Chapter 2

The subway car rattled, its rhythmic clatter a stark contrast to the silent, smooth ride in Garrison's Honda. Finley stood, holding onto a pole, the key a hard, real presence in her jacket pocket. Beside it, folded into a neat square, was the marriage certificate.

A marriage on paper. A husband in name only.

She stared at her reflection in the dark glass of the window. The same tired, pale face stared back, but something was different. A fragile layer of hope, thin as ice, had formed over the familiar desperation in her eyes. It was all because of a stranger's name, now legally bound to hers. Garrison Strickland.

When she finally got back to the small apartment she shared with her old college friend, Paige Caldwell, she felt like a spy returning from a mission. Paige was sprawled on the couch, watching some reality TV show, a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

"Hey! How was the big interview?" Paige asked, not taking her eyes off the screen.

Finley had told her she had an important job interview. A lie. The first of many, she suspected.

"It was... successful," Finley said, the word feeling both true and false. She forced a tired smile. "I'm exhausted. I think I'm just going to turn in."

She escaped to her room before Paige could ask any more questions. The room was tiny, barely big enough for a bed and a desk piled high with textbooks. It had been her sanctuary, but now it felt like a cage she was about to escape.

She carefully placed the marriage certificate in the back of her desk drawer, hidden beneath a stack of old essays. A secret weapon.

She pulled out her phone. She should let him know she was home. It seemed like the polite, contractual thing to do. Then she realized she didn't have his number. In the whirlwind of the afternoon, they had exchanged vows, but not phone numbers.

Her stomach twisted. What if she couldn't reach him? What if this was all some elaborate, cruel joke?

No. He was real. The key was real.

She scrolled through her chat history with Margo Finch and found his profile. The agency used code names. His was "Riverstone." Beneath it was his number. Her fingers trembled slightly as she typed out a message.

This is Finley. I'm home. Everything is fine. Have a safe trip.

She hit send, her heart pounding.

His reply came back almost instantly.

Good. The apartment is at [address in Brooklyn]. The door code is []. Move in whenever you're ready. Call me if you need anything.

The message was efficient. Distant. Perfect. It reinforced the nature of their deal. This was business.

Finley typed another message, the issue of finances nagging at her. She couldn't live in his apartment for free. It went against every principle she had.

About the living expenses, she wrote, I'd like to pay for my half of the rent and utilities. We can set up a formal arrangement for all shared costs. I insist on paying my way.

She sent it, feeling a sense of rightness.

This time, the reply took longer. When it came, it was just two words.

No need.

Finley frowned. He must have misunderstood.

It's a matter of principle for me, she typed back quickly. I have to pay my share.

The three dots appeared and disappeared for what felt like an eternity.

The landlord required a significant deposit, which I've already handled. Don't worry about it for now. We can discuss the monthly payments when I get back. I need to focus on work.

The tone was final. A door closing. It was still polite, but there was an undercurrent of command that pricked at her. She felt a flash of frustration. This was her one rule, the one thing that made her feel like an equal partner in this arrangement, and he had dismissed it.

She decided to let it go. For now. She would talk to him in person when he got back.

She saved his number in her phone. Garrison Strickland. It felt too formal. She still thought of him as Gary.

A soft knock on her door was followed by Paige's head poking in. "Hey, you know that tutoring center I told you about? Bright Minds? They called. They need a substitute for a history class tomorrow. It pays well."

Finley's heart leaped. Money. She needed money. For the move. For the future. For the ten thousand things she hadn't even thought of yet.

"Yes," she said immediately. "I'll do it."

She looked up the address. It was in a neighborhood not far from the address Garrison had sent her. A sign. It had to be a sign.

Later that night, as she packed her few belongings-mostly books, a handful of clothes, a framed photo of her and her mother from years ago, before Dozier-her phone lit up with one last message.

Get some rest.

The simple, almost-caring phrase sent a strange warmth through her chest. She quickly dismissed it. It was just a courtesy. The kind of thing a business partner might say.

She set her alarm for the tutoring job and fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

Thousands of feet above the Atlantic, Garrison Strickland lowered his phone. The cabin of the Gulfstream G650 was silent except for the low hum of the engines.

Pierce Strickland, his younger cousin, slid a glass of whiskey into his hand. The amber liquid sloshed against the heavy crystal.

"So, congratulations, cousin. You're a married man," Pierce said, a smirk playing on his lips. "Though if she's already trying to go Dutch on rent, I'd say your 'struggling data analyst' performance is a hit."

Garrison took a sip of the whiskey, the burn doing nothing to warm the cold resolve in his gut. He didn't smile. "This is just the beginning. Get a message to the property management in Brooklyn. That building is to be treated like any other rental. No special services, no exceptions. The doorman addresses me as Gary. Understood?"

"Understood," Pierce said, his tone sobering. He knew that look in Garrison's eyes.

Garrison stared out the window at the endless sea of clouds below. He had chosen Finley Bailey from a stack of profiles not just because she didn't ask for a single dollar in the pre-contract, but because of the quiet resilience Margo had described. A survivor.

He needed a survivor.

On their first night as husband and wife, they were a world apart. One in a cramped city bedroom, dreaming of earning enough to be free. The other in the velvet-lined sky, orchestrating the test of a lifetime.