Harlon Grant knelt, studying the woman collapsed on his floor. Flushed face. Shallow, ragged breathing. Bare feet. A bruise blooming on her cheekbone—fresh, still darkening.

The footsteps came before he could make a decision. Heavy. At least two men. Their voices carried through the door, muffled but urgent. "She can't have gone far. Check the stairwell."

Harlon didn't move. He looked at the woman on his floor, then at the door. The men were hunting her. A drugged, barefoot woman with a fresh bruise on her face, running from men who moved like security contractors.

He'd seen this before. Years ago, at a business dinner—a girl no older than twenty, glassy-eyed, being steered toward a private elevator by two men in suits. He told himself it wasn't his problem. He finished his drink and walked away. The next morning, the news reported a body found in the nearby river. He never forgot it. And he never forgave himself.

He reached down and lifted the woman off the floor.

She was lighter than he expected, her skin hot through the fabric of her dress. He laid her on the bed and stepped back.

He pressed a damp cloth to her forehead. She murmured something and turned her face into the pillow. The night stretched. Harlon stayed in the armchair by the window, replacing the compress every hour. He'd seen people drugged before. The first hours were the worst. After that, you waited.

He texted his assistant: Women's clothes, size small. St. Regis. Within the hour.

Morning sunlight cut through the curtains.

Amie woke to a splitting headache. She was in bed, under covers. Her dress was wrinkled and stained but intact. Fragments of the night before crashed back: the milk, Pierce's face, the lamp, the desperate run, the shadowy figure.

She sat up too fast. Her head pounded.

The bathroom door opened. A man walked out—tall, dark-haired, suit jacket still off, shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms. He saw her awake and gave a slight nod, as if finding a strange woman in his hotel room were a routine occurrence.

"Who are you?" Her voice scraped out of her. "Last night—did we—"

"No." He placed a glass of water on the nightstand. "You were drugged. You broke into my room. Nothing happened."

Before she could respond, his phone rang. He walked to the window. "Mother. I told you—I'll handle my own affairs."

The voice on the other end cut through, sharp enough that Amie caught every word. "...final deadline... you must bring a woman home within three days... or I will arrange the marriage myself. This is not a negotiation, Harlon."

"I know." He ended the call. The silence in the room was suddenly heavier than it had been a moment ago.

Amie stared at him. Three days. He needed a wife fast.

"Your name," she said. "Your full name."

"Harlon Grant."

Grant. She almost laughed out loud. She'd spent the night running from one Grant and had somehow ended up in the hotel room of another. "You're related to Pierce."

"Distant cousin." His tone shut the subject closed. "We don't speak."

But Amie's mind was already moving. This man had kept her alive while she was completely defenseless. He needed a wife within three days, before his family forced one on him. She needed a husband to escape Richard Mills' grip. They were both cornered.

She met his eyes. "You need a wife. I need a husband. Marry me."

His expression shifted—a hairline crack. Surprise, quickly masked. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. I know you didn't hurt me when I couldn't fight back. I know your mother is about to chain you to someone you don't want." She sat up straighter, ignoring the pounding in her skull. "A contract marriage. We don't interfere in each other's lives. When the time is right, we divorce. I don't want your money. I just need a legal status that Richard Mills can't override."

Harlon looked at her. Bruised. Barefoot. Eyes clear and unafraid. "Why you?"

"Because whatever woman your family picks—she'll have an agenda. I don't. I just want my freedom." She paused. "I'm a good bet."

A long silence. Then a single, decisive nod.

"Alright." He glanced at his watch. "Get dressed. My assistant will have the documents here in an hour. City Hall by nine."

He gestured to a shopping bag on the chair. Inside was a dress—simple, elegant, exactly her size. "I guessed."

Amie watched him, her mind reeling. She'd walked into the gala a disposable placeholder. Now here she was. Still better than last night.