The interior of the Rolls Royce felt like a coffin. The air was thick with Garrick's suspicion.
"I asked you a question," Garrick said, his voice low and lethal. He reached out, his fingers gripping Ever's chin, forcing her to look at him. "Who is Clarence Frazier?"
"I told you," Ever stammered, tears pricking her eyes. "I don't know him. But... the way he looked at me. It was like he wanted to hurt me. I was scared, Garrick. I'm scared."
It was the best lie she had. It played into his hero complex. It played into his need to be the protector.
Garrick's grip on her chin loosened. He searched her eyes, looking for deceit, but seeing only genuine fear-fear of Clarence exposing her, though he interpreted it as fear of Clarence himself.
"He is a monster," Garrick said, releasing her. He sat back, straightening his cuffs. "He started as a pit fighter in Vegas. Illegal matches. Killed a man with his bare hands when he was eighteen. Now he runs half the gambling on the East Coast. He's filth."
Ever listened, trying to reconcile this violent biography with the boy who used to braid her hair when the other girls made fun of it. The boy who gave her his bread when she was punished and sent to bed hungry.
"He won't touch you," Garrick said, his voice taking on a possessive edge. "You're mine. Everyone knows that now."
The adrenaline of the evening began to crash. Her body, exhausted from the hospital run and the terror, started to shut down. The rhythmic hum of the car engine was hypnotic.
Her eyelids grew heavy. She fought it, but the darkness was inviting. Her head lulled to the side, resting against the cool glass of the window.
She drifted.
A hand touched her cheek. Gentle. Warm. Ever flinched in her sleep, but the hand didn't pull away. It guided her head down until she was resting on a solid shoulder. Garrick's shoulder.
"Don't hurt him..." Ever mumbled into his jacket, dreaming of Leo.
"I won't let anyone hurt you," Garrick whispered back. He stroked her hair. The tenderness was terrifying because it was real.
When the car stopped at the penthouse, Ever didn't wake up.
Garrick Head, the man who treated people like chess pieces, stepped out of the car. He didn't wake her. Instead, he leaned in and lifted her out of the seat. There was no romance in the gesture, only the efficient handling of a valuable acquisition. He carried her through the lobby, his face a mask of indifference to the doorman's stare, holding her as one might hold a rare artifact that needed to be placed back in its display case.
He laid her on the bed, unzipping her dress with clinical efficiency, sliding the silk from her body. He pulled the duvet over her.
Ever's clutch bag had fallen to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, her personal phone slid out. The screen lit up with a notification.
Transaction Successful: $5,000 sent to E. Miller.
Garrick froze. He picked up the phone. He knew her passcode-he had insisted on knowing it from day one. He unlocked it and opened the banking app.
He saw the history. Monthly transfers. Thousands of dollars. All to "E. Miller."
His eyes narrowed as he recalled the dossier Miles had compiled on her. "E. Miller... that debt consolidation service her foster parents used," he muttered to himself. He looked at Ever's sleeping form with a mixture of pity and disdain. "Still paying for the people who sold you out. You really are pathetic, Ever."
He tossed the phone onto the nightstand. He didn't see a secret child; he saw a weak woman shackled by a debt of gratitude to a family of leeches. It fit his narrative perfectly.
The next morning, Ever woke up disoriented. She was in bed. Alone.
She grabbed her phone instantly. She checked the position. It had been moved.
Her heart stopped. Had he seen the texts? The photos of Leo?
She unlocked it frantically. The gallery was untouched. The messages app was closed. But the banking app was running in the background.
He had seen the money.
Ever walked into the kitchen, her legs shaking. Garrick was eating breakfast, reading the Wall Street Journal.
He didn't look up. He slid a thick file folder across the marble island toward her.
"What is this?" Ever asked.
"The Head Family Charity Foundation," he said, turning a page. "I'm putting you in charge of the orphan relief initiative."
Ever stared at the folder. The irony was so sharp it almost cut her.
"Why?"
"Because you have a bleeding heart," Garrick said, finally looking at her. "And because if you're going to throw money away on lost causes, do it with my money where it brings tax breaks, not on your trashy relatives' debts."
Ever flinched. He thought the money was for her foster parents. Relief washed over her, followed immediately by anger.
"It cleans up your image," he continued. "Makes you look less like a mistress and more like a... companion. Don't embarrass me."
"Thank you, Mr. Head," Ever said, her voice hollow.
He stood up, walked over, and kissed her forehead. "Be a good girl."
When the elevator doors closed behind him, Ever picked up the folder. Orphan Relief.
She walked to the trash compactor and shoved the folder in. She listened to the gears grind the paper into dust.
She didn't need his charity. She needed her son.
