Chapter 7

Paige had set her up in a cramped but safe apartment on the Lower East Side, a temporary sanctuary far from Devonte's reach. But the peace didn't last. At 2:00 AM, the lights flickered and died, plunging the apartment into darkness.

Audrey fumbled for her phone, her heart pounding. The old building's electrical hum had gone completely silent. She called the emergency number Paige had left, and the superintendent promised to send someone immediately.

Twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. Audrey opened it cautiously.

A man stood in the hallway. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill the doorframe. He was wearing a worn leather jacket over a dark henley, and faded jeans tucked into scuffed work boots. His hair was dark and slightly too long, falling across his forehead. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and his face was unreadable.

"Electrical issue?" His voice was deep, rough around the edges.

Audrey swallowed. "Yes. I'm Audrey."

"Curtis," he said. He didn't offer to shake her hand. He just stepped past her into the dark apartment, his tool bag clinking softly.

He moved with an easy confidence through the shadows, his penlight sweeping over the fuse box. As he worked, a sudden, violent pounding shook the front door.

"Open up, Vaughn!" a slurred voice yelled from the hall. "Your husband wants to talk!"

Audrey's blood ran cold. Devonte's men had found her.

Curtis straightened, his posture shifting from relaxed to alert in a fraction of a second. He walked to the door and pulled it open. Two large men in cheap suits stood there, reeking of alcohol.

"Wrong apartment," Curtis said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"Mind your business, handyman," one of the men sneered, trying to push past. "The lady is coming with us."

Curtis didn't budge. His hand shot out, gripping the man's wrist and twisting sharply. The man let out a yelp of pain and stumbled backward into his companion.

"I said," Curtis repeated, his eyes cold and unblinking, "wrong apartment."

The two men exchanged a panicked glance, then scrambled down the hallway, their footsteps fading into the stairwell.

Curtis shut the door and turned the deadbolt. He looked back at Audrey, who was standing frozen in the center of the room, her hands trembling.

"Friend of yours?" he asked dryly.

"My husband's," she whispered, the reality of her vulnerability crashing over her. "He's trying to force me into a psychiatric hold. If I don't have a legal guardian or spouse to counter him, he can take me away."

Curtis set his tools down on the kitchen counter. He studied her face, his sharp eyes missing nothing-the fear, the exhaustion, the desperate resolve. "Why don't you just sign the papers and walk away?"

No one had asked her that. Not her mother-in-law, not the lawyers. They had all assumed she was fighting for money or out of spite. But this stranger, this blue-collar worker in a dingy apartment, was asking for the core of it.

Audrey looked down at her hands. They were bare, the fake Cartier watch left on the desk at the house. "Because I lost myself," she whispered. "I spent twenty-five years being his wife, his hostess, his caretaker. And somewhere along the way, I forgot who I was. But more than that... he knows what happened to my son. If I walk away, I'll never find the truth."

Curtis looked at her for a long moment. Then he crossed his arms, his biceps straining against the sleeves of his henley. "I'm a union electrician. I make seventy-five thousand a year. I have a daughter. I'm not rich, and I'm not fancy. But I'm reliable, and I don't like men who use goons to intimidate women."

Audrey stared at him, confused by the sudden turn in the conversation. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, if you need a husband to keep you out of a psych ward and give you time to fight this bastard, I'll marry you. Tonight."

Audrey's breath caught. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he said. "You need a shield. I happen to be available."

Audrey reached out and shook his hand. The grip was firm, warm, and strangely comforting. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick.

"Don't thank me yet," Curtis said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "We have a long day tomorrow."

Across town, in the dimly lit study of the Vaughn mansion, Devonte was pouring himself a scotch. The door creaked open, and Erma walked in, her face pinched with worry.

"Is she really going to do it?" Erma asked. "Is she really going to file for divorce?"

Devonte took a sip of his drink, his expression unconcerned. "She can file all she wants. She's broke, she's alone, and she's crazy. No judge is going to side with her."

"You need to be careful," Erma warned. "If she pushes for the Leo file, we frame her as delusional. The hospital records from her breakdown are enough to get her committed."

Devonte set his glass down with a thud. "I'll make sure she's locked away by the end of the week. She'll never know the truth about that kid."

Erma wrung her hands. "It was a risk, Devonte. Hiding the child's whereabouts from her all these years..."

"It was the only way!" Devonte hissed. "I couldn't have her dragging my name through the mud. This way, she mourns a missing son, and I get my freedom. It was perfect."

"And if she finds out the truth?" Erma pressed.

"She won't," Devonte said, his voice cold. "Because nobody cares about a delusional woman's ramblings. Now stop worrying. By this time tomorrow, Audrey will be out of the picture, and we'll be rid of her for good."