Clive had left for a meeting. He promised to be back, but Dahlia didn't hold her breath.

She was alone in the silence of the VIP suite.

Her phone chimed. A voicemail.

She fumbled for it. She pressed play. Her finger slipped and hit the speakerphone icon.

Dahlia!

Gaynell's voice filled the room. It bounced off the high ceilings.

You ungrateful little brat! I called your building's superintendent and he said you haven't been home in three days. Where are you? Are you with a lover?

Dahlia curled into a ball. Make it stop.

If you ruin this marriage, Dahlia, I swear to God, I will call in the markers I hold on Gertie's nursing facility. You think Harrington's checks clear without my sign-off on the Douglas family trust disbursements? I can bury her in paperwork and debt so fast her head will spin. You think Harrington will protect you? He doesn't care about you. You are a broodmare to him. Nothing more.

The door clicked open.

Dahlia didn't hear it over her mother's screaming voice.

So you better be pregnant, or you better be dead. Those are the only two excuses I will accept.

The message ended.

Silence rushed back into the room.

But it wasn't empty silence. It was heavy. Breathing.

Dahlia wiped her tears quickly. She reached for the phone to turn it off.

A hand intercepted hers.

Large. Warm. Calloused.

Clive took the phone from her hand.

Clive? Dahlia gasped.

He didn't answer. He ended the call. He turned the phone off. He tossed it onto the sofa across the room.

The thud was loud.

How much of that did you hear? she whispered. Her voice was trembling.

Enough, Clive said. His voice was terrifyingly calm. It was the eye of a hurricane.

He walked to the bed. He sat down. The mattress dipped.

Is that true? he asked. About your foster mother?

Dahlia nodded. She couldn't speak. The shame was choking her.

And the threats?

Always, she whispered.

Clive stared at her. He looked at the bandages covering her eyes. He thought about the prenup. The money she asked for. He had thought she was greedy. He had thought she was just another Douglas, looking for a payout.

He had been wrong.

She wasn't greedy. She was a hostage.

He felt a cold rage settle in his bones. It was a familiar feeling, one he used in boardrooms to destroy competitors. But this time, it was personal.

Why didn't you tell me? he asked again.

Because you're a Harrington, she said. You and the Douglases... it's all the same world. I'm just the currency.

Clive felt like he had been slapped.

Is that what you think I am? Just a checkbook?

Aren't you?

Clive looked at the takeout bag in his hand. He had brought her congee from her favorite place in Chinatown. He had remembered she mentioned it once, six months ago.

He opened the container. The smell of ginger and chicken filled the room.

Eat, he said.

He dipped the spoon in. He blew on it.

Dahlia hesitated.

Open, he commanded.

She opened her mouth. He fed her.

It was intimate. It was domestic. It was completely at odds with the conversation they just had.

The spoon clicked against her teeth.

Sorry, he mumbled.

It's okay.

He fed her the whole bowl. Every spoonful was an apology he didn't know how to say out loud.

When she was finished, he wiped her mouth with a napkin.

Dahlia, he said.

Yes?

No one threatens my wife. Not even her mother.

Dahlia felt a shiver run down her spine. It wasn't fear. It was something else. Hope?

Clive stood up.

I have to make a call.

He walked out to the balcony. He dialed Arthur.

Arthur. I want a forensic audit on the Douglas family trust. I want to know every debt, every lien, every skeleton in their closet.

But sir, that's your father-in-law.

Not for long, Clive said. If they want a war, I'll give them a massacre.

She woke to a suffocating silence. Anxious, needing a connection to the outside world, however toxic, she fumbled on the bedside table until her fingers found the cold glass of her phone. She held the power button, and the device vibrated to life in her hand. Not a minute later, the sun streamed through the window, warming the foot of the bed.

Dahlia woke up to the sound of her phone ringing.

She groaned. Gaynell. Again.

She reached for the phone. She had an idea. A petty, desperate idea.

She answered.

Before Gaynell could speak, Dahlia pitched her voice an octave higher. She made it breathless. Sweet.

Oh, Clive... stop it... Mother is on the phone.

She paused, as if listening to someone whisper in her ear.

Gaynell went silent.

Dahlia giggled. It was a fake, sugary sound.

No, honey, not there... I have to talk to her.

Dahlia? Gaynell's voice was suddenly cautious. Respectful. Is Clive there?

Yes, Dahlia sighed. He's being... very distracting. We're having a lazy morning.

She made a smacking sound. A kiss.

Mwah. Behave, darling.

Okay, Mother, I have to go. Clive is getting impatient. Love you, bye.

She hung up.

She threw the phone down and let out a long breath.

Victory.

She smiled to herself. That should buy her a week of silence. Gaynell wouldn't interrupt if she thought they were making an heir.

So, I'm distracting?

The voice came from the bathroom doorway.

Dahlia froze. Her blood turned to ice.

She turned her head slowly toward the sound.

Clive?

He was leaning against the doorframe. He had just showered. A towel was draped around his waist. Water droplets clung to his chest hair. He watched her with amusement dancing in his eyes.

You didn't leave? she squeaked.

Clive walked into the room. No. I slept on the couch.

Dahlia wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. She covered her face with her hands.

Oh my god. You heard that.

Every word, Clive said. He walked closer. He smelled of soap and amusement.

I... I just wanted her to leave me alone, she stammered.

Clive chuckled. It was a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in her chest.

It was a very convincing performance, he said. I particularly liked the 'not there' part. Where exactly was I not supposed to be touching you?

Dahlia's face burned. She felt like she was on fire.

Shut up, she groaned.

Clive sat on the edge of the bed. He was enjoying this.

You know, he said, his voice dropping lower. If you need sound effects next time, just ask. I can be very... vocal.

Dahlia hit him with a pillow.

He caught it easily. He laughed again.

It was the first time she had ever heard him really laugh. It wasn't cold. It wasn't cruel. It was warm.

She peeked out from behind her hands.

You're not mad?

Mad? Clive tossed the pillow aside. That was the highlight of my week. Watching you manipulate that witch? It was art.

He poured her a glass of water.

Here. Hydrate. All that moaning must have made you thirsty.

Dahlia groaned again, pulling the sheet over her head.

Clive watched the lump under the covers. His smile faded slightly, replaced by a softer look.

He liked this. He liked her.

The realization terrified him.

It was afternoon. The room was golden.

Clive was on a Zoom call. He had his AirPods in, murmuring about quarterly projections.

Dahlia was bored. She was listening to an audiobook, but her mind wandered.

She could hear Clive breathing. She could hear the rustle of his papers.

She moved to reach for her water. Her hand knocked the remote off the table.

Clive stopped talking mid-sentence.

Hold on, he said to the board of directors.

He took the AirPods out. He walked over, picked up the remote, and placed it in her hand.

You're a hazard, he said. But his tone was gentle.

Clive?

Hmm?

What do you look like?

Clive paused. I look like a man.

Dahlia rolled her eyes behind the bandages. Helpful. I mean... I saw you at the wedding, but you were far away. And scary.

Scary?

Intimidating. I want to know.

Clive sighed. He sat down.

Well, I have two eyes. A nose. A mouth.

Dahlia reached out. Can I?

Clive stared at her hand hovering in the air.

He knew he should say no. This was crossing a line. This was Clause 34B being shredded.

But he leaned forward.

Fine. But don't poke me in the eye.

Dahlia's fingertips touched his jaw.

Stubborn, she muttered. He hadn't shaved since yesterday. The stubble was rough against her soft skin. It sent a zing of electricity through his nerves.

She traced his jawline. Strong. Square.

She moved up. High cheekbones.

Your nose is straight, she whispered. Like a Roman statue.

She moved to his eyes. He closed them. Her fingers fluttered over his eyelids.

You look tired, she said. Even your eyes feel heavy.

She moved down.

Her thumb brushed his lower lip.

Clive stopped breathing.

Her finger traced the shape of his mouth. It was a stern mouth. But under her touch, it softened.

He had the sudden, insane urge to bite her finger. To taste her skin.

Dahlia pulled her hand back.

You're handsome, she decided. But you look mean.

Clive opened his eyes. He grabbed her hand before she could pull it all the way back.

I am mean, he whispered.

No, you're not. Not really.

Clive looked at her. She was blind, but she saw him better than anyone else ever had.

He let go of her hand. He stood up abruptly.

I have to get back to the meeting.

He put his AirPods back in.

But for the rest of the call, he couldn't concentrate on the profit margins. He could only feel the ghost of her fingers on his lips.