Benedict paused when he heard my pitch, caught off guard for a moment. Then he laughed.

"Interesting."

I pressed the advantage. "Mr. Fox, what you're after is the money. So can we be results-oriented here and let me give it a shot?"

He tilted his head, studying me with a mix of curiosity and appraisal.

A few seconds passed. Then he looked away, cleared his throat.

"Let's discuss the penalty clauses."

"I accept."

I answered before he'd even finished, clean and decisive.

He looked slightly surprised but continued anyway.

"If either party develops feelings, the contract terminates immediately. The penalty for that is also ten million."

I nearly laughed out loud.

Catching feelings? With me, a freshly divorced woman? Mr. Fox was overthinking this.

I agreed without a word and extended my hand.

The wounds from last night were still on it.

He took my hand.

Maybe I imagined it, but his thumb pressed gently against the back of my hand, right where the deepest cut was.

The moment I stepped out of the office, I gripped the contract tight. Ten million dollars. Three months. Worth it.

But for some reason, the spot on my hand where his thumb had pressed still burned.

Contract in hand, I walked out through the front doors of Fox Group with my head held high.

Then I slipped quietly into the parking garage next door, heading for the familiar stairwell.

That dark stairwell was the home I'd found for myself last night.

I carefully pulled the necklace from my pocket and looked at it, my talisman.

I remembered what Cindy had told me. "Keep this. Whenever you're in trouble, you can go to my family for help."

She had been that gentle. That kind.

My phone chimed. I opened the message on reflex.

"You're living like a dog right now. Isn't that exhausting? Come crawling back and beg me, and I'll toss you some scraps."

"I didn't cheat! Stop making things up! The divorce was YOUR fault!"

"The house was just a bad investment! And going to your company wasn't even my idea!"

"You'll never get rid of me! If I go down, you're coming with me!"

My ex-husband.

Since the divorce, he'd been cycling endlessly between insults, threats, and pleas for reconciliation.

I never replied. The most effective way to deal with someone like him was to cut all contact, to give him nothing to work with.

I took a long, deep breath, drank the last of the broth from my cup of instant noodles, and got up to throw out the trash.

I pushed open the heavy fire door, and a tall shadow swallowed me whole.

My heart seized.

I didn't need to see his face. It was my ex-husband. He'd found me.

My body moved before my mind caught up, slamming into him with everything I had, trying to run.

But his hand clamped down on my arm.

His voice came from above my head, laced with amusement. "You really made me work to find you, sweetheart."

Every hair on my body stood on end.

"Come here, come here. Let me hold you. It's been so long."

He wrenched me around and crushed me against his chest.

I went rigid. I didn't dare move.

His voice came again, slow and low. "Hug me back."

It wasn't a request. It was a threat.

I raised my arms slowly, stiff as boards, and placed them against his shirt.

"There's my girl." He rubbed his chin against the top of my head. "Still mad at your husband?"

I said nothing.

He waited a few seconds. I could hear his breathing and my own heart hammering out of my chest.

Then the back of my skull cracked against the fire door.

His hand closed around my throat, and his voice exploded.

"I asked you a question! Are you deaf?!"

The back of my head throbbed, pain splintering out from the point of impact.

His fingers dug into my neck. I couldn't breathe.

My vision started to blur. I bit down hard on my own tongue, forcing myself to stay conscious.

Because this was the opening I'd been waiting for.

I gathered every ounce of strength I had and drove my foot up between his legs.

He doubled over, howling, and I threw myself past him and ran.

Shoes would only slow me down. The second I cleared the door I kicked them off and sprinted barefoot.

My only possession clutched tight in my fist: my phone.

I ran for my life out of that building.

I ran like a cornered mouse spotted by a cat, panicked and blank-minded, stumbling onto the brightly lit main road.

Only then did I realize my hands had been clenched so hard they'd gone numb.

The gleaming "Fox Group" sign loomed ahead. I steeled myself, smoothed the wrinkles on my clothes, and walked barefoot toward the entrance.

People make reckless decisions when they're desperate.

I walked and wrestled with myself at the same time, trying to figure out how to get inside, how to talk my way into staying one night.

The stairwell was out of the question now. Derek had probably torn through everything I owned in a rage.

What was I supposed to do tomorrow?

My head was so full of how to survive the next few hours that I didn't notice the group of people walking toward me.

"Thelma Summers?"

My head snapped up at the sound of my name.

"It really is you?"

Of all people, it had to be Benedict Fox.

I swallowed hard, scrambling for an excuse, but my mind came up empty.

What came out instead was, "Benedict, help me!"

He moved fast, pressing his hand over my mouth and giving a slight shake of his head.

My heart went cold. Right. No one saves you but yourself.

But the next second, I was pulled into his arms.

He was so tall. His long coat wrapped around me from head to toe.

He was so warm. His heat seeped through my thin clothes and settled against my skin, and something in my chest thawed, just a little.

His voice rumbled above my head, low and magnetic.

"It's getting late. Let's wrap up tonight's livestream here. The rest of the evening belongs to me and my new girlfriend."

The crowd around us began to disperse.

Once everyone was gone, Benedict took off his coat and draped it over me. It was so long it covered the tops of my feet.

"Let's go."

I followed him. My bare feet made soft slapping sounds against the floor with every step.

A few paces in, I heard quick footsteps behind us.

His assistant set a beautiful pair of heels on the ground in front of me.

"Mr. Fox asked me to find these the moment he saw you."

"He keeps women's shoes in the car, all different sizes. You're a size seven, right?"

Wait. How did he know my shoe size?

A flash of memory cut through me: my sister's pretty feet. Could he still remember her size?

"Put them on. The floor's cold."

Benedict crouched down, lifted my foot, his movements practiced, like he'd done this a hundred times before.

He slipped my foot into the shoe.

His hands were warm too.

So this was how a man could treat a woman.

But for some reason, that effortless tenderness, so polished it felt rehearsed, sent a faint chill through me that I couldn't quite name.

In the car, a paper bag sat on the passenger seat.

"What's this?"

He didn't answer, but he didn't stop me from looking.

Inside was a to-go cup of warm ginger tea.

"You were running around barefoot for a while out there." He kept his eyes on the road, not on me. "Drink some. Warm up."

I didn't know how to react. This man seemed like an entirely different person from the one I'd met in the CEO's office that morning.

"Thank you."

He gave a quiet hum.

I drank the tea slowly, one small sip at a time.

The warmth of the ginger spread from my stomach into my limbs.

But what struck me more was the temperature of the tea itself. Not too hot, not too cool. Just right.

As if someone had timed it perfectly.

I didn't know how to begin talking without shredding what was left of my dignity.

That afternoon I'd been sitting across from him, bold as anything, pitching him on how I'd boost the commercial value of his "contract girlfriend" arrangement.

And now, just hours later, here I was: disheveled, panicked, a complete wreck outside his building.

What lie could I possibly tell that he'd believe?

"That wasn't the livestream account for the contract couple thing," he said, his tone easy. "If you're chasing clicks, you don't have to go this hard."

I looked at his profile. There was the trace of a smile, but I couldn't tell if it was mocking or teasing.

"I didn't do it on purpose." Honesty was all I had left.

"Ms. Summers," he began, slow and measured, "I've had a few women in difficult circumstances come through this arrangement. You're the only one who dared to pitch me on business value the same day she signed."

I couldn't tell whether Benedict's words were a compliment or a cut.

"But I never expected," he turned his head, his gaze sweeping over me with a trace of scrutiny, "that your image would crumble in a single afternoon."

The words landed like a slap. My face burned.

"So, is this your sob story? I'm in the mood to listen. Go ahead."

I bit down on my lip. How was I supposed to explain?

That my ex-husband was a narcissist, a gold digger who'd leeched off me while pretending otherwise, a serial cheater. That he'd burned through every cent I had, sold my property out from under me, and torpedoed my career.

That I'd come here carrying the keepsake Cindy left me, hoping to ask for his help.

But in the daylight, pride had stopped me.

Was it melodramatic? Absurdly so. Would he believe any of it? Not a chance.

"Can't say it?" He let out a quiet laugh. There was no malice in it, but something else that made me flinch. Pity.

"Then let's try a different question." He pulled out a pack of wet wipes and held them out to me. "Your hands are covered in blood. You didn't even notice?"

I looked down. My palms were a mess. The crescent wounds my nails had dug were already dried over.

I'd been clenching my fists the entire time, hard enough to break skin.

"Clean up first." He pressed the wipes into my hand and started the car. "Here's the real question: where are you going?"

I said nothing.

He glanced at me, searching my eyes as if trying to confirm something, then pulled away from the curb.

"I happen to have a spare house."

Less than fifteen minutes later, Benedict dropped me off in front of a detached villa.

Miles was already waiting at the door. He and Miles went inside for about ten minutes, then came back out, texted me the entry code, said "Make yourself at home," and left.

I stood at the front door in a daze, clothes torn and filthy, feet still in those impossibly elegant heels.

From the terror of facing my ex, the desperate scramble to escape, to crossing paths with Benedict Fox.

My fate, it seemed, was being rewritten.

I slipped off the beautiful shoes, wiped the soles of my feet with a wet wipe, and tiptoed inside to look around.

Benedict had said I could stay here for the duration of the contract.

I was anxious, elated, and conflicted all at once.

Whose house was this? Could I really use it? If I lived here, my ex would never find me, right?

I looked down at myself, grimy and disheveled, standing in the middle of this pristine, immaculate house. I didn't know where to put myself.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Benedict.

"On loan. Return it in the same condition. Consider it an advance on your contract investment."

The moment I read those words, the tension drained out of my body. Tears slipped down my face and hit the phone screen before I could stop them.

A second message popped up almost immediately.

"There's food in the fridge. Don't starve. It'll hurt the project's bottom line."

I blinked, got up, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge. It was fully stocked.

He'd guessed I had no money, no time, and probably no energy to go grocery shopping, so he'd sent Miles ahead.

Before long, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door, but no one was there. A paper bag sat on the step.

Inside was a pair of slippers. Cotton, soft-soled, brand new.

No note on the bag. Nothing at all.

I picked up my phone and sent Benedict a message.

"Mr. Fox, slippers received. Thank you."

Three minutes later, a reply: "Mm. Floor's cold."

I stared at those two words, trying to picture his expression as he typed them.

Completely blank? Or the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth?

I realized I couldn't imagine it. But the strange thing was, I wanted to know.

I looked down at my bare feet, then at the soft-soled slippers.

My feet were starting to warm up. And my heart, I think, had gotten a little warmer too.

Cindy's family was just as kind as she had been.