Chapter 2

Hazel sat on the edge of her mattress, staring at the GPS coordinates the stranger had sent.

The pale, gray light of dawn bled through the gap in the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across her bloodshot eyes.

She picked up her passport and her birth certificate from the nightstand.

She shoved the documents deep into the inner pocket of her trench coat. The sharp zip of the pocket closing sounded deafening in the silent room.

Hazel turned the doorknob with agonizing slowness.

The hallway was dim. The wall sconces cast yellowish pools of light on the carpet. She held her breath, keeping her back pressed against the wallpaper to avoid the blind spots of the security cameras.

She slipped down the servants' iron spiral staircase.

The rusted metal gave a faint, high-pitched squeak under her weight. A cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck, but no alarms sounded.

She reached the kitchen and pushed open the heavy back door.

Hazel dropped to her knees in the wet mud and squeezed through the old dog door built into the perimeter fence.

The muddy water soaked through the hem of her skirt, chilling her skin, but the moment she stood up on the public sidewalk, the crisp morning air filled her lungs with the sharp taste of freedom.

She ran. Every muscle in her legs screamed in protest, and her chest burned with a fierce, agonizing heat as she forced herself to sprint the tortuous two miles down the winding road to the main highway. The freezing rain plastered her hair to her face, but she didn't dare slow down. By the time she flagged down a battered yellow taxi, her lungs felt like they were bleeding. The driver gave her dirty, wet clothes a suspicious glare. Hazel shoved a crumpled fifty-dollar bill through the partition, and he hit the gas without a word. Traffic was a nightmare, eating away at the precious minutes, each red light feeling like a physical blow to her fraying nerves. The taxi finally jerked to a halt at the bottom of the massive stone steps of City Hall. Hazel threw the door open and stepped into the biting wind. She looked up at the clock tower. The hands were nearing eight. She was almost late. Panic fluttered in her throat as she scrambled up the steps.

She hurried into the grand, echoing lobby.

Couples stood in small clusters, holding hands and laughing. Hazel stood alone by a marble pillar, her wet skirt clinging to her legs, feeling entirely out of place.

Footsteps echoed sharply against the marble floor.

A man stepped out from behind the opposite pillar. He wore a tailored black overcoat that draped perfectly over a broad, imposing frame. His leather shoes clicked with a steady, predatory rhythm as he walked straight toward her.

He stopped two feet away.

"Hazel," he said.

His voice was a low, freezing baritone that made Hazel's heart skip a violent beat.

She took a half-step back, her muscles tensing. She looked up at his face. He had sharp, ruthless jawlines and eyes as cold as the Atlantic. He didn't look like a man desperate for fifty grand.

"Are you the blank account?" she demanded, her voice tight.

The man didn't waste a single word. He pulled a sleek phone from his pocket and turned the screen toward her.

The bright light displayed their brief, insane chat history.

Hazel stared at his wrist as he held the phone. His shirt cuffs were immaculate, fastened with heavy, unbranded silver cufflinks.

"What do you do for a living?" she asked, suspicion gnawing at her stomach.

"Software engineer," Brennan lied, his face completely blank. "Entry level. My family is threatening to cut me off if I don't settle down. I need the cover. You need the husband."

His tone was so flat, so devoid of emotion, that it almost sounded rehearsed.

Before Hazel could dissect the lie, a loud shout echoed from the front doors of the lobby.

"Check the east wing!" a gruff voice yelled.

Hazel whipped her head around. Two men in dark suits with earpieces were scanning the crowd. Cook security.

Panic seized her throat.

Hazel grabbed Brennan's wrist. The hard, dense muscle beneath his sleeve surprised her, but she yanked him toward the registration windows.

She slammed their documents onto the counter, her chest heaving.

"We need to get married. Right now," Hazel told the clerk, her voice vibrating with panic.

The middle-aged clerk looked up slowly, eyeing the frantic, muddy woman and the stone-faced man beside her.

"I need to ask a few standard verification questions," the clerk drawled, crossing her arms. "What is your fiancé's full name?"

Hazel's mind went entirely blank. The blood drained from her face.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The clerk's eyebrows pulled together in deep suspicion. She reached out to slide the documents back.

Suddenly, a heavy, warm hand wrapped around Hazel's waist.

Brennan pulled her flush against his side. The scent of cedarwood and crisp winter air enveloped her senses instantly.

Brennan looked down at Hazel. The ice in his eyes melted into a terrifyingly convincing warmth.

"We met at a coffee shop in Silicon Valley," Brennan told the clerk, his voice dropping into a soft, intimate register. "She spilled her latte on my laptop. I was furious until she looked up at me."

His thumb stroked the curve of Hazel's waist. The physical contact sent a jolt of electricity straight down her spine.

The clerk's hard expression softened into a smile.

She stamped the heavy metal seal onto the paper. The loud clack echoed in Hazel's ears. It was done.

The second the paper was handed over, Brennan dropped his arm from her waist.

The warmth vanished. His eyes returned to absolute zero.

The sudden drop in temperature left Hazel feeling dizzy. She stared at the thin piece of paper in her hands. It felt absurdly light for something that just altered her entire life.

Brennan reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded document.

"Prenup," he said, handing her a pen. "Separate assets. No interference in personal lives."

Hazel scanned the black-and-white text. It was cold, clinical, and exactly what she wanted. She signed her name on the dotted line without a second thought.

Brennan watched the quick, decisive movement of her pen. A flicker of something resembling surprise crossed his dark eyes before he tucked the paper into his briefcase.

Heavy footsteps approached from their left.

Brennan stepped sideways, positioning his broad shoulders between Hazel and the open lobby. His large overcoat completely shielded her smaller frame from view.

Hazel pressed her back against the counter, staring at the fabric of his coat. Over his shoulder, she saw the Cook guard scan the area, frown, and turn back toward the exit.

Hazel let out a long, shaky breath, her knees suddenly feeling weak.