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.

That night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

My mind was a tangle of low-grade unease and that sticky note. Nothing else could get in.

I climbed out of bed and padded back to the kitchen just to look at it, to confirm it was still there.

Once I saw it, I stood there confused by my own behavior. What exactly was I trying to confirm?

My phone screen lit up. Another message from Benedict Fox.

"Can't sleep?"

How did he know?

I didn't even think before typing back: "How'd you know?"

The screen glowed again. "Surveillance cameras."

I tensed up and started scanning the room, eyes darting to every corner.

Another message popped in: "Kidding. Just a guess."

I stared at those words, and my heartbeat tripped over itself. This man could joke? And why was he joking with me?

"Mr. Fox, you're up in the middle of the night just to guess whether I'm asleep or not?"

This time, the wait stretched on. Long enough that I was sure he wouldn't reply.

"Mm."

One syllable. But it carried more weight than everything he'd said before, like a small stone dropping into still water somewhere inside my chest.

Twelve years of single-minded work, of taking care of my ex-husband and his family, and I'd forgotten what it felt like to be on someone's mind.

Turns out, that feeling could be captured in a single word.

But why me? Why him? If he knew I was Cindy's friend, would he still treat me this way?

I couldn't figure it out. I buried my face in the pillow and told myself: Thelma, stop overthinking. He's just worried you'll bolt and hurt his bottom line.

But my pulse wouldn't settle.

I got up to turn off the light. Outside the window, a pair of headlights flashed once.

I didn't go look. But I knew that car had been parked there for a long time.

The next day, walking into Benedict's office again, I'd pulled myself together from yesterday's mess and exhaustion.

He glanced up, his gaze sweeping me from head to toe, and said quietly,

"The clothes in the house are yours to wear too. They should all fit."

"Except the gowns." He added that specifically.

Then he shot a look at his assistant, and Miles scrambled out the door.

I walked up to Benedict. "Understood, Mr. Fox. I'll play the part of a beautiful girlfriend."

I pointed at the proposal he'd been reviewing.

"But as your highest-value current girlfriend, I'd suggest you rethink your brand positioning for the fashion label."

Benedict laughed in spite of himself and tossed the folder onto the desk. "And you're back at it."

"Never stopped." I raised an eyebrow, stepped around the desk, and stood right in front of him.

"Whether my suit has wrinkles or a dress doesn't quite hug my figure, I know who I am, and I know what I bring to the table for you."

Benedict leaned forward, barely perceptible. "There's a cocktail reception tonight. Livestreamed, start to finish. Show me what you bring to the table."

He'd invaded my personal space, so I smiled and leaned in to match him, pressing both palms onto the armrests of his chair, letting my lips hover near his right ear. I whispered,

"I don't know if it's what you want. But it's what I want to give. Mr. Fox."

As I slowly pulled back, I saw that his ears had turned the color of ripe cherries.

Made me want to take a bite.

That was when Miles rushed back in carrying two garment bags.

"Mr. F—"

"Since when do you walk in without knocking!" Benedict's voice cracked like a whip.

Miles froze in place, completely lost.

"It's because you didn't hear him earlier." I winked at Miles. "I heard it."

Benedict waved his hand, agitated. "Take her back to get styled. Don't be late tonight."

Miles gestured toward the door with an "after you."

I gave a small bow in Benedict's direction, but before I left his desk, I caught his index finger in a quick squeeze and let go. "See you tonight, Mr. Fox."

Benedict turned his head away and wouldn't look at me.

But his ears were even redder.

Before I could finish admiring the view, a sharp female voice cut in from outside. "Who's going to be late?" The staccato click of high heels followed.

A stunning woman walked straight up to Benedict and me without so much as a greeting.

I looked at Benedict. He clearly had no intention of making introductions. Irritation was written all over his face.

Out of courtesy, I extended my hand to her, ready to introduce myself.

"As if you're worth it," that beautiful face said, dripping venom.

Before I could react, she pulled a stack of photos from her bag and flung them onto Benedict's desk. "Take a look at your new girlfriend's explicit photos." She leaned against the desk, her expression pure mockery. "I have to say, she's quite the performer."

"With this kind of PR liability, I'd say the contract can be terminated right now, don't you think?"