Chapter 3 3

The vehicle that idled at the curb wasn't just a car; it was a rolling fortress. A stretched, black SUV with tinted windows so dark they looked like oil slicks.

The driver, a man with a neck as thick as a tree trunk, opened the rear door. "Ms. Watkins. Or should I say, Mrs. Hunter?"

"Let's stick to Elsie for now," she said, sliding onto the leather seat. It smelled of new car and isolation.

The drive to Long Island took an hour. As the city skyline faded into the rearview mirror, replaced by the dense, manicured greenery of the North Shore, Elsie felt a tightening in her chest. This was Gatsby country. Old money. The kind of wealth that didn't shout; it whispered threats.

The iron gates of the Hunter Manor were two stories high. They groaned open slowly, revealing a driveway that wound through a forest of ancient oaks. The house itself sat on a cliff overlooking the Sound. It was a monstrosity of grey stone, turrets, and ivy-beautiful, in a way that suggested it had eaten people.

The car stopped. The driver opened her door.

A butler was waiting on the steps. He looked like he had been carved out of the same grey stone as the house.

"Welcome, Madam," he said. "I am Godfrey. Mr. Hunter is expecting you in the library."

"Is he... up for visitors?" Elsie asked, trying to sound like the concerned wife she was paid to be.

"He is having a good day," Godfrey said cryptically.

He led her through a foyer that could fit her entire apartment building inside it. The air was cool and smelled of beeswax and lemon polish. It was silent. Dead silent.

They reached a set of heavy double doors. Godfrey knocked once, then opened them.

"Ms. Watkins," he announced.

Elsie stepped inside.

The library was dim, lit only by a few green-shaded lamps and the dying light of the sunset filtering through heavy velvet drapes. The walls were lined with books that reached the ceiling.

In the center of the room, near the fireplace, sat a wheelchair.

Hardin Hunter sat in it, his back to her. He was looking into the fire. A thick blanket was draped over his legs.

Elsie took a breath. Showtime.

She walked forward, her heels sinking into the Persian rug. She softened her face, widening her eyes to look sympathetic.

"Hardin?" she said softly. "I'm Elsie."

The wheelchair whirred as he turned it around with a joystick.

Elsie stopped. The photos didn't do him justice. Even pale, even with dark circles under his eyes, his bone structure was devastating. High cheekbones, a nose that was perfectly straight, and lips that were currently curled into a sneer.

He didn't look frail. He looked like a caged predator pretending to be asleep.

He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her short hair, then her shoes, then her eyes. It felt like a physical touch, invasive and cold.

"You're shorter than I expected," he said. His voice was a low rasp, like gravel grinding together.

"I can wear higher heels," Elsie said, keeping her voice light.

"Don't bother. I don't like the noise." He coughed, a dry, hacking sound that shook his shoulders. He reached for a glass of water on the side table, his hand trembling slightly.

Elsie's instinct kicked in. She stepped forward. "Here, let me help-"

She reached for the glass.

Hardin's hand shot out. He gripped her wrist.

The grip was shocking. It wasn't the weak grasp of a dying man. It was iron. It was hot. It was strong enough to bruise.

Elsie gasped, her eyes flying to his. For a second, the sheer power in his fingers terrified her.

"Don't," he hissed. "Touch. Me."

He released her as if she were made of fire, but the effort seemed to cost him everything. He slumped back into the chair, his chest heaving, his face draining of what little color it had. Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead, and his hand-the one that had just crushed her wrist-was now shaking violently, spasming against the armrest.

Elsie rubbed her wrist, stepping back, her heart racing. A rally, she thought. The doctors said terminal patients sometimes have bursts of adrenaline before the crash. She watched him struggle to breathe, the illusion of strength vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

"I was just trying to help," she whispered, watching him with a mix of fear and clinical curiosity.

"I don't need your help," Hardin wheezed, closing his eyes as if the light hurt them. "I need your signature and your silence."

"You have my signature," Elsie said, her sympathy evaporating as she rubbed the red marks on her skin. "Silence costs extra."

Hardin let out a short, humorless laugh that turned into another cough. "Silas said you had teeth. Good. You'll need them."

He picked up a remote with a trembling hand and turned on a projector screen that descended from the ceiling. A calendar appeared.

"Your schedule," he said, his voice weaker now. "Tuesdays, charity gala. Wednesdays, dinner with my mother. Fridays, you disappear. I don't care where you go, just don't be here."

"Charming," Elsie said. "And what do we do on the other days?"

"We exist in separate wings of this house and wait for my heart to stop beating," Hardin said flatly. "That is what you're paid for, isn't it? The widow's wait."

"I'm paid to be your wife," Elsie corrected. "That implies some level of... interaction."

"We are interacting now," Hardin said. "Are you satisfied?"

"Hardly."

Hardin stared at her. The firelight danced in his eyes, making them look like molten gold.

"Get out," he said softly. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late. And don't look at me like I'm a charity case, Elsie. I might be dying, but I can still ruin you."

"You can try," Elsie said.

She turned and walked out. She felt his eyes on her back, burning a hole through her silk blouse.

When the door clicked shut, she leaned against the wall in the hallway. She looked down at her wrist. There were red marks where his fingers had been.

She touched the spot. It was warm.

"He's strong," she whispered to herself. "For a dying man, he fights like a devil."

Inside the library, Hardin Hunter waited until her footsteps faded.

He gripped the armrests, his knuckles white, forcing his breathing to slow, forcing the tremor in his hands to stop. It wasn't an act. The rage, the need to maintain the facade, the physical restraint required to not throw her out-it all took a toll.

He picked up his phone and dialed Silas.

"Is she settled?" Silas asked.

"She's here," Hardin said, his voice still raspy. "She tried to help me with my water."

"Did she buy the act?"

Hardin looked at his own hand, remembering the pulse he had felt in her wrist. "She bought it. But just barely. She's observant." He paused, looking at the tablet on his desk where a security alert was blinking. "And Silas? That ex of hers. Jed Reeves."

"Yes, sir?"

"I saw the intercept report. He tried to upload revenge porn?"

"We scrubbed it. But he's persistent."

"Then so are we," Hardin said, his eyes darkening. "If he comes within ten miles of this house, break his legs. She's under the Hunter protection now. No one touches her but me."

"Understood, sir."

Hardin hung up. He sat back down in the wheelchair and covered his legs. He hated the chair. But for now, it was the only safe place to hide.