Wyatt
I stood in the entryway. Arms crossed. Weight balanced. Expression flat. Not pacing. Not anxious. Not eager. Just waiting.
The house spread out behind me—clean lines, dark wood, steel accents. Minimalist in the way people called "intentional" when they meant "empty." No throw pillows. No family photos. No signs anyone lived here beyond basic survival. A place built for solitude. Not guests. Certainly not hostages.
They were late.
I'd expected that. Harrington probably sat in the driveway with the engine running, delivering some final pep talk. Reminding her this was temporary. Necessary. For the family.
Maybe she cried. Maybe she didn't.
I didn't think she had. She seemed like the type to break quietly instead of loudly. To fracture inward where no one could see. To hold everything together until she was alone.
I respected that more than tears.
Headlights swept across the front windows. The engine cut. Car doors opened and closed with muffled precision. Footsteps on the walkway. Two sets. One heavier. One hesitant.
I moved to the door. Positioned myself directly in front of it. Solid. Unmovable. The first thing they'd see when it opened.
The knock came. Three sharp raps. Harrington's rhythm. Controlled even now.
I opened the door before he could knock again. Harrington stood on my porch. Coat buttoned. Jaw tight. One hand on Chastity's suitcase like he might change his mind and take it back.
Behind him, Chastity. Pale. Composed. Eyes harder than they'd been this morning. Like somewhere between the restaurant and here, she'd made a decision. Locked something down. Armored up.
"You’re late," I said.
Harrington's mouth thinned. "We had an agreement."
"We did." I stepped back. Gestured them inside. "Come in."
Neither moved immediately.
Chastity's gaze swept past me into the house. Taking inventory. Checking exits. Reading the space the way prey read territory.
Smart girl.
"I'm not going to bite," I said.
Her eyes snapped to mine. Sharp. Suspicious.
"Not yet, anyway."
Harrington's hand tightened on the suitcase handle. "Garrison—"
"Relax." I kept my voice level. Bored almost. "It's called a joke."
But I didn't smile.
Neither did she.
The standoff stretched. Three people in a doorway. One threshold. Thirty days hanging between us like a noose.
Finally, Chastity stepped forward. Chin up. Shoulders back. Every inch of her radiating fury she was too well-trained to voice.
She crossed into my house. And I shut the door behind her.
Harrington stood in the hallway. Suitcase still in hand. Knuckles white around the handle.
Chastity positioned herself beside him. Silent. Waiting.
I stepped back half an inch. Enough for her to pass. Not enough for him.
"Harrington."
His eyes narrowed. "You will not touch her."
I raised a brow. Let a slow smile curve across my mouth. Nothing friendly about it.
"I don't know." I looked at Chastity deliberately. Not a sexual appraisal. Something worse. Something that said I already owned the next thirty days, and we both knew it. "She might beg me to." Beat. "I'll make sure you walk in on that."
Harrington's face drained of color. Then flushed red. "You're disgusting."
I shrugged. "You handed her to me. I'm not the disgusting one here."
He flinched—barely, just a microscopic crack in his composure—but I caught it. Filed it away for later use.
Beside him, Chastity sucked in a breath. Shocked. Like she hadn't expected me to say it out loud. Like she hadn't expected him to stand there and take it.
Harrington straightened. Tried to reclaim some authority he'd already surrendered the moment he agreed to this. "You do anything inappropriate—"
I cut him off. Voice sharp now. Done playing. "One month. I keep her name clean. You walk away with your merger. Don't pretend this is anything but transactional."
His jaw clenched. Worked. Ground down whatever he wanted to say. Then he looked at his daughter. Something passed across his face. Conflict. Guilt. Maybe even regret. He said tightly, "Call me if you need anything."
Her voice came out barely above a whisper. "Okay."
Harrington hesitated.
I watched. Waited. Expected him to fight. To refuse. To take her hand and drag her back to the car. To tell me to go to hell and deal with the consequences.
But he didn't.
He just turned. Walked down the front steps. Got into his car. And left.
The taillights disappeared down the driveway.
I stared after them. "…Huh." I genuinely hadn't expected that. Thought he'd make more noise. Put up more resistance. Demand contract amendments or oversight or weekly check-ins. But he just… folded. Walked away from his daughter like she was a signed invoice.
Chastity stood frozen in my hallway. Suitcase at her feet. Face blank with something I couldn't quite name. Betrayal, maybe. Or worse—confirmation of something she'd already suspected.
The silence stretched. I closed the door. The lock clicked into place. Loud in the quiet. She didn't turn around. Just stood there. Staring at the wood grain where her father had been moments before.
I moved past her. Grabbed her suitcase without asking permission.
"I'll show you your room." My voice came out flatter than I intended.
She finally looked at me. Eyes hard. Brittle. "He left." Not a question. A statement. Like she needed to say it out loud to make it real.
I met her gaze. Didn't soften it. "Yeah."
She swallowed. "You threatened me in front of him."
"I did."
"And he still left."
I tilted my head. Considered lying. Considered comfort. Chose truth instead. "Guess you know where you rank now."
Her cheeks flushed—anger, humiliation, fear? Hard to say. Maybe all three bleeding together until she couldn't separate them herself. She straightened. Forced steadiness into her voice. The kind of control that took practice. Years of it.
"I'm not interested in anything physical."
I snorted. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just blunt. The sound of someone stating the obvious. "Trust me, sweetheart. I wouldn't touch you with a six-foot pole."
Her mouth fell open. Just slightly. Like I'd slapped her when she'd been braced for something else entirely.
I walked past her. Didn't slow. Didn't glance back. Suitcase swinging easily in my grip. "You're here because I said so, not because I want you."
I felt her freeze behind me. Heard the small intake of breath she tried to hide. That stung her more than she'd admit.
Good.
Distance kept things clean. Professional.
A hostage situation worked best when neither party confused the arrangement for something it wasn't. She wasn't here because I found her attractive.
She wasn't here because I wanted companionship or warmth or whatever fairy tale her college friends probably whispered about behind cupped hands.
She was leverage. A pawn. A tactical decision designed to destroy her father slowly enough that he'd feel every second of it.
And if some small, buried part of me recognized that she didn't deserve this—that she was innocent in a war she didn't even know existed—I shoved it down deep where it couldn't interfere.
Safer.
For both of us.
I headed to the kitchen. Called back without turning.
"Your bedroom’s the door on the right. Bathroom's across the hall. Don't go in my office or my bedroom." I paused on the landing. "But we’ll do a quick run-through of the first floor first, since we’re here. And for God's sake, stop looking at me like I'm going to hurt you."
Silence.
Then her voice. Quiet. Brittle. "Aren't you?"
I gripped the suitcase handle tighter. Let the question sit between us for three long seconds. "Not the way you think."
Kitchen first.
I gestured vaguely at the granite counters. The stainless steel appliances. Everything gleaming under recessed lighting that felt more surgical than homey.
"Coffee maker's there. Mugs in the cabinet above. I don't do flavored creamer or any of that garbage. Black or with milk. That's it."
She stood in the doorway. Arms wrapped around herself. Taking inventory with those careful eyes.
I opened the pantry. Showed her rows of protein powder. Meal prep containers stacked by size. Spice jars alphabetized because chaos in the kitchen meant chaos everywhere else.
"I cook," I said flatly. "Not because I enjoy it. Because restaurants ask questions and I don't like answering them."
Her gaze lingered on the labels. Everything organized. Everything intentional. Nothing spontaneous or warm or welcoming.
"You can use whatever you want. Just put it back where you found it."
I moved past her into the living room before she could respond.
Dark leather couch. Low coffee table. Massive TV mounted on the wall—the kind built for game footage analysis, not movie nights. Weights stacked neatly in the corner beside a yoga mat I never used but kept telling myself I would.
No throw pillows. No books. No pictures. Nothing that said a person lived here instead of just survived here.
I watched her scan the room. Saw the moment her expression shifted. Subtle. Just a flicker of surprise she tried to hide.
She'd expected beer cans. Pizza boxes. Gym socks draped over furniture. The stereotype of an aging bachelor athlete clinging to glory days through laziness and denial.
Instead, she got military discipline. Cold order. A life stripped down to function.
I didn't explain it. Didn't justify it. Just let her absorb it.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "It's very… clean."
I almost laughed. Almost. The word hung there like an accusation disguised as a compliment.
"Cleanliness is control." I moved toward the hallway. "And control is survival."
She didn't respond. Just followed. Silent. Wary.
I stopped at the first closed door. Put my palm flat against it. Didn't open it.
"My office." My voice dropped half an octave. Not threatening. Just final. "You stay out of it."
She nodded once. Quick. Obedient.
I continued down the hall. Stopped at the second closed door. "Gym." I glanced back at her. Let my eyes travel down her frame. “You can use it if you want. But put everything back exactly where you found it. And for fucks sake, wipe it clean."
Her jaw tightened. She hated being looked at like that. Like an object. A variable. Something to be measured and categorized.
I climbed the stairs. Felt her hesitate at the bottom before following. Her footsteps lighter than mine. Tentative. Like she expected the wood to give way beneath her.
Second floor opened into a short hallway. Three doors. All closed.
I pointed to the first. "Your room."
Then the second. "Bathroom. We share it."
She stiffened. "Share?"
I raised an eyebrow. "It's a house, not a hotel. There's one upstairs bathroom, and it’s not in the master. You'll survive."
Lie.
Of course there was a bathroom in the master. She didn’t need to know that, though.
Her cheeks flushed. Anger or embarrassment, couldn't tell. Didn't care.
I nodded toward the third door at the end of the hall. Farthest from hers. Intentional.
"My room." Pause. "Don't knock unless the house is on fire."
She hugged herself tighter. "I wouldn't."
"Good."
I set her suitcase down outside her door. Stepped back. Put three feet of space between us.
"Thirty days," I said. "You stay out of my way. I'll stay out of yours. We show up together when required. Smile for cameras. Play the part."
She stared at the suitcase. Then at me. Something flickered across her face—defiance? resignation?—before she buried it. "And after thirty days?"
I shrugged. "You go back to your perfect life. I go back to mine. And your father learns what it costs to destroy people."
Her eyes narrowed. "What did he do to you?"
I stepped closer. Not threatening. Just close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold my gaze. "Ask him."
I reached past her and pushed the door open.
Warm light spilled into the hallway. The kind that came from bedside lamps instead of overhead fixtures.
Neutral colors. Cream walls. Gray bedding on a queen frame centered against the far wall.
Clean lines. Simple furniture. A dresser.
A chair by the window. Curtains that actually looked like someone had picked them instead of ordering whatever came first in a catalog.
It was nicer than she expected.
I saw it register on her face. The slight widening of her eyes. The way her shoulders dropped half an inch before she caught herself and pulled them back up.
She'd been bracing for a cell. A closet. Some dark corner where I'd shove her and forget she existed.
Instead, she got a guest room that looked like a guest room. Clean. Functional. Safe.
I didn't soften when I spoke. "This is your room."
She stepped inside. Slow. Cautious. Like the floor might collapse if she moved too fast. Her gaze swept the space—bed, dresser, window. Checking for cameras probably. Or locks on the outside of the door. Whatever horror story she'd built in her head during the drive over.
I stayed in the doorway. Watched her shoulders stay rigid. Watched her breathing stay shallow. Watched her stand there like a deer that hadn't decided yet whether to run.
She set her suitcase down beside the dresser. Hands trembling just enough that I noticed.
"You can unpack," I said.
She didn't move. Just stood there. Back to me. Spine straight as rebar.
I paused. Let the silence stretch. Then added, "Then meet me downstairs."
She turned slightly. Not all the way. Just her head. "For what?"
"Rules. Expectations."
Her jaw tightened. She wanted to argue. I could see it building behind her eyes. But she swallowed it down. Nodded once.
I turned to leave. Got three steps into the hallway before I stopped. Looked back over my shoulder.
She was watching me. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
"You're not a prisoner," I said. "But don't test boundaries."
Her breath hitched. Sharp. Audible.
I didn't wait for a response. Just walked away. Left her standing there in the warm light with her suitcase and her fear and her anger all tangled up together.
The door stayed open behind me. I didn't close it. She could do that herself.
I walked down the stairs alone. Exhaled. For a moment—just a moment—I felt something unnervingly human.
Guilt?
No.
She was scared. Confused. Alone in a stranger's house because her father traded her like currency. And for thirty days… she existed in my world. Under my roof. Subject to my rules.
I sat on the edge of the couch. Leather cold against my palms. Waited.
Listened to the faint sounds of her unpacking. Drawers sliding open. Fabric rustling. The soft thud of something hitting carpet.
She won't last two days.
Too polished. Too sheltered. Too used to comfort and safety and people who protected her instead of using her.
She'd break. Cry. Call her father begging to come home. And when she did, I'd let her. After the damage was done.
But underneath that certainty—buried deep where I didn't have to examine it—was something else. Something I refused to name.
The way she'd stood in that hallway. Chin up despite everything. Eyes hard with fury she couldn't voice.
She had spine.
I hated that I'd noticed.