot. And that tire really is going to blow."