Jaimie bolted upright, her head pounding like a drum. Sunlight was streaming through the gaps in her blinds, and for one blissful second, she thought the entire night had been a nightmare. The storm, the lawsuit, the proposal. But the memory sharpened: after Graham had walked out, she had stood frozen in the living room, listening to the rain. Minutes later, a knock had cut through the silence. She had opened the door to find him there again, drenched and shivering, his eyes unreadable. Wordlessly, she had stepped aside. He had crossed to the sofa, collapsed onto it, and she had retreated to her bedroom, too drained to speak. Then she heard the cough.

It was a deep, wet sound coming from her living room.

She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor, and rushed out of her room. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Graham Lawson was asleep on her sofa. His large frame was awkwardly folded onto the cushions, one arm hanging off the edge, his head resting on a throw pillow that was far too small for him. He was still wearing the same damp clothes from last night.

As she stepped closer, she noticed the flush on his cheeks. It was unnatural, a bright, feverish red against his pale skin. His breathing was shallow and rapid.

"Graham?" she whispered.

He didn't stir. She reached out, her fingers hovering over his forehead for a second before she touched his skin. It was burning. He was radiating heat like a furnace.

Panic spiked in her chest. He was a doctor. How could he let himself get this sick?

She ran to the bathroom, yanked open the medicine cabinet, and grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen and a digital thermometer. When she returned, she poured a glass of water from the kitchen pitcher and knelt beside the sofa.

"Graham," she said louder, shaking his shoulder. "Wake up. You're burning up."

His eyes snapped open instantly. They weren't groggy or confused; they were sharp, alert, and locked onto her with an intensity that made her flinch. He looked like a cornered animal, ready to strike.

Jaimie jerked her hand back, nearly dropping the pills. "You have a fever," she said, her voice stiffer than she intended. She pushed the water and the pills toward him. "Take these."

He stared at her for a long moment, his jaw tight, before the tension in his shoulders seemed to deflate. He sat up slowly, his movements stiff, and swallowed the pills without a word.

The silence in the room was thick and suffocating. Jaimie stood up, needing to put distance between them. "I'm going to get ready. We have to leave soon."

She retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She leaned against the sink, staring at her pale reflection. She needed to wash her face, brush her teeth, and figure out how to survive a marriage to a man who looked at her like she was the enemy.

She opened the laundry hamper to toss in her nightshirt and froze.

Sitting on top of the pile of her clothes was a pair of men's grey Nike sweatpants. They were clearly used, balled up in a way that suggested they had been kicked off in a hurry.

They weren't Graham's. He had been wearing jeans last night.

A cold dread washed over her. The only person who had been in her apartment recently, the only person who left clothes behind, was Gerry. He had stayed over last Wednesday, before their final, explosive breakup.

But why were they here? Had Gerry broken in? Or had Graham brought them?

The thought hit her like a physical blow. Graham had a girlfriend. He had fought with her, stormed out in the rain, and used Jaimie as a pawn to make his girlfriend jealous. It was the only logical explanation.

Rage, hot and blinding, exploded in her chest. She grabbed the sweatpants out of the hamper and stormed out of the bathroom.

Graham was still sitting on the sofa, his head in his hands. She threw the sweatpants at him. They hit him square in the chest.

"Whose are these?" she demanded, her voice shaking with anger. "You have a girlfriend, don't you? You had a fight, you came here to use me, and you left her clothes as some kind of sick trophy?"

Graham caught the fabric before it fell. He looked down at the grey Nike logo, and for a moment, the fever seemed to overwhelm him. He swayed, his knuckles white as he gripped the sofa cushion. He squeezed his eyes shut, as if fighting off a wave of dizziness, and took a deep, shuddering breath. When he looked up again, the feverish glaze was gone, burned away by a chilling, razor-sharp focus. His eyes were like chips of ice. "You don't recognize them?"

Jaimie hesitated. The fury flickered, replaced by a sudden, sinking feeling. She looked closer at the worn fabric, the frayed hem.

"Gerry Brady," Graham said, his voice low and rough, scraping against the silence of the room. "Last Wednesday night. He was here, wasn't he?"

The blood drained from Jaimie's face so fast she felt dizzy. The room tilted. She hadn't told him that. She hadn't mentioned Gerry staying over, not the specifics, not the dates.

"How..." she started, but the word died in her throat.

Graham pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly, the fever still gripping him, but his presence was overwhelming. He took a step toward her, the sweatpants dangling from his fist.

"Jaimie," he said, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "If we are going to do this, if we are going to start a new life together, I expect you to clean up your garbage. All of it."

The words slapped her across the face. The humiliation was a physical ache in her chest. He knew. He knew about Gerry. He knew about Wednesday. He knew things about her life that she hadn't told anyone.

Fear began to crawl up her spine, mixing with the shame. "How do you know about Wednesday?" she whispered. "Who told you that?"

Graham just stared at her, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched, heavy and accusatory.

"Get rid of them," he finally said, dropping the sweatpants onto the floor. "And get ready. We leave in thirty minutes."

He turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door with a decisive click.

Jaimie stood there, her body trembling. She stared at the crumpled grey fabric on the floor. It felt like a symbol of everything she wanted to forget, everything she was ashamed of.

She grabbed a garbage bag from the kitchen, shoved the sweatpants inside, and tied the bag tight, her hands shaking. She threw the bag into the outside bin, wanting to scrub her hands raw.

Back inside, she sat at her vanity and tried to apply her makeup. Her hands were still trembling, making the eyeliner skip. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

This wasn't a rescue. This wasn't a transaction. This was a trap, and she had walked right into it.

Chapter 2

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