The penthouse was silent. It was 2:00 AM.

Gracelyn slipped out of the guest room. She was barefoot, moving like a ghost across the polished concrete floors.

She reached the living room control panel. Gracelyn popped the plastic casing off with a nail file. She pulled out the connector cable she had scavenged from a phone charger and spliced it into the data port.

She connected her phone.

Gracelyn's fingers tapped rhythmically on the glass screen. She bypassed the home firewall. She used the HVAC system as a backdoor into the external router.

Target: Durham Global Mainframe. Project Chimera files.

She wasn't just hacking a website. Gracelyn was attempting to breach one of the most secure corporate servers on the planet. She didn't want to change a public record; she wanted to find the skeleton in his closet, the one piece of leverage that could buy her freedom.

The progress bar crawled. 40%... 60%...

Inside the master bedroom, Constantine was awake. He was lying in bed, watching a tablet. The screen showed a night-vision feed of the living room.

He watched Gracelyn huddled by the thermostat. A small smile played on his lips.

A message popped up from Marcus: Intrusion detected on Node 4. Block it?

Constantine typed back: No. Let her through. I want to see how good she is.

Back in the living room, Gracelyn hit the final encryption layer. It was tough. Department of Defense level. But she had a worm she'd written years ago. Ghost.

She deployed it. The lock shattered.

Gracelyn was in.

She found the directory. Project Chimera. A black-ops acquisition of a rival tech firm. The methods were brutal, borderline illegal. This was it.

Gracelyn began the download.

The screen flashed red. ACCESS DENIED. SYSTEM LOCKDOWN. ANOMALY PURGED.

He had let her in just to slam the door in her face. It was a trap.

Gracelyn exhaled, a long, shaky breath. She had failed. He was toying with her.

She disconnected, snapped the panel back on, and crept back to bed.

The next morning, Gracelyn was almost cheerful. A manic, frustrated energy buzzed under her skin. She sat at the breakfast table, drinking coffee.

Constantine walked in. He looked fresh, sharp. He poured himself a cup of black coffee.

"You slept well," he noted.

Gracelyn typed: Very well.

"Good," he said. "Because we have a busy night. The Met Gala is tonight. You need to attend as Mrs. Durham."

Gracelyn suppressed a smirk. She would go. The Gala was crowded. It was the perfect place to slip away into the crowd and disappear.

"Before we go," Constantine said, sliding a document across the marble island. "Sign this. Just a standard asset protection addendum."

Gracelyn looked at it. It was legal gibberish. It didn't matter. She would be gone by morning.

She signed it with a flourish.

"You signed that quickly," Constantine said. His eyes were dancing with amusement.

Gracelyn batted her eyelashes. I trust you.

"Excellent," he said, taking the paper. "Don't disappoint me tonight, Gracelyn."

Gracelyn went to get dressed.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Constantine tapped his earpiece.

"Marcus. The download attempt last night left a digital signature. Cross-reference it with the anonymous tip from the Pierce case two years ago. And double the security at the Gala. My wife is feeling adventurous."

The Met Gala was a sensory overload. Flashing cameras, screaming fans, a sea of velvet and diamonds.

Gracelyn walked the red carpet on Constantine's arm. She was wearing a deep blue gown with a slit that went up to her thigh-essential for running.

They entered the Great Hall. It was suffocating.

A woman in a silver dress approached them. She had a face full of filler and eyes full of judgment.

"Constantine," she purred, ignoring Gracelyn. "I didn't think you'd bring... her."

Constantine stopped. "This is my wife, Gracelyn."

The woman laughed. "Oh, the Montgomery mute? I heard she was a charity case."

Gracelyn didn't react. She was scanning the room. North exit. Kitchen staff only.

Constantine's grip on Gracelyn's arm tightened. "Apologize."

The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Apologize to my wife," Constantine said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade. "Now."

The woman turned pale. She mumbled a sorry and fled.

Gracelyn looked at him. Why defend me?

"Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "You're a Durham now. No one insults a Durham."

An hour later, he was cornered by three board members. This was Gracelyn's chance.

She slipped away. "Powder room," Gracelyn signed to a guard.

She walked into the ladies' room, went straight to the back stall, and climbed out the window.

Gracelyn landed on a maintenance terrace. The wind whipped her hair across her face. Below her, Central Park was a dark abyss. There was a scaffolding ladder leading down.

She kicked off her heels. Gracelyn grabbed the cold metal railing.

Click.

The sound of a lighter.

Gracelyn froze.

She turned slowly. Constantine was leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette glowing in the dark.

"Your hacking signature is identical to the one used to expose the Pierce family's fraud two years ago," he said, his voice a low, conversational hum. "The one that saved my acquisition. The tip I thought came from Georgina."

Gracelyn's blood turned to ice. He knew.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward her. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out? You're brilliant, but you're reckless."

Gracelyn stepped back. Her heel hit the edge of the terrace. She looked down. It was a twenty-foot drop to the next level. She could make it. Maybe.

She tensed her muscles to jump.

Constantine moved faster than humanly possible. He grabbed Gracelyn's wrist and yanked her back. He slammed her against the brick wall, his body pressing into hers.

"Don't," he growled.

"Why?" Gracelyn signed, her hands shaking against his chest. "You don't need me!"

"I do," he said. He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Because you're an asset I never knew I had. And you just proved you can't be trusted to roam free."

Gracelyn stopped breathing.

He didn't know because he recognized her. He knew because she had been careless. She had led him right to the truth.

"We're even!" Gracelyn mouthed.

"No," he said. "We're married. And you will never leave me. Even if you die, I'll bury you in the Durham plot."

He let go of Gracelyn's wrist. He stepped back, adjusting his cuffs.

"Put your shoes on. We have a waltz to dance."

Gracelyn stood there, defeated. Her tech failed. Her escape failed. He was always ten steps ahead.

She put her shoes on. She followed him back inside. They danced. His hand was warm on her waist, a shackle she couldn't break.