Chapter 3

The "Bright Minds" tutoring center was clean, modern, and smelled of whiteboard markers and ambition. The woman who ran the place, a sharp-eyed woman named Mrs. Gable, was visibly impressed by Finley's status as a Columbia University student. It was a credential that opened doors, a key Finley had worked herself to the bone to earn.

The high school history class was a mix of bored, privileged kids and a few genuinely eager ones. Finley, who loved the narrative sweep of history, found her rhythm quickly. She wasn't just reciting dates; she was telling stories. By the end of the first hour, even the most jaded-looking teenagers were leaning forward, listening.

During the mid-morning break, she sat at the small desk, sipping water from a bottle and scrolling through her phone. A few spam texts had come in-one offering a great deal on a mortgage, another from a real estate agent she'd never heard of.

Annoyed, she long-pressed on the first message, selected the other unfamiliar numbers, and hit "Block and Delete." A small, satisfying purge of digital clutter.

She didn't give it a second thought. Garrison's number was new. Unfamiliar. She had only received a few texts from him. In her quick, irritated sweep, his number, saved just the day before, was just another piece of junk mail from a stranger who had somehow gotten her information. Maybe from the agency.

She dismissed the thought and turned her attention back to her lesson plan, completely unaware that she had just digitally excommunicated her new husband.

On the other side of the country, in a glass-walled conference room overlooking the Pacific Ocean, Garrison Strickland was not paying attention to the quarterly projections being presented. He was looking at his phone.

He'd sent a simple message ten minutes ago.

Hope the first day is going well.

It was casual. A simple check-in. But the message status beneath it was a small, sharp shock.

Message Sent. Delivery Failed.

He frowned. A network issue, probably. He exited the messaging app and dialed her number.

The call didn't even ring. It went straight to a cold, automated voice. The number you have dialed has been blocked.

The words hung in the air, nonsensical.

Blocked.

He had been blocked.

The polished calm he wore like a second skin cracked. He lowered the phone, his knuckles white as he gripped it. Married for less than forty-eight hours, and she had blocked him.

Pierce, sitting next to him, noticed the shift in his cousin's demeanor. The air around Garrison had dropped twenty degrees. "Everything okay?" he whispered.

Garrison's voice was dangerously quiet. "My wife just blocked me."

Pierce's eyes widened. A slow, incredulous grin spread across his face. He stifled a laugh, which quickly died under the force of Garrison's icy glare.

Garrison's first thought was not anger. It was a cold, sharp spike of fear. She was in trouble. Dozier. Her family had gotten to her, taken her phone, cut her off.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me," he said to the room, his voice a low command. He walked out onto the adjoining balcony, the sea breeze doing nothing to cool the sudden heat under his skin.

He made a call. "Get me a location on Finley Bailey's phone. Now. And have our team check the security footage at that address. I want to know she's safe."

The information came back a few minutes later. Her phone signal was stable, located inside the "Bright Minds" building. The street cam footage, grainy but clear, showed her through the front window, standing in front of a classroom, talking and gesturing. She looked fine. She looked... happy.

She wasn't in danger.

Which meant she had blocked him. On purpose.

The relief was immediately replaced by a wave of cold fury, followed by a deeply unfamiliar feeling: confusion. Why? Had she found something out? Impossible. His tracks were covered. Was it because he'd refused her offer to pay rent? Was she that proud? Was this her way of ending the agreement?

The feeling of not knowing, of being cut off and unable to control the situation, was intolerable. He, a man who could move markets with a word, was being ghosted by a college student he'd just married.

He paced the balcony, the absurdity of it all crashing down on him. He couldn't call her. He couldn't text her.

There was only one option. One deeply, profoundly humiliating option.

He took a deep breath and dialed Margo Finch. He pitched his voice to sound like "Gary"-a little uncertain, a little embarrassed.

"Margo, hi, it's Gary Strickland. I know this is a strange request, but I seem to have... misplaced Finley's number. My phone's been acting up. Could you possibly send it to me again?"

There was a surprised silence on the other end. "Of course, Gary. One moment."

His phone buzzed with the number he already knew by heart. He hung up, his jaw tight with irritation. He handed his phone to Pierce.

"Send a text from your phone. A number she won't recognize."

Pierce typed, trying to keep a straight face.

Finley was erasing the whiteboard when her phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

Finley, this is Gary. It seems I'm blocked. Is everything alright?

Finley froze. Gary. Garrison.

Blocked?

Her blood ran cold. Oh, no.

Her fingers flew as she opened her settings, went to her block list. There, nestled between two numbers flagged as "Spam Risk," was his.

She had deleted her husband.

A hot wave of mortification washed over her. She felt like the world's biggest idiot. She quickly unblocked the number and typed a frantic reply.

Oh my god! Garrison, I am so, so sorry! I thought you were a spam call! I was cleaning out my phone. I didn't do it on purpose!

In California, Garrison watched the message appear on Pierce's screen. He read it, and the tight knot of anger and confusion in his chest loosened, then dissolved into something that felt dangerously like amusement.

He took his phone back and replied from his own number.

It's fine. I'm just glad you weren't trying to get rid of me on day two.

The message came through on Finley's phone. The hint of teasing in the words, the playful undertone, made her cheeks burn. It was the most un-businesslike thing he'd said yet.

And as she stood there, flustered and embarrassed, her phone rang again.

The screen displayed a name that made all the warmth drain from her body.

Dozier.