The rain started as they pulled up to the City Clerk's office. It wasn't a drizzle; it was a deluge. The sky had opened up, dumping water on Manhattan.

The line outside the building was long, filled with couples huddled under umbrellas. But Gerhard's driver pulled right up to the curb, and a security guard was already opening the door for them.

They bypassed the line. Dawn felt the eyes of the other couples on them-envy, curiosity. She kept her head down, burying her chin in the collar of Gerhard's trench coat.

Inside, it was chaotic. But they were ushered into a private side room. Gerhard spoke briefly into his phone. "Sterling, the waiver came through? Good. Send a copy to the clerk's private email. I want this done in ten minutes."

Gerhard looked at Dawn. She was still wearing the red dress and his coat. He was wearing a three-piece bespoke suit. He looked too perfect. Too rigid.

He reached up and loosened his tie. With a quick, fluid motion, he pulled it off completely and tossed it into a wastebasket in the corner. Then he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt.

Dawn stared at him. "That was silk," she said.

"It was stiff," he replied. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up slightly. "Better?"

"You look... human," she said before she could stop herself.

He looked at her, his eyes unreadable. "Don't get used to it."

The clerk was a tired-looking woman with reading glasses on a chain. She looked at their paperwork.

"Voluntary?" she asked, stamping a form.

Dawn hesitated for a fraction of a second. Gerhard's hand moved to the small of her back. His palm was hot through the fabric of her dress. It felt possessive.

"Yes," Dawn said.

"Rings?" the clerk asked.

Dawn froze. "We didn't..."

Gerhard reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small velvet box. He flipped it open.

Inside sat a diamond. It was a pink oval diamond, massive and flawless, set in rose gold.

Dawn gasped. "Gerhard, I can't. That's..."

"It's a prop," he cut her off. He took her left hand. His thumb and forefinger circled her ring finger for a brief, calculating moment, as if testing the fit of an invisible band, before he spoke again. "Wear it."

He slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. Not a millimeter of space.

Dawn looked up at him, confusion warring with shock. "How did you know my size?"

"I'm good at estimating dimensions," he said smoothly. "It's part of the business."

He put a simple platinum band on his own finger.

"By the power vested in me," the clerk droned, "I pronounce you husband and wife."

There was a pause. The clerk looked up, expecting a kiss.

Gerhard turned to Dawn. He didn't lean in. He took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze.

"A pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Holcomb," he said.

They walked out of the office. The rain was coming down in sheets now. It bounced off the pavement, creating a mist.

Gerhard snapped open a large black umbrella. He held it over Dawn, ensuring she was completely covered. His own left shoulder was exposed to the rain. The water soaked his expensive shirt instantly, turning the fabric dark.

He didn't flinch. He guided her to the car, opening the door for her.

Once they were inside, safe and dry, he reached into his wallet again. He pulled out a black American Express Centurion card.

"PIN is your birthday," he said, handing it to her. "Buy some clothes. You need a wardrobe that fits the part."

Dawn took the card. It felt heavy, like the business card, but colder. "My birthday?"

"I saw it on your ID," he said. He signaled the driver. "740 Park Avenue."

Dawn stopped breathing for a second. "740 Park? That's..."

"Home," Gerhard said.

"Wait," Dawn said, panic rising again. "I have to go back to Queens. My stuff. My clothes..."

"I'll have someone pick up your things," Gerhard said. "You are not going back there."

"But Lydia..."

"Lydia is the past," Gerhard said. He looked out the window at the rain-blurred city. "You live in the sky now, Dawn."

Dawn looked at the ring on her finger. It sparkled even in the dim light of the car. It was beautiful. And it was heavy.

The elevator opened directly into the apartment.

Dawn stepped out onto white marble floors. The space was cavernous. The walls were mostly glass, offering a panoramic view of Central Park, which looked like a dark, wet forest under the storm.

It was quiet. Not the stifling silence of Lydia's apartment, but a vast, expensive silence.

A woman was waiting for them. She was in her fifties, wearing a severe grey uniform. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

"Welcome home, Mr. Holcomb," she said. Her accent was German. She looked at Dawn, her eyes scanning her quickly but respectfully. "Mrs. Holcomb."

Dawn blushed. "Hi."

Gerhard shrugged off his wet jacket and handed it to the woman. "Marta, this is Dawn. Take her to the master suite."

Dawn spun around. "Master suite? I thought..."

"We have to make it look convincing," Gerhard said. He was unbuttoning his cuffs. "The maids talk. If we sleep in separate wings, the press will know by morning."

He saw the look of terror on her face. "Relax. The bed is big enough for four people. I won't touch you. I usually sleep on the sofa in my study anyway."

It was a lie, but he said it so easily that Dawn believed him.

"Go," he said.

Dawn followed Marta down a long hallway. The walls were hung with art. Real art. She stopped in front of a painting. It was a Rothko. A real, vibrating block of red and black.

"He likes the modernists," Marta said, noticing Dawn's stare.

They entered the master bedroom. It was bigger than Dawn's entire apartment in Queens. The bed was indeed massive, covered in white linens that looked like clouds.

"The closet is through here," Marta said, opening a set of double doors.

Dawn walked in and gasped.

One side of the walk-in closet was filled. Rows of dresses, blouses, cashmere sweaters. Shelves of shoes.

"Mr. Holcomb had them sent over an hour ago," Marta said. "From Bergdorf's."

Dawn touched the sleeve of a silk blouse. It was soft as water. "An hour ago? But we only just..."

He had been that sure she would say yes. Or he was that prepared for anyone to say yes.

"I will run a bath," Marta said. "You look... tired."

Dawn went into the bathroom. It was all marble and chrome. She stripped off the red dress and the trench coat. She sank into the deep tub. The hot water loosened the knot in her chest.

She cried, just for a minute. Silent, hot tears that mixed with the bathwater. She was safe. She was rich. And she was completely alone.

She dried off and put on a pair of silk pajamas she found in the closet. They were a pale blue. She put on a matching robe, tying the belt tight.

She walked back out to the living area.

Gerhard was sitting on a white sofa. He had a laptop open on his knees. He was speaking German into a headset, his voice sharp and commanding.

When he saw her, he stopped mid-sentence. He pulled the headset off and closed the laptop with a snap.

"Dinner," he said.

He walked to the dining table. It was set for two. But instead of a fancy meal, there were two steaming bowls.

"Chicken noodle soup," Gerhard said. "Marta said you looked pale. It's... comfort food, yes?"

Dawn stared at the bowl. It smelled like rosemary and thyme. "Yes. Thank you."

She sat down. Gerhard sat opposite her. He watched her take the first spoonful.

"It's good," she said.

"Good." He picked up his spoon.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The rain lashed against the windows.

"I need to go back tomorrow," Dawn said suddenly.

Gerhard stopped eating. "I told you, I'll send someone."

"No," Dawn said. She put her spoon down. Her hand was trembling, but her voice was firm. "There's a box. Under my bed. I need to get it myself. Lydia... she won't give it to a stranger. She'll throw it out just to spite me."

Gerhard looked at her. He saw the fear in her eyes, but also the steel.

"What's in the box?"

"My parents," she said simply.

Gerhard studied her face. He nodded slowly. "Fine. But you don't go alone. My driver takes you. And he stays with you."

"Okay," Dawn said.

"Eat," Gerhard commanded gently. "You're too thin."

Dawn ate. For the first time in years, she felt full.

The next morning, the rain had stopped, but the humidity remained. The air was thick and gray.

Dawn sat in the back of the town car. Her hands were sweating. She was wearing jeans and a simple white t-shirt from the new closet, but she felt like she was wearing armor.

The car pulled up to the crumbling brick building in Queens. A group of teenagers on the stoop stopped talking and stared at the shiny black vehicle.

"Wait here," Dawn told the driver.

"Mr. Holcomb gave strict instructions to accompany you, ma'am," the driver, a large man named Frank, said.

"Please," Dawn said. "Just give me ten minutes. If I bring you in, she'll scream. It will take longer."

Frank hesitated, then nodded. "Ten minutes. Then I'm coming up."

Dawn got out. She walked to the front door. She tried her key. It didn't turn.

Lydia had changed the locks. Of course she had.

Dawn banged on the door. "Lydia!" she shouted, her voice cracking with the effort.

She heard shuffling inside, then the locks turning. The door swung open.

Lydia stood there. She was wearing a stained bathrobe. Her hair was a bird's nest. When she saw Dawn, her face twisted into a snarl.

"You have the nerve to come back here?" Lydia shrieked. "Mr. Vane called me fifteen times! He said you weren't there! He said you made a fool of me!"

She reached out to grab Dawn's arm. Dawn stepped sideways, dodging the claw-like hand.

"My... things," Dawn forced out, the two words feeling like gravel in her throat.

"Your things?" Lydia laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "You don't own anything! I paid for the roof over your head! Everything in here is mine!"

Dawn didn't argue. She ducked past Lydia and ran down the hallway to the small utility room she used as a bedroom.

It was a disaster zone. Her clothes were scattered on the floor. Her books were ripped.

Dawn dropped to her knees. She felt under the bed.

Her fingers brushed against cold metal.

Thank God.

She pulled out the rusted iron box. It was heavy.

"That's mine!" Lydia screamed from the doorway. She lunged at Dawn.

"No!" Dawn curled her body around the box.

Lydia grabbed Dawn's hair and yanked. Dawn cried out. She tried to stand up, but Lydia shoved her.

Dawn fell backward. Her head hit the corner of the wooden dresser.

A sharp, hot pain exploded in her forehead.

She touched her head. Her fingers came away red. Blood dripped down into her eye, blinding her on one side.

Lydia froze. She stared at the blood. Then her eyes narrowed. "Look what you made me do! You clumsy idiot!"

She reached for the box again. "Give me that! Your father owed me money! Whatever is in there is payment!"

Dawn scrambled back, clutching the box to her chest. The pain in her head was throbbing, making her dizzy. But a cold rage was rising in her gut.

"Don't," Dawn whispered, the single word a raw, guttural sound.

"Or what?" Lydia sneered. "You'll cry?"

Dawn didn't speak. She couldn't. The words were locked away. Instead, she acted. She held up her left hand. The pink diamond caught the light from the singular, dirty window. It blazed like a star in the dim room.

Lydia's eyes widened. She stared at the ring. The greed on her face was instant and terrifying.

"Who..."

Dawn shook her head, her throat too tight to form a name. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers slick with a mixture of sweat and blood. She had prepared for this. She opened a note she had typed in the car and held the screen up for Lydia to see. The text was simple, brutal, and legally vetted:

ANY FURTHER CONTACT OR HARM WILL BE MET WITH IMMEDIATE LEGAL ACTION FROM HOLCOMB INDUSTRIES' COUNSEL. CEASE AND DESIST.

Lydia stepped back. She looked at the ring, at the blood on Dawn's face, and at the name on the screen. Fear flickered in her eyes.

"You're lying," Lydia whispered.

Dawn just stared, her silence more damning than any shout.

She used the moment of shock to scramble to her feet. She hugged the box tight and ran. She pushed past Lydia, ran down the hallway, and burst out the front door.

Blood was running down her face, dripping onto her white t-shirt.

She didn't care. She had the box.