The rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt was the first thing to penetrate the darkness.
Cooper glanced at the passenger seat. She was out cold. Her head bobbed slightly with the motion of the car. The blood on her cheek had dried to a dark crust.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. Benjamen.
He tapped his earpiece. "Yeah."
"Sir," Benjamen's voice was tight. "The transport team is reporting the package lost. They say she jumped."
"I know," Cooper said, his eyes staying on the road. "I have her."
Silence on the other end. Then, a sigh of relief. "You have her? Where are you taking her? The Estate?"
"No," Cooper said. He looked at the bruised woman again. Taking her to the Ortega mansion now would be like throwing a gazelle into a pit of lions. His uncle Heber was already spinning the narrative that Cooper was too sick, too disfigured to lead. If the bride showed up battered, Heber would use it.
"I'm taking her to the safe house on 4th. Call Evans. Tell him to meet me at the back entrance."
"Understood. And the cover?"
"I'm just a driver," Cooper said. A small, cynical smile touched his lips. "Just a guy trying to make a buck."
Francesca stirred. She whimpered, shifting in her sleep. "No... baby... please..."
Cooper's hand tightened on the wheel. Baby?
The file he had on Francesca Leonard said she was single. No children. A clean, if tragic, slate.
He filed the information away.
Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind a nondescript brick building. Dr. Evans was waiting by the steel door, looking nervous.
Cooper killed the engine. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door.
He unbuckled her seatbelt. She was dead weight. He slid his arms under her knees and back, lifting her out.
She was lighter than she looked. Fragile.
"Jesus, Cooper," Evans hissed, looking at the tattered dress. "What happened?"
"She decided to exit a moving vehicle," Cooper said flatly. "Inside. Now."
They moved into the clinic room. It was sterile, white, and smelled of antiseptic.
Cooper laid her on the examination table.
"Check for concussion. Clean the cuts. And test her blood. I want to know what they gave her."
Cooper leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. He watched Evans work. He watched the scissors cut away the ruined wedding dress, revealing pale skin map-marked with bruises.
He felt a cold, simmering rage in his gut. Not at her. But at the system that made her necessary. At her father, Bluford Leonard, who sold her. And at his own family, who bought her.
Hours passed.
Cooper smoked a cigarette by the cracked window, blowing the smoke out into the night.
A gasp from the bed.
He turned.
Francesca was sitting bolt upright. Her eyes were wide, wild. She ripped the IV line out of her arm. Blood beaded on her skin.
"Hey," Cooper said, stepping forward. He held up his hands. "Easy."
Francesca scrambled back against the headboard, pulling the thin sheet up to her chin. She looked around the room.
"Who are you?" Her voice was raspy. "Where am I?"
"You're in a clinic," Cooper said. He kept his voice low, the way one speaks to a spooked horse. "I'm the guy who picked you up off the highway."
She blinked, memories flickering behind her eyes. The jump. The car.
"You..." She squinted at him. "You're the driver."
"Cooper," he said.
Her face went white. All the blood left her lips. "Cooper?"
He saw the terror. She thought he was him. The monster.
"Common name," he shrugged, leaning back against the counter, adopting a slouch. "My mom liked Gary Cooper."
Francesca let out a breath she had been holding. Her shoulders slumped. "Right. Sorry. I just... I know someone with that name."
"Ex-boyfriend?"
"Something like that," she muttered. She looked down at herself. She was wearing a blue hospital gown. "My clothes..."
"Ruined," Cooper lied smoothly. "The nurse threw them out."
"Nurse?" She looked around. "Where is the nurse?"
"Gone. Shift change." Cooper pushed off the counter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He had scribbled on it while she slept.
"Look, lady. I'm glad you're alive. But this wasn't a free ride."
He held out the paper.
Francesca took it. It was a bill. Transport: $50. Emergency Clinic Fee: $300. Cleaning blood off upholstery: $100.
She looked up at him, confused.
"You... you want me to pay you?"
"I drive for a living," Cooper said, his face impassive. "I missed a night of fares hauling you here. And gas isn't cheap."
The fear in her eyes vanished, replaced by disbelief. And then, relief.
Because monsters don't ask for gas money. Monsters don't care about a fifty-dollar fare.
Only normal, working-class men did.
"I..." She looked at the bill, then at him. "I don't have my purse. It was in the car."
"Figure it out," Cooper said. "I'm not a charity."
"I'll pay you," she said quickly. "I promise. Just... I need time."
Cooper studied her. This was the test.
"Fine," he said. "But I know where you live. Or where you used to live, judging by the direction you were running from."
"I'm Francesca," she said softly.
"Cooper," he repeated.
She flinched again at the name, but this time, she managed a weak, ironic smile. "Of course it is."
She lay back down, the adrenaline finally fading. Her eyes drifted shut.
"Thank you, Cooper," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," he muttered to the empty room, a hint of amusement softening his tone. "You still owe me four hundred and fifty bucks."
