Hunger woke her up.

It was a sharp, twisting pain in her stomach. The morning sun was assaulting the room through the curtainless windows. Alessandra sat up, her body aching from the wooden slats.

She walked out into the main living area. It was empty. Florian was gone.

The silence in the apartment was heavy.

She walked to the kitchen. It was a chef's kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel. She found the refrigerator. It was a massive, industrial-sized unit.

She pulled the heavy door open.

Light flooded out. And illuminated... nothing.

Rows and rows of Evian water in glass bottles. Six bottles of Dom Perignon. A jar of olives.

That was it.

Alessandra stared. It was a joke. It had to be a joke.

She closed the fridge. Her stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing sound in the quiet room.

She saw a touchscreen on the wall labeled Delivery. Hope surged. She tapped it.

Please enter Administrator Password.

She tried 1-2-3-4.

Access Denied.

She tried 0-0-0-0.

Access Denied. System Locked.

She slammed her hand against the screen. The glass didn't break, but her palm stung. She slid down the wall, sitting on the cold marble floor. She was a billionaire's wife, and she was starving to death.

The elevator chimed.

Alessandra didn't move. She didn't have the energy.

Cohen walked in, balancing a tray of coffees and a stack of binders. He was talking into a headset.

"Yes, the merger documents are-"

He stopped. He saw Alessandra slumped on the kitchen floor, looking like a discarded rag doll.

His phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.

"Holy sh-" Cohen rushed over. "Mrs. Mercado? Are you... are you alive?"

Alessandra lifted her head. She looked at him with hollow eyes. She pointed a shaking finger at the fridge. Then she pointed to her open mouth.

Cohen looked at the fridge. He opened it. He saw the water and the champagne.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "He didn't leave you food."

He looked back at her. "You haven't eaten?"

Alessandra shook her head.

"Boss locked the delivery system?"

She nodded.

Cohen swore under his breath. He dropped his bag and dug through it. He pulled out a protein bar-chocolate and peanut butter.

"Here." He tore the wrapper open.

Alessandra didn't care about dignity. She took it and ate. It was dry and chalky, but it tasted like salvation.

Cohen picked up his phone. He dialed a number. His face was grim.

In the boardroom of Mercado Group, Florian was tearing a product manager apart.

"The latency is unacceptable," Florian said, his voice ice. "Fix it or you're fired."

His phone buzzed on the table. Cohen.

Florian frowned. Cohen knew never to interrupt a meeting. He picked it up.

"This better be good."

"Boss," Cohen's voice was shaky but firm. "Your wife is on the kitchen floor. She's hypoglycemic. And... she doesn't know how to use the coffee machine because it requires voice authentication."

Florian paused. He blinked.

He had forgotten.

He had genuinely, completely forgotten that there was a human being in his apartment. He treated the marriage like a file he had stored in a cabinet.

"She's hungry?" Florian asked, the concept seeming foreign to him.

"She's starving, Florian," Cohen snapped, dropping the formal title. "If she passes out, it's negligence. The press will eat you alive before the merger even starts."

Florian felt a prick of annoyance. Not guilt. Just annoyance that his asset required maintenance.

"Order her food," Florian said. "Get her whatever she wants."

"I can't," Cohen said. "I don't have admin privileges for the house. Only you do."

Florian pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at the room full of terrified executives.

"Meeting adjourned," he said.

He grabbed his jacket. He had to go home and feed his wife.

Florian walked into the apartment and stopped dead.

The kitchen looked like a war zone of passive aggression.

Alessandra was sitting cross-legged on the multi-million dollar marble island. She was surrounded by yellow Post-it notes.

They were everywhere.

On the fridge: EMPTY.

On the stove: MUTE.

On the pantry: LOCKED.

On the coffee maker: I HATE YOU.

And right in the center of the island, stuck to a bottle of Evian, was a larger note: I AM YOUR WIFE, NOT YOUR HOUSEPLANT.

Florian stared at the sea of yellow paper. A laugh bubbled up in his chest-a dark, surprised sound.

"Creative," he said, peeling the note off the water bottle.

Alessandra looked at him. Her eyes were defiant. Then, her stomach let out a traitorous, loud growl.

Florian sighed. The annoyance faded, replaced by a strange resignation. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over a stool. He rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing his forearms.

Alessandra watched him. He looked... human.

He walked to the pantry. "System, unlock pantry."

The lock clicked. He opened it. It was mostly empty, remnants of his bachelor days. He found a bag of spaghetti and a bulb of garlic.

"Garlic and oil," he muttered. "It'll have to do."

Alessandra watched in shock as the tyrant of Silicon Valley grabbed a knife. He smashed the garlic cloves with the flat of the blade, peeling them with practiced ease.

He turned on the stove. "Burner on. Medium."

Soon, the smell of sizzling garlic and olive oil filled the sterile air. It was a warm, pungent scent. It smelled like a home.

Alessandra didn't move from the island. She watched his hands. They were precise. Capable.

Florian tossed the pasta in the oil. He plated it. Two bowls.

He slammed one down in front of her. No garnish. No cheese. Just pasta.

"Eat," he ordered.

Alessandra picked up a fork. She took a bite. It was simple, spicy, and perfectly cooked. It was better than the cold purees the Winters' cook made for her.

She ate quickly. Florian ate standing up, leaning against the counter, watching her.

When the bowl was empty, Alessandra wiped her mouth. She pulled her tablet from her pocket. She typed.

We need rules.

The mechanical voice cut through the smell of garlic.

Florian raised an eyebrow. "Do we?"

I want a secret marriage, she typed. No wedding. No public announcement. No press.

Florian paused. This was actually what he wanted. He didn't want the volatility of a public union affecting his stock price yet. But he didn't like being dictated to.

"Why?" he asked.

Alessandra looked him in the eye. She tapped the screen.

Because I don't want the world to know I married a man who can't even fill a refrigerator.

Florian's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He placed his hands on the island, trapping her legs between his arms.

"Careful, Winters," he murmured. "You have a sharp tongue for someone who doesn't speak."

He leaned in. "Deal. We keep it quiet. But in this house, you follow my lead."

Alessandra didn't flinch. She nodded once.

Deal.

Just then, Florian's phone rang. He pulled it out. The screen lit up: Chloe Gutierrez.

Alessandra saw the name. Her blood ran cold.

Florian answered. His voice changed instantly. It became smooth, charming. "Chloe. Yes, I received the proposal. It's interesting."

He turned away from Alessandra, walking toward the window.

Alessandra looked at her empty bowl. The warmth of the pasta faded, replaced by the chill of the room.

Chloe Gutierrez sat in Florian's office, her legs crossed elegantly. She was wearing a dress that cost more than Alessandra's entire wardrobe.

She slid a black folder across the desk. Her fingers lingered on Florian's hand for a second too long.

"I heard about the marriage," Chloe said. Her voice was like honey laced with arsenic. "Such a shame. I always thought we would make a perfect power couple."

Florian pulled his hand away. He opened the folder. "It was a business acquisition, Chloe. Nothing more."

"Of course," she smiled. "But business can be... fluid."

Florian didn't smile back. "I'll review the proposal. You can go."

Chloe stood up. Her eyes flashed with malice. As she walked out, she pulled out her phone. She sent a text to a number with no name.

Execute Phase One.

In a sterile lab in Zurich, Dante Winters held a test tube.

His phone pinged. An encrypted email.

He opened it. It was a grainy photo of Alessandra entering the courthouse, looking terrified. The subject line read: Your sister was sold.

Dante's grip tightened. The test tube shattered. Glass shards sliced into his gloved hand. Blood mixed with the chemical solution.

He didn't feel the pain.

"Silas," he growled. "Florian."

He grabbed a rag, wrapped his bleeding hand, and walked out. He left the experiment running. He had a plane to catch.

Back at The Obsidian, Alessandra was reading on her tablet.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

The entire penthouse went dark for a split second, then rebooted with a soft hum. The green light on the door lock blinked rapidly before settling back to a steady glow.

Alessandra looked up. That wasn't a power surge. That was a system override. A hack.

She walked to the door. She pushed the handle.

It opened.

The cold air of the hallway hit her face.

She didn't think. She didn't grab shoes. She was still wearing the oversized wool socks she had found in a drawer. She grabbed her coat and ran.

She didn't run for freedom. She ran for answers.

She hit the elevator button. It worked.

When she burst out of the lobby doors, the San Francisco wind hit her like a physical blow. It smelled of exhaust and rain.

She hailed a taxi. The driver looked at her socks, her wild hair.

"I have no cash," she typed on her phone. She unclasped the vintage Cartier watch from her wrist-the only thing her grandmother had left her. She held it up.

The driver's eyes widened. "Get in."