The bathroom was larger than Eleonora's entire safe-house apartment. Steam filled the air, carrying the scent of expensive roses.

Eleonora turned off the shower. She felt scrubbed raw. She reached for the towel rack.

Empty.

The maid had taken her wet clothes. There was nothing left. Just one large, fluffy white towel on a hook, and...

She looked at the vanity. Beatrice had sent up a "nightgown."

It was a slip of vintage silk and lace. It was translucent. It was something a bride would wear on her wedding night in 1950.

"Old bat," Eleonora muttered. "She's trying to set us up."

She wrapped the towel around herself, tucking it securely over her chest. She would find her suitcase. Arthur had said he would bring it.

She opened the bathroom door and peeked out.

The bedroom was dim.

She stepped out, her bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rug. She made a break for the door leading to the hallway.

The door handle turned.

Eleonora skid to a halt.

Kristopher walked in. He was on the phone, his tie undone, the top buttons of his shirt unfastened.

He stopped.

Eleonora stood there, clutching the towel. A droplet of water ran down her neck, over her collarbone.

Kristopher slowly lowered the phone. He didn't speak. His eyes traveled down her legs, then back up to her face.

Eleonora squeaked. She took a step back, tripped on the edge of the rug, and flailed.

Kristopher moved. It was a blur of motion. He caught her by the waist before she hit the floor.

His arm was hard, unyielding. He pulled her flush against him.

The towel slipped an inch.

Eleonora's hands slammed against his chest to steady herself. She could feel the heat radiating through his shirt. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with that cedarwood scent.

For a second, nobody breathed.

Kristopher looked down at her. His eyes were dilated. He wasn't looking at her like a nuisance anymore. He was looking at her like a man who had been starving and didn't realize it until he saw a feast.

Eleonora's heart hammered against her ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.

She pushed him away. "Pervert!"

Kristopher stumbled back a half-step. He regained his composure instantly, masking the hunger with a sneer.

"This is my room," he said. "And you fell on me."

"Where are my clothes?" Eleonora demanded, pulling the towel tighter. "Your grandmother is insane."

"She's romantic," Kristopher corrected. He walked to his walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and came back holding a white dress shirt.

He tossed it to her.

"Wear this. That lace thing... it's not appropriate."

"Appropriate?" Eleonora caught the shirt.

"Just put it on," Kristopher said, turning his back. He walked to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink. His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass.

He watched her reflection in the darkened window as she ran back to the bathroom.

He took a long swallow of the scotch. It burned, but not as much as the image of her bare shoulders.

The bathroom door opened.

Eleonora stepped out. She was wearing his shirt. It engulfed her, the hem hitting mid-thigh. She had rolled up the sleeves.

She looked small. Vulnerable. And incredibly sexy.

Kristopher gripped the glass until his knuckles turned white.

A knock at the door broke the tension.

Arthur entered, pushing a silver Rimowa suitcase. "Madam's luggage. Retrieved from the apartment."

Eleonora's eyes widened. She lunged for the suitcase. "Thank you!"

Kristopher narrowed his eyes. "Why are you so jumpy?"

"I'm not jumpy. It's my private property."

"In this house, nothing is private." Kristopher stepped closer. "What's in there? More broadcasting equipment to slander me with?"

"No!"

Kristopher reached for the handle. Eleonora grabbed it at the same time.

They wrestled for a second. The latch, damaged from the hasty packing, popped open.

The suitcase fell over.

Contents spilled across the floor. Not wigs and microphones, but burner phones, encrypted hard drives, and several manila folders.

A thick report slid across the floor and stopped at Kristopher's feet. The cover page read: "Schaefer Media Group – Q3 Financial Analysis – CONFIDENTIAL."

Silence stretched out, thin and brittle.

Kristopher bent down and picked it up. He flipped through the pages, his expression hardening with each turn. They were riddled with her notes, red ink circling manipulated revenue streams and hidden debts.

He looked from the damning report to Eleonora. A slow, arrogant smirk spread across his face, but this time it held no humor, only a chilling understanding.

"You call me a scumbag," he said softly. "While you're planning to gut my company from the inside?"

Eleonora's face burned. It was one of her working copies, something she'd grabbed in the rush.

"It's... research," Eleonora lied. "For my next exposé."

Kristopher held up a page detailing a shell corporation he'd thought was buried forever.

"Liar," he whispered. He stepped closer, tossing the report onto the nightstand. "This isn't journalism. This is a corporate raid. All this outrage... is it because I ignored you?"

"You are delusional," Eleonora spat. "I hate you."

"Hate is just love with nowhere to go." Kristopher trapped her against the wall. He placed a hand next to her head. "Now. Tell me everything."

The shift was sudden. The seduction vanished, replaced by the cornered CEO.

Eleonora blinked. "What?"

"Your plan. Your endgame. I need to know the liability."

Eleonora swallowed. She gave him a heavily redacted version. The over-leveraged assets. The coming debt crisis. She left out her short position, her network of informants, and her ultimate goal: a seat on the board.

Kristopher listened, his face impassive. When she finished, he pulled out his phone and typed a message.

"Done," he said.

"What's done?"

"I've postponed the quarterly earnings call. It buys me two weeks."

Eleonora stared at him. "You can just... do that?"

"I have resources you can't imagine." Kristopher leaned in. "I've contained your little fire. Now you solve mine."

"What do you want?"

"Play the wife. Convince Beatrice we are happy. Help me secure the OmniCorp merger, and I won't turn you over to the SEC for attempting to manipulate the market."

Eleonora looked up at him. He was a monster. But tonight, he was her monster.

"Fine," she whispered.

Thunder cracked outside, shaking the windowpanes.

The room was dark, lit only by a single lamp.

Kristopher pointed to the left side of the massive King bed. "You sleep there. Stay on your side. If you cross the center line, there will be consequences."

Eleonora grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. She lay down on the very edge of the mattress, balancing precariously.

Kristopher lay down on the right. He lay on his back, hands folded over his stomach like a corpse.

Minutes ticked by.

Eleonora couldn't sleep. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache.

She shifted. The mattress moved.

"Stop moving," Kristopher said from the dark.

"I can't help it. I'm not used to... this."

CRACK-BOOM.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in stark blue-white.

Eleonora gasped and curled into a ball, pulling the duvet over her head.

Kristopher turned his head. "Are you afraid of thunder?"

"No," came the muffled reply. "It's just loud."

Another boom. The bed shook with Eleonora's trembling.

Kristopher sighed. It was a heavy, long-suffering sound.

He sat up. He grabbed a remote and pressed a button. The heavy blackout curtains slid shut, sealing out the flashes. He pressed another button. The sound of ocean waves filled the room, drowning out the rain.

Eleonora peeked out from the duvet.

Kristopher lay back down and turned away from her. "Go to sleep."

Eleonora stared at his broad back. The tension in her shoulders loosened.

She drifted off.

But sleep brought the old dreams. The basement. The cold. The noise.

In her sleep, she sought warmth. It was a biological imperative.

She rolled.

She crossed the center line.

Kristopher was awake. He felt the dip in the mattress. Then, he felt a warm, soft weight press against his side.

Eleonora's arm draped over his waist. Her head nuzzled into his shoulder.

Kristopher froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid.

He reached down to push her away.

"Please," she mumbled in her sleep. "Don't turn off the light."

His hand hovered over her arm.

He smelled her shampoo. Vanilla and honey. It was the same shampoo the maids stocked in his bathroom.

He didn't push her.

Slowly, tentatively, he lowered his arm. He let her stay.

The warmth of her body seeped into his side, thawing a cold spot he hadn't realized was there. For the first time in months, the racing thoughts in his head slowed down.

He closed his eyes.