The Met Gala was a sensory overload. Flashing cameras, screaming fans, a sea of velvet and diamonds.
Gracelyn walked the red carpet on Constantine's arm. She was wearing a deep blue gown with a slit that went up to her thigh-essential for running.
They entered the Great Hall. It was suffocating.
A woman in a silver dress approached them. She had a face full of filler and eyes full of judgment.
"Constantine," she purred, ignoring Gracelyn. "I didn't think you'd bring... her."
Constantine stopped. "This is my wife, Gracelyn."
The woman laughed. "Oh, the Montgomery mute? I heard she was a charity case."
Gracelyn didn't react. She was scanning the room. North exit. Kitchen staff only.
Constantine's grip on Gracelyn's arm tightened. "Apologize."
The woman blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Apologize to my wife," Constantine said. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade. "Now."
The woman turned pale. She mumbled a sorry and fled.
Gracelyn looked at him. Why defend me?
"Don't look at me like that," he muttered. "You're a Durham now. No one insults a Durham."
An hour later, he was cornered by three board members. This was Gracelyn's chance.
She slipped away. "Powder room," Gracelyn signed to a guard.
She walked into the ladies' room, went straight to the back stall, and climbed out the window.
Gracelyn landed on a maintenance terrace. The wind whipped her hair across her face. Below her, Central Park was a dark abyss. There was a scaffolding ladder leading down.
She kicked off her heels. Gracelyn grabbed the cold metal railing.
Click.
The sound of a lighter.
Gracelyn froze.
She turned slowly. Constantine was leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette glowing in the dark.
"Your hacking signature is identical to the one used to expose the Pierce family's fraud two years ago," he said, his voice a low, conversational hum. "The one that saved my acquisition. The tip I thought came from Georgina."
Gracelyn's blood turned to ice. He knew.
He pushed off the wall and walked toward her. "Did you really think I wouldn't find out? You're brilliant, but you're reckless."
Gracelyn stepped back. Her heel hit the edge of the terrace. She looked down. It was a twenty-foot drop to the next level. She could make it. Maybe.
She tensed her muscles to jump.
Constantine moved faster than humanly possible. He grabbed Gracelyn's wrist and yanked her back. He slammed her against the brick wall, his body pressing into hers.
"Don't," he growled.
"Why?" Gracelyn signed, her hands shaking against his chest. "You don't need me!"
"I do," he said. He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Because you're an asset I never knew I had. And you just proved you can't be trusted to roam free."
Gracelyn stopped breathing.
He didn't know because he recognized her. He knew because she had been careless. She had led him right to the truth.
"We're even!" Gracelyn mouthed.
"No," he said. "We're married. And you will never leave me. Even if you die, I'll bury you in the Durham plot."
He let go of Gracelyn's wrist. He stepped back, adjusting his cuffs.
"Put your shoes on. We have a waltz to dance."
Gracelyn stood there, defeated. Her tech failed. Her escape failed. He was always ten steps ahead.
She put her shoes on. She followed him back inside. They danced. His hand was warm on her waist, a shackle she couldn't break.
