Chapter 4

Marta and another maid rushed forward the second Garrison stepped away from the table.

They cleared the china plates with terrifying speed. Their movements were so careful and practiced that the porcelain didn't make a single clinking sound. They were terrified of shattering the fragile peace.

Garrison walked down the long, dimly lit hallway toward his study.

His long legs ate up the distance. His back was stiff. He radiated a cold, unapproachable energy that usually kept everyone in the penthouse at least ten feet away.

Cassie pulled her napkin off her lap and tossed it onto the table.

"Garrison. Wait."

Cassie's voice rang out clearly.

The maids froze in terror. Marta squeezed her eyes shut, looking like she was praying. The Madam has lost her mind, Marta thought.

Halfway down the hall, Garrison's footsteps stopped abruptly.

His tall frame went completely rigid. He stood frozen under the warm glow of a wall sconce.

Very slowly, he turned around.

He looked at Cassie across the distance of the hallway. His deep blue eyes were narrowed, assessing her. He was waiting to see if she had a legitimate emergency, or if she was just trying to annoy him.

Cassie didn't hesitate. She walked briskly toward him.

She stopped about three feet away-close enough to talk without raising her voice, but far enough to keep him from feeling trapped.

Garrison stared down at her. He reached into the inner breast pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a sleek, ultra-thin digital writing tablet and a stylus. He held it at waist level, waiting for her to speak.

Cassie let out a quiet breath of relief.

He pulled out the tablet. That meant he was willing to engage. He wasn't shutting her out completely.

"I just wanted to let you know about my schedule tomorrow," Cassie said, her tone casual and professional. "I'm heading to the Broadcasting Network headquarters. We have a massive pitch meeting for a new reality show."

Garrison's eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown.

He looked genuinely baffled. In the entire history of their arranged marriage, she had never once informed him of her daily whereabouts.

"I might have to work late," Cassie continued, ignoring his confusion. "I just wanted to tell you so Marta doesn't waste expensive ingredients making dinner for two if I'm not here."

Garrison's fingers tightened around the stylus.

He stared at her face, trying to process this incredibly mundane, domestic piece of information.

He looked down at his tablet. The stylus hit the screen.

He wrote quickly, his hand moving in sharp, aggressive strokes. He flipped the tablet around and held it up for her to read.

His handwriting was a jagged, angry scrawl.

Acknowledged. Is there anything else?

Cassie looked at the cold words on the glowing screen. The tone was harsh, but the fact that he responded at all made her heart leap with confidence.

Cassie shook her head. She gave him a soft, genuine smile.

"No, that's it," Cassie said gently. "I just wanted to share my day with you. We are husband and wife, after all."

At the word "wife", a flicker of something unreadable crossed Garrison's eyes.

His hand holding the stylus tightened for a fraction of a second, the only outward sign that her words had breached his defenses.

He abruptly turned his head and looked away from her face, staring hard at the wall over her shoulder.

He didn't write another word.

He shoved the tablet back into his jacket pocket. He turned around and practically marched toward his study. His footsteps were noticeably faster than before. He was fleeing.

Cassie stood in the hallway, watching him run away.

She didn't feel rejected. She felt a bubble of laughter rise in her throat. The terrifying, ruthless Wall Street billionaire was actually flustered. It was incredibly cute.

Garrison reached the end of the hall. He grabbed the heavy brass handle of the solid oak study door.

He stepped inside his sanctuary. He pushed the door closed behind him.

But right before the latch clicked into place, his hand stopped.

For some inexplicable reason, he didn't pull the door completely shut. He left it open. Just a tiny crack. A two-inch gap between the door and the frame.

Cassie stood perfectly still in the hallway. Her eyes locked onto that narrow sliver of darkness.

A massive, victorious smile broke across her face.

Marta scurried up behind Cassie. The housekeeper kept her voice to a terrified whisper.

"Mrs. Harvey, please," Marta pleaded. "Mr. Harvey hates being disturbed when he is in his study. You should go to your room."

Cassie turned and patted Marta gently on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Marta," Cassie whispered back, her eyes sparkling. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Cassie turned and walked toward her own bedroom, her steps light and bouncy.

Inside the study, Garrison sat down heavily in his massive leather desk chair.

His desk was covered in thick files for a multi-billion dollar corporate merger. But he wasn't looking at the papers.

He was staring straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the two-inch gap in the doorway.

The warm yellow light from the hallway spilled through the crack, painting a bright, thin line across his dark Persian rug.

Garrison lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a dull ache building in his temples.

He was furious with himself. Why didn't he shut the door? Why did he leave it open for her?

In her bedroom, Cassie kicked off her slippers. She threw herself onto the massive, soft mattress.

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night in her head.

She clenched her fists in excitement. Garrison's icy exterior was full of cracks. He wasn't a machine. He was a man with a severe trauma response, and she was going to carefully, methodically break down his walls.

The trust fund was as good as hers.