The Maybach purred as Alaric's driver parked it in the private garage beneath a glass tower in Tribeca.
He looked up at the structure. It was a gleaming spear of steel and light. Exposed art installations hung in the lobby. A flickering holographic display cast long, dancing shadows against the polished marble. It looked more like a modern museum than the derelict warehouses Hunter Industries was scheduled to demolish next month.
"This is it," Alaric said, his voice small. "Penthouse. Direct elevator."
Alaric didn't blink. He grabbed her heavy suitcase from the trunk as if it weighed nothing. "Lead the way."
The elevator was silent, ascending with unnerving speed. The doors opened directly into the apartment. By the time they arrived, Grace was panting. Alaric wasn't even winded.
Alaric used a thumbprint to open the massive steel door. It swung open with a faint hiss.
Alaric made a mental note: Add her biometrics.
The apartment was a cavern of glass and white furniture. The living room held a sprawling sectional sofa and a wall that was a single television screen. The kitchen was a gleaming expanse of stainless steel.
Grace turned to him. "Per the agreement, we have separate rooms. But... I don't see any other doors."
Alaric looked around. "This is the guest wing. My quarters are on the second floor. This entire level is yours." He rubbed the back of his neck, a feigned gesture of casualness. "Actually, Grace, I have bad news. The holding company that absorbed your gallery's debt? It got shut down today. Your professional accounts are frozen."
Grace's eyes widened. "What? So you have nothing?"
"Zero," Alaric lied smoothly. "I can't access your professional funds. But I'll handle your expenses. Consider it an advance."
Grace's face softened. The tension in her shoulders dropped. "It's okay. We're both in the same boat. We'll... figure it out." She pointed to the en-suite bathroom that was larger than her old bedroom. "You should shower. You're soaked."
Alaric stepped into the bathroom. It was so large his footsteps echoed. The showerhead was a rainfall fixture the size of a dinner plate. When he turned the knob, the water was instantly and perfectly hot.
He stood under the powerful spray, a billionaire in a perfect shower, wondering what the hell he was doing.
"I found the guest closet!" Grace called out.
Alaric turned off the water and wrapped a thick, plush towel around his waist. He stepped out.
Grace was holding up a pair of pajamas. They were charcoal grey silk. They were plain, minimalist, and exquisitely tailored.
"It's from the closet," Grace explained, her face turning bright red. "It was in a drawer marked 'Guest Attire'. It's a men's large. It's the only thing that will fit you."
Alaric stared at the dark silk. His left eye twitched. "Thank you."
"Take it or leave it," Grace said, tossing it at him. "Or sleep naked."
She ducked into the kitchen to hide her blush.
Alaric sighed. He pulled on the pajamas. They were ridiculously soft. He looked in the mirror, ran a hand through his damp hair, and snapped a selfie. He texted it to Marcus.
Proof of life. Send the asset protection agreement to my personal email.
Marcus replied with a single thumbs-up emoji.
When Alaric walked out, Grace was placing two steaming bowls of what looked like takeout ramen on the massive marble island. She looked up, saw the perfectly fitting pajamas, and bit her lip to keep from staring.
"Dinner is served," she said.
Alaric sat down. He looked at the noodles. He looked at his wife, who was trying so hard to be brave in a gilded cage. He picked up his fork.
"Thank you," he said.
