Chapter 4

The morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Elodie's Manhattan penthouse.

Elodie lay in the center of the massive bed. The sheets were tangled around her legs. She rested her cheek against Fletcher's bare, muscular chest. She listened to the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart. For the first time in weeks, she felt a profound sense of peace.

Then, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She didn't look at it, but she knew what it was. It was the family group chat. Her father, Leland, sending more passive-aggressive articles about corporate mergers and the sons of his wealthy friends. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.

Elodie lifted her head. She looked down at Fletcher. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. His hand was lazily tangled in her blonde hair.

"Let's get married," Elodie blurted out.

Fletcher's hand stopped moving. His entire body went rigid. The muscles in his chest turned to stone beneath her cheek.

He opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling for a second before shifting his gaze to her. His dark eyes were searching, scanning her face for the punchline. He was trying to figure out if this was another one of her twisted rich-girl games.

Elodie saw his hesitation. She thought she understood it. She thought he was terrified of the financial gap between them.

She scrambled off his chest. She reached over to the nightstand and pulled open the top drawer. She took out a thick stack of legal documents bound in a blue folder.

She practically shoved the folder onto his chest.

"I had my lawyers draft this," Elodie said, her words rushing out in a breathless panic. "It's a prenup. A complete separation of assets. If you sign this, my father can't use my trust fund to threaten us. He can't say you're after my money. We'll be free."

Fletcher slowly sat up. The sheets fell away from his waist. He looked down at the folder.

The bold black letters on the cover read: Pre-Nuptial Agreement & Asset Isolation Protocol.

The words burned his retinas. The memory of her voice-calling him a "fun distraction"-echoed violently in his skull. He saw the document for exactly what he believed it was: a leash. A reminder that she was the master, and he was the pet she was protecting her fortune from.

His blood turned to ice.

Fletcher grabbed the folder and threw it. It hit the wall and clattered onto the expensive Persian rug. The papers spilled out like garbage.

"Fletcher?" Elodie gasped, shrinking back against the headboard. Her thumb instinctively sought her wrist, grinding nervously against the cold diamonds of her tennis bracelet.

He threw the blanket off and stood up. He grabbed his dress shirt from the floor and shoved his arms into the sleeves. His movements were jerky, mechanical, and terrifyingly cold.

"Why are you mad?" Elodie's voice cracked. "I'm trying to protect us!"

Fletcher turned around. He began buttoning his shirt. His lips curled into a vicious, mocking sneer.

"Protect us?" he spat. "You mean protect yourself. From the poor, desperate startup guy."

"That's not what I meant!" Elodie cried out. Her chest heaved.

"Yes, it is," Fletcher said. His voice was a lethal whisper. "You think you can just throw a legal document at me and buy a husband? I'm not one of your country club lapdogs, Elodie. My company might be in a shithole in Brooklyn, but I don't need your charity. And I sure as hell don't want your money."

Tears spilled over Elodie's eyelashes. They tracked hot and fast down her cheeks. "I never thought of you as charity."

Fletcher grabbed his suit jacket. He didn't look at her tears. If he did, he knew he would break.

"I have a company to run," he said coldly.

He walked out of the bedroom. He didn't look back. The heavy oak door of the corporate-owned McCarthy penthouse slammed shut. Her father held the deed to this place, and right now, the vast, echoing space felt more like a gilded cage than a home.

Elodie collapsed onto the pillows. She stared at the scattered legal papers on the rug. A sob ripped from her throat, tearing her chest apart.

By six o'clock that evening, The silver Aston Martin was parked outside her apartment building.

Fletcher had sent a single, sterile text: Come down. I'm taking you to your family dinner.

Elodie walked out of the lobby. She wore oversized black sunglasses to hide her swollen, red eyes. She opened the passenger door and slid into the leather seat.

The air inside the car was suffocating. Fletcher stared straight ahead through the windshield. His hands gripped the steering wheel. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask if she was okay.

The drive to Long Island took an hour. They didn't speak a single word.

The car finally pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the McCarthy estate.

Fletcher put the car in park. He didn't turn off the engine. He didn't get out to open her door.

"Don't forget your bag," he said. His voice was hollow.

Elodie bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted copper. She grabbed her purse, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the humid evening air. She slammed the door shut. She walked toward the gates, her spine rigid, refusing to look back.

Inside the car, Fletcher watched her walk away. His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe. He gripped the steering wheel. He squeezed the leather until his knuckles turned white and his joints ached. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, the engine roaring as he sped away into the dark.