Chapter 7

The apartment was a sprawling penthouse that smelled of nothing at all. It was sterile, minimalist, and cold.

Black leather, chrome, and gray slate dominated the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a breathtaking, panoramic view of the city, but the effect was less beautiful and more like being watched.

"Sterling had some of your things delivered," Colton said, gesturing down a long hallway. "Your room is the first on the right. Mine is at the end of the hall. We have an hour."

Clarice nodded and headed for her room. Inside, she found several garment bags hanging in a walk-in closet larger than her old bedroom. Her worn suitcase sat in the corner, looking pitiful.

She unzipped the first bag. It held a simple, elegant navy blue sheath dress. The second held shoes. The third, a delicate diamond necklace. It was a costume. The uniform for Clarice Bentley.

She quickly showered and changed, her mind racing. This was a performance. She was an actress, and the stage was a Long Island estate. She could do this. It was just another surgery, of a different kind. Precise, calculated, and with no room for error.

She walked back into the living room. Colton was waiting by the door, wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo. He looked up as she approached.

His gaze lingered for a moment, and for a split second, Clarice felt a flicker of something in his expression behind the dark glasses. Approval? Surprise? It was gone before she could be sure.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded.

In the car, on the way to the estate, the silence was thick. Clarice's mind was a whirlwind of medical protocols and escape routes, a habit she'd developed as 'The Savior'. Always have a plan B. Always know the exits.

Suddenly, Colton grunted, his body tensing. His hand shot out and gripped his thigh, his knuckles white.

"Colton?" she typed, her concern immediate.

"Spasm," he bit out, his jaw tight with apparent pain. "It'll pass."

But it didn't. His leg muscle seemed to contract under the cashmere blanket-or at least, his whole body stiffened as if it were. Clarice's medical instincts flickered. She didn't hesitate.

She put her hand on his thigh, her fingers searching for the pressure points. She began to apply firm, steady pressure.

And then she paused.

The muscle beneath her palm wasn't truly knotted. It was tense-deliberately, almost theatrically so. There was no fibrillating twitch, no uncontrolled clenching. Just a man holding himself rigid.

Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice strained.

She ignored the question, playing along. She continued the motion, working as if to release a cramp that wasn't there. She felt him relax his forced tension gradually, as if following her cue.

Slowly, he let his body go limp. The tension in his frame eased. He let out a long, shuddering breath.

He was still for a moment, his head leaned back against the leather seat. He turned his head toward her.

"How did you do that?" he asked, his voice quiet, laced with something she couldn't identify. Suspicion.

Clarice pulled her hand back slowly. She had made a discovery. He was faking. But why? She quickly typed on her phone, her heart pounding.

My mother was a nurse. She taught me a few things.

It was a weak lie, but it was the best she had. She tucked the observation away, deep in her mind. She had to be more careful. She was Clarice Bell now, the shy orphan, not The Savior.

Colton didn't respond. He just sat in silence for the rest of the drive, the space between them now charged with a new, dangerous current.