The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. The space was vast, walled with glass, overlooking the glittering spine of Manhattan. It was beautiful, but it felt like a museum. There were no photos. No clutter. No life.
An older woman in a crisp uniform stood waiting. Mrs. Higgins.
"Mr. Sanders," she said. "Dinner is served."
August nodded. "This is Colette. Put her bags in the master bedroom."
Mrs. Higgins blinked, a crack in her professional veneer. "The master bedroom, sir?"
"Yes," August said. "She is my wife."
Colette felt her stomach drop. She tugged on August's sleeve. "The contract... it said we have to sleep together?"
August leaned down, his voice low. "My grandfather has spies everywhere, Colette. Even the cleaning staff. We sleep in the same room. It's part of the show."
"But-"
"The bed is a California King," he cut her off. "It's big enough that you won't even know I'm there."
Colette followed Mrs. Higgins. The bedroom was the size of her entire old apartment. The view was dizzying.
She showered in a bathroom that had more marble than the Vatican. She didn't have pajamas, so she wrapped herself in a thick, white robe that swallowed her whole.
When she walked back into the bedroom, August was already in bed. He was wearing reading glasses, looking at a file. The sight of him-domesticated, stripped of the suit jacket-did something strange to her chest.
"Which side?" she asked awkwardly.
"Left," he said without looking up. "Stay on your side. Don't snore. Don't steal the covers."
Colette climbed in. She lay on the very edge of the mattress, stiff as a board.
August turned off the light.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Colette stared at the ceiling. She couldn't sleep. Her mind was racing.
Beside her, August shifted. Then he shifted again. His breathing was jagged.
"Are you okay?" she whispered into the dark.
"Go to sleep," he gritted out.
He groaned, a low sound of pain.
Colette sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. August was curled on his side, his hands pressing against his temples. His face was pale, covered in a sheen of sweat.
"It's a migraine," she said. It wasn't a question. Her father used to get them.
"Lights off," August gasped.
"No." Colette moved closer. "You need to relax the tension in your neck."
"Don't touch me." His voice was a razor's edge, a clear warning. He recoiled as if she were holding a hot iron.
She ignored him. But instead of a soft, comforting touch, her approach was clinical, like the art restorer she was. She reached out, her cool fingers finding the knotted muscles at the base of his skull. He flinched, his whole body going rigid.
"Relax," she commanded softly. "This is a sternocleidomastoid muscle spasm. Common with severe tension headaches. I'm not comforting you, I'm applying pressure to release it." She began to knead the muscle, finding the pressure points with practiced ease. "Breathe, August."
He tried to pull away, but the pain was blinding, and her hands... her hands were magic. They were strong, sure, and cool against his burning skin. He hated the intrusion, hated the vulnerability, but his body betrayed him, craving the relief she offered.
Slowly, the tension began to bleed out of him. His breathing deepened.
"My father gets these," Colette murmured, her thumbs working the tension out of his shoulders. "Stress triggers them."
August didn't answer. He couldn't. He was floating in a space between pain and relief. For the first time in months, the pounding in his head receded to a dull throb.
He felt her weight on the mattress, the warmth of her body near his. It should have been intrusive. It should have triggered his anxiety.
Instead, his eyes grew heavy.
"Just sleep," she whispered.
And for the first time in years, August Sanders fell asleep without a pill.
