Addie sprinted up the three flights of stairs to her apartment in Queens. Her lungs burned. She fumbled with her keys, the metal scratching against the lock.
She burst inside. The apartment was small. The living room was also the dining room, which was also the play area. Toys were scattered across the rug-a plastic dinosaur, a pile of blocks.
"Leo!" she called out.
A small head popped up from behind the sofa. Leo. Four years old. He had his mother's eyes. Big, brown, and currently terrified because Addie was frantic.
"It's okay, baby," she said, forcing her voice to smooth out. "We have a visitor."
She grabbed the marriage certificate and slammed it onto the coffee table. She smoothed it out. It had to be the first thing Miller saw.
The doorbell buzzed. It was a harsh, electric sound.
Addie took a deep breath. She pulled her hair back. She put on a smile that felt like it was made of plastic.
She opened the door.
Mrs. Miller stood there. She was a woman made of angles. Sharp nose, sharp chin, sharp clipboard. She stepped inside without asking. Her eyes swept the room like a scanner.
Leo ran to Addie and hid behind her legs, burying his face in her jeans.
Miller walked to the table. She looked down at the paper.
"The ink is barely dry," Miller said.
"We've been engaged for a while," Addie lied. "We just... made it official today. For Leo."
Miller looked around the room. "Where is Mr. Bartlett? The application says you cohabit."
Addie's heart hammered against her ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
"He's at a meeting," Addie said. "You know how it is. Business."
Miller didn't say anything. She walked to the bathroom. The door was open. She peered inside.
Addie held her breath.
Miller pointed to the sink.
"One toothbrush," she said.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Addie's mind raced. "He uses an electric one. He keeps it in his travel kit. He travels a lot."
It was weak. Miller knew it.
Miller walked back to the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa. She opened her folder. She took out a red pen.
"Miss Henry," she said. "A chaotic marriage is worse than a single-parent household. The state needs stability. This?" She gestured to the empty apartment. "This is a phantom."
She made a large, red X on the form.
Addie felt the blood drain from her face.
"Please," Addie whispered. "Give me a week. He's moving in. He really is."
Miller stood up. "I'll be back next week. Unannounced. If I don't see evidence of a husband-clothes in the closet, shoes by the door, a second toothbrush-Leo goes back into the system."
Miller walked out. The door clicked shut.
Addie collapsed onto the sofa. She pulled Leo into her lap. He was shaking.
"I won't let them take you," she whispered into his hair. "I promise."
Manhattan. The Bartlett Tower. Top floor.
Council stood by the window, looking down at the city. It looked like a circuit board from up here.
"Stock is up two points," Marcus said. "The wedding news hit the wire."
The door to the office opened. Hortense Bartlett didn't knock. She rolled in. She was in a wheelchair, but she looked like a queen on a throne. Her hair was white and perfectly coiffed. Her eyes were like ice picks.
She threw a stack of photos onto Council's desk.
They were photos of Addie. Addie eating a burger. Addie walking into a run-down apartment building. Addie dragging a laundry bag.
"Page Six is asking why the new Mrs. Bartlett is living in a tenement in Queens," Hortense said. Her voice was low, dangerous. "And my sources tell me she refused to sign the prenup at the law firm. She humiliated us."
Council frowned. "I gave her the name. That was the deal. The document was flawed; she found the error. It's been rectified."
"We need the image of a happy family, Council," Hortense snapped. "Not a separation scandal before the honeymoon is even over. The board is watching. The SEC is watching."
She pointed a manicured finger at him.
"You will move in with her."
Council laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Absolutely not. That place is a hazard."
"Until the stock stabilizes," Hortense said. "Or I freeze the trust. You know the clause. 'Moral turpitude and public scandal.' Leaving your wife in poverty counts."
Council's hands curled into fists at his sides. He felt the familiar tightening in his chest. The leash. The golden leash his mother held.
"Fine," he said through gritted teeth.
"Tonight," Hortense ordered.
She spun her chair around and left.
Council stood there, vibrating with rage. He grabbed his phone. He needed to yell at someone. He dialed the number on the contract.
In Queens, Addie's phone buzzed. She looked at it.
Council Bartlett.
She stared at the screen. Why was he calling? She needed him, but she hadn't dared to ask.
She picked up.
