Addie stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. She scrubbed her skin raw, trying to wash away the smell of Rick's whiskey and the fear that still clung to her.

When she stepped out, she was wearing her most conservative pajamas-cotton, buttoned to the neck, with little clouds printed on them.

She walked into the living room.

Council was standing by the window, looking out at the brick wall of the next building. He turned when he heard her.

He looked at the bedroom door. Then at her.

"Where do I sleep?" he asked.

Addie pointed to the sofa.

Council looked at it. Then he looked back at her. His expression was one of genuine disbelief.

"You expect Council Bartlett to sleep on... that?"

"The bedroom is for Leo and me," Addie said. She crossed her arms. "The contract didn't specify sleeping arrangements. It just said 'cohabitation'."

"This is ridiculous," Council said. "I'll take the bed. You take the sofa."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"Leo wakes up three times a night. Unless you want to change diapers and sing 'Baby Shark' at 2 AM, you sleep out here."

Council opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. The thought of a crying child was more terrifying than the lumpy sofa.

"Fine," he snapped. "Goodnight."

Addie handed him a thin blanket. "Goodnight, Mr. Bartlett."

She went into the bedroom and locked the door. Click.

Council heard the lock turn. It annoyed him. Did she think he was going to attack her? Him? He had models throwing themselves at him. While she was locked away, he took the opportunity for a quick, cursory search. He scanned the mail on the counter-bills, junk mail, a letter from Leo's preschool. He glanced at the titles of the few books on the shelf. Nothing. No hidden bank statements, no secret letters. For now, her story held up.

He sat on the sofa. Squeak.

He lay down. His feet hung off the end by a good six inches. He tried to curl up. A metal spring dug into his hip.

He groaned.

The apartment was noisy. A siren wailed outside. The couple upstairs was arguing about money. The refrigerator hummed like a dying engine.

Council stared at the ceiling. There was a water stain shaped like a map of Florida.

He closed his eyes. He couldn't sleep. His back was already aching.

Hours passed.

At 2:00 AM, the bedroom door creaked open.

Council feigned sleep. He watched through his eyelashes.

Addie tiptoed out. She was holding a glass. She went to the kitchen sink and filled it with tap water.

She turned around and saw him.

The moonlight filtered through the dirty window. It illuminated Council, curled into a ball, clutching the thin blanket, his expensive legs dangling in the air. He looked ridiculous. He looked... human.

Addie felt a twinge of guilt. Just a small one.

She took a step toward him.

Council's eyes snapped open.

"Enjoying the view?" he rasped.

Addie jumped. Water sloshed over the rim of her glass onto the floor.

"I... I was getting water," she stammered.

Council sat up. He rubbed his neck. He looked miserable.

"This is torture," he said. "This is a violation of the Geneva Convention."

"It's my life," Addie said softly. "If you don't like it, you can leave. You can go back to your penthouse and tell your mother you failed."

It was a challenge.

Council narrowed his eyes. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? You want me to breach the contract."

"I want to sleep," Addie said. "And I want you to stop complaining."

"I never complain," Council lied. "I negotiate."

"Not tonight, Council."

She used his first name. It hung in the air between them.

She turned and went back to the bedroom.

Council lay back down. He shifted, trying to find a spot that didn't hurt.

She's tough, he thought. I'll give her that.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in years, he fell asleep without checking the stock market.

Council woke up to the smell of burning grease.

He opened his eyes. His neck felt like it had been fused into a solid block of concrete. He groaned and sat up.

The kitchen was a flurry of activity. Addie was at the stove. Leo was in a high chair, banging a plastic spoon on the tray.

Council stood up. He stretched, his back cracking audibly.

He walked to the counter. He needed coffee. He needed the highest grade Ethiopian blend, freshly ground.

He saw a jar. Instant Coffee.

He picked it up like it was a specimen of a deadly virus.

"You call this coffee?" he asked.

Addie flipped an egg. "If you don't want it, the tap water is cold."

Council gritted his teeth. He spooned the brown dust into a mug and added hot water. He took a sip. It tasted like burnt dirt. He swallowed it anyway.

"Uncle!" Leo shouted. "You look like a panda!"

Council frowned. He touched his face. Dark circles.

Addie snorted. She tried to cover it with a cough, but he heard it.

"I am Council," he said to the child. "Not Uncle."

"Coun-sul," Leo repeated.

Addie slid a plate onto the table. Toast. Scrambled eggs.

Council sat down on a wobbly chair. He looked at Addie. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. No makeup. She looked fresh.

"Let's discuss your educational philosophy," Council said, cutting his toast with surgical precision. "I don't want the Bartlett stepson raising hell in private school."

Addie wiped her hands on a rag. She leaned against the counter.

"My philosophy is survival," she said. "I want him to know that money is hard to get and easy to lose."

Council scoffed. "Rich coming from a woman who married a stranger for leverage."

Addie's eyes flashed. "I use every legal asset available to protect my family. That's not greed, Mr. Bartlett. That's strategy. You of all people should understand ROI."

Council paused. The fork hovered halfway to his mouth.

ROI. Return on Investment.

"You view this marriage as a business strategy?"

"Isn't that why you hired me?" Addie asked. "To maximize the return on your public image?"

Council stared at her. Most women tried to pretend they loved him. Or they tried to pretend they didn't care about his money while spending it. Addie was admitting it was a cold calculation.

He felt a strange flicker of respect.

"Fair point," he said. "As long as you don't pretend we have an emotional connection, we'll get along fine."

Smack.

Leo swung his arm. The glass of milk on his tray went flying.

It arced through the air, heading straight for Council's lap.

Council didn't yell. He didn't jump back to save his pants.

His hand shot out. Instinctively. He caught the glass mid-air, just inches before it hit his leg. Milk sloshed over his hand and dripped onto his dark trousers, but the glass didn't break.

Addie gasped. She rushed forward with a towel.

"I'm so sorry!"

She looked at Council. He was holding the sticky glass. He wasn't looking at his ruined pants. He was looking at Leo.

"Careful, kid," Council said. His voice wasn't angry. It was... calm.

Addie stopped scrubbing the table. She stared at him. He had saved the glass. He hadn't scared the boy.

Council caught her staring. He realized he had broken character. He cleared his throat and stood up abruptly.

"This cashmere is dry-clean only," he said, his voice turning icy again to regain control. "I'm adding it to your debt."

Addie rolled her eyes. The moment was gone.

"Deduct it from my alimony," she shot back.

The doorbell rang.

"That's my driver," Council said. "Try not to burn the apartment down while I'm gone."

He walked out.

Addie watched the door close. She looked at the milk stain on the floor.

He caught the glass, she thought. He has reflexes.

Council sat in his office. The ergonomic chair cost five thousand dollars. It adjusted to his spine perfectly.

But he missed the pain.

He shifted. It was too quiet here.

"Sir." Marcus walked in. He placed a file on the desk. "Updated background check on Addie Henry."

Council opened it.

Former Junior Appraiser, Sotheby's. Specialization: 19th Century European Art.

Reason for leaving: Family medical emergency (Sister's cancer).

Council ran his finger over the text. Sotheby's. That explained the "ROI" comment. That explained why she knew the value of the chair in the law firm. She wasn't uneducated. She had a career. She had a life. And she gave it up to nurse a dying sister and raise a nephew.

He felt a knot of shame in his gut. He had treated her like trash.

That evening, Council returned to the apartment.

The TV was blaring cartoons. Addie was at the small table, typing furiously on a laptop.

"Dinner?" Council asked. He was starving. He had skipped lunch.

"Pot," Addie said, not looking up. "Stove."

Council walked to the kitchen. A pot was sitting on the burner. He lifted the lid.

Instant noodles.

He sighed. "Sodium and regret," he muttered.

He ladled a bowl. He saw something green. Bok choy. And a poached egg, perfectly round, floating on top.

He sat down and took a bite.

The yolk broke, coating the noodles in rich yellow cream. The broth was spicy. It was hot.

It was delicious.

He ate quickly. He scraped the bottom of the bowl.

Leo waddled over. He was holding a stuffed bear.

"Yummy?" Leo asked. "Addie makes best noodles."

Council looked at the boy. Then at the empty bowl.

"It was... edible," he said.

Addie closed her laptop. She walked over to take the bowl.

"Why did you leave Sotheby's?" Council asked suddenly.

Addie froze. Her hand tightened on the ceramic bowl.

"Family," she said.

"To take care of him?" Council nodded at Leo.

Addie turned to face him. Her eyes were tired but clear.

"Some things are more valuable than antiques, Mr. Bartlett. Like people."

The room went quiet.

Council looked at her. Really looked at her. In his world, people were assets. They were depreciating assets. No one had ever told him that a person was worth more than the bottom line.

"Bath time, Leo," Addie said, breaking the tension. She scooped the boy up.

Council sat alone. He heard the water running. He heard Leo splashing. He heard Addie laughing.

It was a sound he had never heard in the Bartlett manor.

He pulled out his phone.

To: Marcus

Subject: Sarah Henry

Message: Stop the investigation. Delete the file.

The bathroom door opened. Leo ran out, naked and wet, escaping the towel.

He slammed right into Council's legs.

"Gotcha!" Leo shrieked.

Council didn't recoil. He didn't push the wet child away.

He reached down and picked him up. He held the boy awkwardly, but securely.

Addie stepped out of the bathroom, holding the towel. She stopped.

She saw the billionaire, the Ice King, holding her nephew against his expensive sweater.

And for a second, he didn't look like a devil. He looked like a father.