Spencer's hand never made contact.

A hand-large, tanned, and wearing a Patek Philippe watch-shot out from nowhere and grabbed Spencer's wrist.

Garrick.

He didn't look angry. He looked bored. Which was infinitely more terrifying.

"Touch her," Garrick said softly, "and you lose the hand."

He shoved Spencer backward. Spencer stumbled, nearly dropping his cigar.

"Jesus, G," Spencer laughed nervously, rubbing his wrist. "It was a joke. You're so uptight lately."

Garrick pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand, methodically cleaning each finger as if he had touched rotting meat. He didn't look at Spencer. He dropped the handkerchief on the ground, a silent, devastating insult.

"Change," Garrick said to Ever, not looking at Spencer. "We're playing polo."

He steered her into the club, his hand heavy on the small of her back. She could feel the tension radiating off him. His muscles were coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

In the women's locker room, Ever changed into the riding gear he had pre-ordered for her. White breeches, tall leather boots. Through the thin wall, she heard Spencer's voice in the men's locker room.

"Stupid bitch," Spencer was yelling. Then a slap. A sharp, wet sound. Then sobbing.

Ever froze, one boot half on. It was his date. The girl he had brought.

Her stomach churned. It sounded like St. Mary's. It sounded like the nights Clay had to fight off the older boys.

Ever walked out to the stables. The smell of hay and horse manure was grounding. It was the one smell money couldn't synthesize.

"I didn't know you could ride," Garrick said, watching her approach.

"I learned... at a summer camp," Ever lied. She learned on a swaybacked mare named Bessie at the orphanage farm. She was the only living thing that didn't judge her.

Garrick mounted a massive black stallion. He gestured for the groom to help Ever up onto a mare, but she swung herself up into the saddle before the groom could touch her.

Garrick raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

He rode up beside her. He reached over, correcting her grip on the reins. His chest pressed against her back, his arm encircling her. It looked like instruction. It felt like a cage.

"You're mine, Ever," he whispered into her hair. "My canary. You only fly where I tell you."

Ever stared straight ahead, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

They rode out onto the field. Spencer was there, mounted on a grey gelding. He looked angry. Humiliated.

The game began. It wasn't a real match, just a scrimmage, but Spencer was playing dirty. He cut off Ever's line twice.

Then, on a straightaway, he veered. He spurred his horse, slamming its shoulder into Ever's mare's flank.

Her horse stumbled. Ever lost a stirrup. She teetered, the ground rushing up to meet her.

A strong arm grabbed her bicep. Garrick. He had anticipated the move. He hauled her upright, steadying her horse with brute strength.

"Are you insane?" Garrick roared at Spencer.

"Oops," Spencer smirked. "Horse spooked."

They rode back to the sidelines. Spencer dismounted and stormed over to his date, a young girl with tear-streaked makeup holding a water bottle.

"You're too slow!" Spencer yelled. He slapped the bottle out of her hand. Then he grabbed her arm, shaking her.

The girl cried out.

Something inside Ever snapped. The fear vanished, replaced by a white-hot rage. She saw herself in that girl. She saw every woman who had ever been bullied by a man with a checkbook.

Ever slid off her horse and ran over.

"Let her go!" Ever screamed.

She shoved Spencer. It was like shoving a wall, but he was so surprised he let go of the girl.

"Stay out of this, whore," Spencer spat. He raised his riding crop.

Ever flinched, closing her eyes, waiting for the sting.

The impact never came. Instead, she heard a sickening crunch.

Ever opened her eyes. Garrick was there. He hadn't just punched Spencer; he had executed a single, calculated strike to the nose that sent Spencer sprawling into the dirt. There was no wild rage in Garrick's movement, only a terrifying, clinical precision. He stood over his bleeding friend, his chest heaving slightly, looking less like a brawler and more like an executioner.

The entire club had gone silent.

Garrick Head, the billionaire who never lost his temper, had just drawn blood.

For Ever.

Spencer lay in the dirt, clutching his face, making a high-pitched keening noise.

"My nose! You broke my nose!"

Garrick didn't move to hit him again. He simply adjusted his cuffs, staring down at Spencer with eyes devoid of humanity.

"Say her name again," Garrick said, his voice a quiet, lethal drone. "Say one word about her, Spencer, and I will dismantle your father's company brick by brick. By tomorrow morning, your family will be destitute, and you will be in a cell. Do not test me."

Spencer went pale beneath the blood. He knew Garrick wasn't bluffing.

Ever stood there, trembling. Not from fear of Spencer anymore, but from fear of Garrick. The violence was so raw, so easily accessed.

Garrick turned to Ever, his expression hardening. He grabbed her wrist.

"We're leaving."

He dragged her to the car. He didn't open the door for her this time. He shoved her in.

"Are you stupid?" he yelled as the driver pulled away. "He had a crop! He could have blinded you!"

"He was hurting her!" Ever yelled back, rubbing her wrist. "I couldn't just watch!"

"She is paid to be there!" Garrick roared. "She knows the deal! It's a transaction, Ever! Just like you!"

The words hung in the air.

Just like you.

Ever went cold. All the fight drained out of her.

"Right," Ever whispered. "I forgot. I'm just an asset."

Garrick stopped. He looked at Ever, realizing what he had said. Regret flashed in his eyes, but his pride wouldn't let him apologize.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Back at the apartment, the fight continued.

"You don't speak to men like Spencer," Garrick lectured, pacing the living room. "You don't challenge them. It puts you in danger."

"So I should just stand there and look pretty?" Ever asked quietly.

"Yes! That is your job!"

"I'm a canary," Ever said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Canaries don't speak. They just sing and die."

Garrick stared at her. He hated it when she went numb. He wanted the fire. He wanted the passion, even if it was anger.

He spun around and swept a Ming vase off the console table.

SMASH.

Porcelain shards exploded across the floor.

Ever didn't flinch. She just looked at the pieces.

"Clean it up," Garrick said, breathing hard. "And don't leave this apartment until I tell you."

He stormed into his study and slammed the door.

Ever knelt on the floor. She picked up a shard of blue and white porcelain. It was sharp. She pressed her thumb against the edge until a bead of blood welled up.

Leo.

If Garrick could do this to his best friend... what would he do to Clarence? What would he do to her son if he found out?

Ever cleaned the floor in silence.

Late that night, Ever lay in the guest room. She could hear Garrick pacing in the hallway. He stopped outside her door. She saw the shadow of his feet under the crack.

He stood there for five minutes. He wanted to come in. He wanted to apologize, or maybe just claim her again.

Ever held her breath, clutching the burner phone under the covers.

Google Flights: New York to Zurich.

His shadow moved away. He didn't come in.

Three days.

They lived like ghosts in the penthouse. Ever slept in the guest room. Garrick slept in the master. They passed each other in the kitchen like strangers.

He was waiting for her to break. To come crawling back.

On the third afternoon, Ever's burner phone buzzed.

Ernestine: The specialist needs the deposit for the MRI. $5,000. Today.

Ever grabbed her purse. She told the doorman she was going to the pharmacy.

She walked three blocks to a CVS. She grabbed a bottle of Tylenol and walked to the register.

"Debit," she said, swiping the black card. She intended to ask for cash back, the maximum amount, and do it at five different stores.

DECLINED.

The cashier popped gum. "Try again, honey."

Ever swiped again.

DECLINED.

Her blood ran cold. He had frozen the card.

"Do you have another form of payment?" the cashier asked, eyeing Ever's expensive coat suspiciously.

"No," Ever whispered. "I... I don't."

Ever walked out of the store, humiliated. She stood on the sidewalk, the wind whipping her hair. He was starving her out. It was a siege.

She checked her secret savings account on her phone. The "Runaway Fund." It had taken her two years to save $40,000.

She transferred $5,000 to Ernestine. It hurt physically. That was plane tickets. That was a month of rent in Switzerland.

But Leo needed the scan.

Ever walked back to the apartment. She couldn't fight him with anger. She had to fight him with what he wanted.

She stopped at a gourmet market. She used the last of the cash in her wallet to buy steaks, rosemary, and a bottle of expensive Cabernet.

She cooked. The smell of searing meat and garlic filled the cold apartment.

When Garrick came home at 8:00 PM, he braced himself for the silence.

Instead, Ever met him at the door. She was wearing his favorite silk dress. She had put on makeup. She was smiling.

"Welcome home," Ever said softly. "Dinner is ready."

Garrick stopped dead. He dropped his briefcase. He looked from Ever to the table set with candles.

His shoulders dropped. The tension left his face. He looked... relieved.

"Ever?"

Ever walked over and took his coat. "I'm sorry," she lied. "I was stubborn. You were just protecting me."

Garrick let out a long breath. He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her neck.

"I missed you," he mumbled. "God, I missed you."

They ate. He cut her steak for her. He poured the wine. He was charming, attentive, loving.

"The card..." Ever said tentatively, swirling her wine. "It didn't work today."

Garrick pulled out his phone. "Done. It's unlocked. And I doubled the limit."

"Thank you."

Later, in the master bedroom, Ever let him touch her. She let him believe he had won. She let him believe the domestic bliss was real.

When he fell asleep, exhausted and satisfied, Ever slipped out of bed.

She took the black card from his wallet. She went to the bathroom.

She set up a series of small, inconspicuous transfers through various shell accounts she had created months ago. $800 to a "consulting firm." $1,200 to a "catering service." Small enough not to trigger an immediate fraud alert from his accounting team, but enough to replace what she had spent on Leo.

She crept back into bed.

Garrick turned over, draping his heavy arm over her.

"Eve..." he whispered in his sleep. "Don't go."

Ever stared at the ceiling. I'm already gone.