Chapter 8

The Bentley moved through the city with a silent, powerful grace that felt like it belonged to another planet. Finley watched the gritty streets of Queens give way to the more orderly grid of Brooklyn, the entire journey feeling like a dream.

She glanced at Garrison. He was staring out his own window, his profile sharp and severe in the passing streetlights. The man who had twisted her stepbrother's wrist and the man who had gently placed a jacket on her shoulders were the same person. It was a contradiction she couldn't begin to understand.

The car finally slowed, turning into a quiet, tree-lined street and pulling up in front of a respectable-looking brick apartment building. It was nice, but it wasn't a palace. It was... normal.

The driver, a stoic man who hadn't said a word, got out and retrieved her suitcase, placing it on the curb. He got back in the car and drove away without a backward glance.

The sight of the ordinary building and the disappearing luxury car helped her mind make a desperate leap of logic. He must have rented it. Or borrowed it. Just for tonight. To make a point. To scare them. It was the only explanation that made sense.

"This way," Garrison said, leading her into the lobby.

The apartment was on the third floor. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping aside to let her enter first.

She stepped inside and stopped.

The place was beautiful. It had high ceilings, large windows, and gleaming hardwood floors. It was also completely, utterly empty.

The living room held only a single, modern gray sofa and a low-slung coffee table. The kitchen, visible through an open doorway, was a pristine expanse of stainless steel and white countertops, without so much as a coffee mug in sight.

She turned to him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "You... live here?"

Garrison's expression was perfectly composed. "No. I just rented it. My old lease was up, and I figured... we could furnish it together."

The lie was seamless. Perfect. It explained everything-the emptiness, the lack of personality. And it did something more. It made him seem incredibly thoughtful. He hadn't just brought her into his space; he had created a blank canvas for them.

"Oh," she said, a wave of warmth washing away her confusion. "That's... really considerate."

He gave a small shrug. He pointed to a door at the end of the hall. "That's the master bedroom. It's yours. It has its own bathroom." He then gestured to a smaller room off the living area. "I'll take the study."

She peeked into the study. It was as empty as the rest of the apartment, except for a simple, folded camp bed leaning against the wall. He was offering her the main bedroom, the comfortable bed, while he took a cot. It was another gesture of such profound decency that it left her speechless. It also fit perfectly with the story he'd told her. The story about his accident. This arrangement gave them both privacy. Safety.

"No, you can't," she protested weakly. "It's your apartment. You should have the bedroom."

"You've had a difficult night," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You need a proper bed and a quiet space. It's settled."

She didn't argue further. She was too tired. And too grateful.

"You should take a shower," he said, his voice gentle. "Relax. I'll order some food. Anything you feel like eating?"

She shook her head, feeling numb. "Anything is fine. I'm not hungry."

In the master bathroom, she found only bare counters and an empty shower. It truly was a blank slate. She stood under the hot spray of the shower for a long time, letting the water wash away the grime of Dozier's house, the feel of Shane's presence, the scent of her own fear.

When she emerged, wrapped in a thin towel she'd found in her suitcase, she found a pizza box and a container of salad on the coffee table. Garrison was sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa. Beside him was a pharmacy bag.

"I figured you might need these," he said, pushing the bag toward her. "I picked them up while I was out."

She looked inside. A toothbrush, toothpaste, a new hairbrush, shampoo, and a bar of soap. Simple things. Necessary things. He had thought of everything. They ate in silence, sitting on the floor of their empty new home. It should have been awkward, but it wasn't. It was a quiet, shared moment of respite. Their first meal as husband and wife.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice small. "For... today."

He looked at her, his gray eyes serious. "You're my wife, Finley. It's my job to protect you."

Her heart did a strange little flip. She knew it was part of the contract, part of the deal. But the way he said it, with such simple, unwavering conviction, made it sound like something more.

After they ate, he gathered the empty boxes and took them to the kitchen. "You should get some sleep," he said. "We can get whatever we need for the apartment tomorrow."

She nodded and retreated to her room.

She closed the door, the click of the latch the sweetest sound in the world. She slid into the large, comfortable bed. The sheets smelled clean, like sunshine and cotton. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt completely, utterly safe. She was asleep in minutes.

In the study, Garrison lay on the narrow camp bed, fully dressed, his hands laced behind his head. He listened until he could hear the soft, even rhythm of her breathing from the other room.

Only then did he pull out his phone. He sent a single text to Pierce.

I want a full financial and legal workup on Dozier Mccarthy. I want to know every debt he has, every corner he's cut, every law he's ever bent. I want him ruined.

He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. All he could see was Finley's face, pale and defiant, her hand wrapped around a bloody ashtray.

Their marriage had begun. Not with a honeymoon, but with a rescue. And across the silent, empty apartment, a wall separating them, it was clear that their arrangement was already far more complicated than a simple piece of paper.