The driver, a man with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, opened the rear door. "Ms. Watkins. Or should I say, Mrs. Hunter?"

"Let's stick to Elsie for now," she said, sliding onto the leather seat. It smelled of new car and isolation.

The drive to Long Island took an hour. As the city skyline faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the dense, manicured greenery of the North Shore, Elsie felt a tightening in her chest. This was Gatsby country. Old money. The kind of wealth that didn't shout; it whispered threats.

The iron gates of the Hunter Manor were two stories high. They groaned open slowly, revealing a driveway that wound through a forest of ancient oaks. The house itself sat on a cliff overlooking the Sound. It was a monstrosity of grey stone, turrets, and ivy-beautiful, in a way that suggested it had eaten people.

The car stopped. The driver opened her door.

A butler was waiting on the steps. He looked like he had been carved out of the same grey stone as the house.

"Welcome, Madam," he said. "I am Godfrey. Mr. Hunter is expecting you in the library."

"Is he... up for visitors?" Elsie asked, trying to sound like the concerned wife she was paid to be.

"He is having a good day," Godfrey said cryptically.

He led her through a foyer that could fit her entire apartment building inside it. The air was cool and smelled of beeswax and lemon polish. It was silent. Dead silent.

They reached a set of heavy double doors. Godfrey knocked once, then opened them.

"Ms. Watkins," he announced.

Elsie stepped inside.

The library was dim, lit only by a few green-shaded lamps and the dying light of the sunset filtering through heavy velvet drapes. The walls were lined with books that reached the ceiling.

In the center of the room, near the fireplace, sat a wheelchair.

Hardin Hunter sat in it, his back to her. He was looking into the fire. A thick blanket was draped over his legs.

Elsie took a breath. Showtime.

She walked forward, her heels sinking into the Persian rug. She softened her face, widening her eyes to look sympathetic.

"Hardin?" she said softly. "I'm Elsie."

The wheelchair whirred as he turned it around with a joystick.

Elsie stopped. The photos didn't do him justice. Even pale, even with dark circles under his eyes, his bone structure was devastating. High cheekbones, a nose that was perfectly straight, and lips that were currently curled into a sneer.

He didn't look frail. He looked like a caged predator pretending to be asleep.

He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her short hair, then her shoes, then her eyes. It felt like a physical touch, invasive and cold.

"You're shorter than I expected," he said. His voice was a low rasp, like gravel grinding together.

"I can wear higher heels," Elsie said, keeping her voice light.

"Don't bother. I don't like the noise." He coughed, a dry, hacking sound that shook his shoulders. He reached for a glass of water on the side table, his hand trembling slightly.

Elsie's instinct kicked in. She stepped forward. "Here, let me help-"

She reached for the glass.

Hardin's hand shot out. He gripped her wrist.

The grip was shocking. It wasn't the weak grasp of a dying man. It was iron. It was hot. It was strong enough to bruise.

Elsie gasped, her eyes flying to his. For a second, the sheer power in his fingers terrified her.

"Don't," he hissed. "Touch. Me."

He released her as if she were made of fire, but the effort seemed to cost him everything. He slumped back into the chair, his chest heaving, his face draining of what little color it had. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, and his hand-the one that had just crushed her wrist-was now shaking violently, spasming against the armrest.

Elsie rubbed her wrist, stepping back, her heart racing. A rally, she thought. The doctors said terminal patients sometimes have bursts of adrenaline before the crash. She watched him struggle to breathe, the illusion of strength vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"I was just trying to help," she whispered, watching him with a mix of fear and clinical curiosity.

"I don't need your help," Hardin wheezed, closing his eyes as if the light hurt them. "I need your signature and your silence."

"You have my signature," Elsie said, her sympathy evaporating as she rubbed the red marks on her skin. "Silence costs extra."

Hardin let out a short, humorless laugh that turned into another cough. "Silas said you had teeth. Good. You'll need them."

He picked up a remote with a trembling hand and turned on a projector screen that descended from the ceiling. A calendar appeared.

"Your schedule," he said, his voice weaker now. "Tuesdays, charity gala. Wednesdays, dinner with my mother. Fridays, you disappear. I don't care where you go, just don't be here."

"Charming," Elsie said. "And what do we do on the other days?"

"We exist in separate wings of this house and wait for my heart to stop beating," Hardin said flatly. "That is what you're paid for, isn't it? The widow's wait."

"I'm paid to be your wife," Elsie corrected. "That implies some level of... interaction."

"We are interacting now," Hardin said. "Are you satisfied?"

"Hardly."

Hardin stared at her. The firelight danced in his eyes, making them look like molten gold.

"Get out," he said softly. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late. And don't look at me like I'm a charity case, Elsie. I might be dying, but I can still ruin you."

"You can try," Elsie said.

She turned and walked out. She felt his eyes on her back, burning a hole through her silk blouse.

When the door clicked shut, she leaned against the wall in the hallway. She looked down at her wrist. There were red marks where his fingers had been.

She touched the spot. It was warm.

"He's strong," she whispered to herself. "For a dying man, he fights like a devil."

Inside the library, Hardin Hunter waited until her footsteps faded.

He gripped the armrests, his knuckles white, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing the tremor in his hands to stop. It wasn't an act. The rage, the need to maintain the facade, the physical restraint required to not throw her out-it all took a toll.

He picked up his phone and dialed Silas.

"Is she settled?" Silas asked.

"She's here," Hardin said, his voice still raspy. "She tried to help me with my water."

"Did she buy the act?"

Hardin looked at his own hand, remembering the pulse he had felt in her wrist. "She bought it. But just barely. She's observant." He paused, looking at the tablet on his desk where a security alert was blinking. "And Silas? That ex of hers. Jed Reeves."

"Yes, sir?"

"I saw the intercept report. He tried to upload revenge porn?"

"We scrubbed it. But he's persistent."

"Then so are we," Hardin said, his eyes darkening. "If he comes within ten miles of this house, break his legs. She's under the Hunter protection now. No one touches her but me."

"Understood, sir."

Hardin hung up. He sat back down in the wheelchair and covered his legs. He hated the chair. But for now, it was the only safe place to hide.

---

Elsie sat at her end. The soup in front of her-some kind of cold cucumber puree-was untouched.

The chair at the head of the table was empty.

Godfrey poured her wine. "Mr. Hunter will be dining in his study tonight. He is feeling... indisposed."

Elsie looked at the empty chair. "Indisposed. Right."

She ate quickly, the silence of the house pressing against her ears. She finished her wine in one gulp.

"Where is the study?" she asked Godfrey.

"The West Wing, Madam. But Mr. Hunter gave strict instructions-"

"I'm his wife," Elsie said, standing up. "I don't follow instructions from the staff. No offense, Godfrey."

"None taken, Madam," Godfrey said, though he looked terrified.

Elsie marched toward the West Wing. The corridors here were darker, the air cooler. She found the double oak doors at the end of the hall. She didn't knock. She was tired of the games. She wanted to know why he was avoiding her after dragging her into this gothic nightmare.

She pushed the door open.

"Hardin, we need to-"

She froze.

Hardin was standing by the window. He wasn't in the wheelchair. He was leaning heavily against the heavy oak desk, his knuckles white as he supported his weight. He held a tumbler of whiskey in his other hand, looking out at the moonlit grounds.

He spun around fast, but the movement made him sway. He gripped the desk tighter to steady himself, his face tightening in what looked like pain.

"Do you not know how to knock?" he snarled, though his voice lacked the booming power of a healthy man.

Elsie paused, processing. He was standing, yes, but he looked like a strong wind would knock him over. "You skipped dinner," she said.

"I wasn't hungry."

"We have a deal," Elsie said, walking into the room. "The deal involves appearances. Eating dinner alone on my first night doesn't look like a happy marriage."

"There is no audience here, Elsie," Hardin said. He took a sip of whiskey. "Just you and me. And I don't like looking at you."

The insult landed like a slap.

"Why?" Elsie asked. "Because I remind you that you're dying?"

"Because you remind me of everything I hate," Hardin said. "Greed. Desperation. You're a gold digger, Elsie. Let's not pretend you're here for my sparkling personality."

"I'm here because I had no choice," Elsie shot back.

"Everyone has a choice. You chose the money." He opened a drawer and pulled out a checkbook. "How much? How much to leave me alone for the rest of the night? Five thousand? Ten?"

Elsie stared at him. "I don't want your money."

"Bullshit," Hardin laughed. It was a cruel sound. "That's all you want. You want the payout. You want to be the tragic Widow Hunter in black Chanel."

He pushed off the desk and walked toward her. His steps were slow, measured, as if he were calculating the energy cost of each one. He stopped inches from her. He smelled of sandalwood and expensive scotch.

"Prove it," he whispered.

"Prove what?"

"Prove you're earning your keep." His eyes dropped to her chest, then back to her face. "If you're really my wife, then perform."

Elsie's face burned. "What are you talking about?"

"Jed said you were boring," Hardin said. He saw the flinch in her eyes and pressed harder. "He said you were a prude. Maybe that's why he cheated. Maybe if you were more... adventurous, he wouldn't have looked elsewhere."

It was a low blow. It was beneath him. But Hardin needed her to hate him. He needed her to run away, to keep her distance, because every time she got close, his heart did something that had nothing to do with failure and everything to do with want.

Elsie's hands clenched into fists. The shame washed over her, hot and stinging. But then, something snapped.

She looked at this arrogant, cruel man. She saw the challenge in his eyes. He wanted her to cry. He wanted her to flee.

No.

Elsie raised her chin. A cold smile touched her lips.

"You want a show, Hardin?" she asked softly. "Is that it? You're too sick to do anything but watch?"

Hardin's eyes narrowed. "Careful."

"You want to see if I'm worth the money?" Elsie reached for the top button of her blouse. "Fine."

She undid the first button.

Hardin's breath hitched. He hadn't expected her to call his bluff.

She undid the second button. Her collarbone was exposed, pale and smooth in the dim light.

"Is this what you want?" she asked, stepping closer. She was invading his space now. "Do you want to see what Jed gave up?"

She reached for the third button.

Hardin didn't move. He was frozen, his eyes locked on her fingers. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the gold irises. The air in the room grew thick, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on Elsie's arms stand up.

She wasn't scared anymore. She was furious. And she was powerful.

"Well?" she challenged, her fingers lingering on the fabric. "Are you going to stop me, or are you going to watch your investment?"

---

Hardin's gaze was heavy, a physical weight on her skin. He wasn't sneering anymore. His lips were parted slightly, his breathing shallow.

Elsie didn't stop. But she didn't continue undressing, either. Instead, she reached out.

She grabbed the lapels of his black shirt.

Hardin stiffened. "What are you doing?"

"Verification," Elsie whispered.

She yanked him forward. He stumbled a step, caught off guard by her strength. They were chest to chest now. She could feel the heat radiating off him.

Her hands slid up his chest, flattening over his heart.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

It was strong. Steady. Powerful.

"Funny," Elsie murmured, looking up into his eyes. "For a heart that's failing, it sure beats hard."

Hardin's panic was instant. He realized his mistake. He had let her get too close. He had let her touch the engine that was supposed to be broken.

Reaction overrode logic. He grabbed her shoulders. His grip was bruising.

"Get off!"

He shoved her. Hard.

Elsie flew backward. Her hip slammed into the edge of the heavy oak desk. Pain exploded in her side, sharp and blinding. She gasped, doubling over.

Hardin froze. He looked at his hands, then at her wincing form. Horror flashed across his face. He took a step toward her, his hand reaching out. "Elsie, I-"

He stopped himself. He couldn't care. He couldn't be the husband who checked for bruises. He had to be the monster.

He clenched his fist and dropped it to his side, leaning back against the wall as he gasped for air, clutching his chest. "Clause Four," he choked out, his voice strained. "No physical contact. You breached the contract."

Elsie straightened up, rubbing her hip. She saw him leaning against the wall, pale and sweating. "I breached the contract? You just assaulted me!"

"I protected... my health," Hardin lied, his voice ragged. "Stress... is fatal. Get out. Now."

Elsie rubbed her hip, wincing. Her eyes were wet, but not with tears. With shock.

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

"You're a maniac," she said breathlessly. "You're not just sick, Hardin. You're broken."

She saw the checkbook on the desk. The check he had written to make her leave.

She picked it up.

"Here's what I think of your money," she said.

She ripped the check in half. Then in quarters. She threw the confetti of paper at his feet.

"I'm staying," she said. "Not for the money. But because I signed a contract. And unlike you, I keep my word. I'll wait until you die, Hardin. But don't expect me to mourn."

She turned and limped out of the room.

Hardin watched her go. When the door slammed, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.

He slumped against the desk, burying his face in his hands. His heart-his perfectly healthy, surgically repaired heart-was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

"Dammit," he whispered.

The shadows in the corner of the room shifted. Silas stepped out. He had been there the whole time, silent as a ghost.

"That was... messy," Silas observed dryly.

"She touched me," Hardin said, his voice ragged. "She felt it, Silas. She felt the heartbeat."

"She thinks it was adrenaline," Silas said soothingly. "Or anger. She doesn't know about Zurich. But you have to be more careful. If you shove her again, she might not just tear up a check. She might tear up the NDA."

"I didn't mean to shove her," Hardin said, looking at the torn paper. "She was just... too close."

"We need to keep her closer," Silas countered. "We found chatter on the dark web. Jed is looking for leverage. If we push her away, she becomes a target. If we keep her here, under the guise of this marriage, she's safe."

Hardin looked at the door where Elsie had exited.

"She hates me," Hardin said.

"Good," Silas said. "Hate is safer than love. Especially for her."

Elsie lay in the massive guest bed, staring at the ceiling. Her hip throbbed. A bruise was already forming, a dark purple bloom on her pale skin.

She pulled the duvet up to her chin. The house was quiet, but it felt alive. Watching her.

She picked up her phone. No messages from Jed. The lawyer had done his job.

But there was a text from Debbi.

How is he? Is he a crypt keeper?

Elsie typed back: He's a nightmare. But he's alive.

She deleted it.

She typed: He's just a job.

She sent it.

She rolled over, closing her eyes. But every time she drifted off, she felt the phantom sensation of Hardin's heartbeat against her palm. It didn't feel like a dying heart. It felt like a drum of war.

---