7. Mark
MARK
The surveillance folder sits closed on my desk. I stare at it from my chair, coffee going cold in my hand, and realize I haven't opened it once this week.
Reports on Rayna—all gathering dust while I've been driving Maura to campus and watching her curl up in my bed at night.
The hunt that started this whole mess doesn't matter anymore. Somewhere between the first night she slept in my house and this morning when she kissed me goodbye before classes, the obsession shifted.
Rayna can keep the million. She can disappear forever. I have what I actually want sleeping in my bed and drinking coffee in my kitchen and arguing with me about Victorian poetry over breakfast.
I open the folder once, just to be sure, and check the last entry. Facial recognition hits, financial traces, travel patterns—all the infrastructure I built to track my thieving ex-wife.
None of it matters. I close the folder and move it into my desk drawer.
Done.
The house feels different when I know Maura's coming home to it instead of just staying temporarily. Staff finished up an hour ago. The quiet settles around me like something I can finally enjoy instead of endure.
Tonight I'm taking her to dinner.
But first, shopping. She needs clothes. Not one or two pieces—everything. I've seen her tiny closet, watched her rotate through the same seven outfits.
The cardigans and secondhand skirts served their purpose when she was counting grocery money. Now she's mine, and what's mine gets the best I can provide.
The motivation isn't charitable. It's possessive down to the bone.
I want to see her in clothes that fit properly, made of fabric that doesn't thin at the seams. Want to watch her walk into rooms knowing she belongs there because everything she's wearing was chosen specifically for her body, her coloring, her life with me.
She appears in the kitchen doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled into the low ponytail that's become my favorite sight in the morning. The blue sweater she's wearing has a small hole near the left elbow.
It bothers me more than it should.
"Ready?" she asks.
"Change of plans. We're going shopping first."
Her eyebrows lift. "Shopping?"
"You need clothes."
"I have clothes."
I drain the last of my coffee and set the mug in the sink, using the moment to choose my words carefully. "You have clothes that worked when you were paying for them yourself. Now you're with me."
The distinction matters. She's not a college student scraping by on barista wages anymore. She's the woman I sleep beside every night and plan to keep doing so. Her wardrobe should reflect that reality.
"Mark—"
"It's not negotiable."
She stares at me for a long moment. Whatever she finds there makes her sigh and adjust her backpack strap. "Fine. But I get veto power on anything ridiculous."
"Define ridiculous."
"Anything that costs more than my monthly rent used to."
Her monthly rent was robbery for a fifth-floor walk-up with broken locks and heating that barely worked. Using it as a price point makes about as much sense as measuring distance in coffee stirrers.
"No," I say flatly.
"No what?"
"No price negotiations. No comparisons to your old rent. No calculating cost per wear or any of the other financial mathematics you've been doing your entire adult life."
Her mouth opens like she's planning to argue, then closes. Something in my voice or my expression makes her nod instead. "Okay."
"Good. Get your purse."
The shopping district is fifteen minutes from the estate, assuming normal traffic. My Range Rover cuts through Saturday morning Boston like it owns every lane, which in this part of the city, it essentially does.
Maura sits in the passenger seat scrolling through her phone, legs crossed.
I park outside a boutique on Newbury Street. The valet recognizes the car before he sees my face. Good. Today needs to go smoothly.
"Jesus," Maura breathes, looking up at the storefront. "Mark, I can't afford?—"
"You're not paying."
"I know, but?—"
"No buts. You're mine now. That means you get the best."
The possessiveness in my voice makes her cheeks flush, but she doesn't argue again. Smart girl. She's learning that when I decide something, the discussion phase is over.
Inside, the familiar ritual begins. Salespeople who recognize my face and my credit limit materialize from behind clothing racks, all bright smiles and professional efficiency.
I've done this before, but never like this. Never with the specific satisfaction of outfitting a woman who belongs to me.
"Mr. Callahan," the manager approaches. "So lovely to see you again. And this must be?—"
"Maura," I supply, not bothering to define the relationship. "She needs everything."
"Everything?"
"Clothes for university. Clothes for evenings. Shoes. Whatever else women need that I'm not thinking of."
The manager's eyes light up like I just told her Christmas got moved to today. "Of course. Shall we start with day wear?"
I look at Maura. She's staring at a rack of dresses with price tags that aren't visible from where she's standing, but her body language tells me she's calculating anyway. The careful way she holds her hands. The slight tension around her eyes.
"What size?" the manager asks. "I can measure?—"
"Six," I interrupt. "Small on top, medium in anything stretchy. Size seven shoes."
Maura's head snaps toward me, eyes wide. "How do you?—"
"You know how."
For a moment I think she's going to be angry about the reminder. Instead, her mouth curves. "Of course you do."
The tone is dry, amused. Like she's remembering that being stalked by a man with surveillance expertise means there are no mysteries left about practical details.
"Let's start with day wear," I tell the manager. "Jeans, sweaters, things she can wear to campus. Nothing that requires dry cleaning every time she wears it."
"Certainly. And for evenings?"
"Dresses. Something for tonight."
The manager nods and starts pulling items. Maura watches the clothes accumulate on a rolling rack, her eyes tracking each addition.
"Mark," she says when the manager steps away to grab more options. "This is insane."
"This is necessary."
"I don't need twelve sweaters."
"You need options."
"I need maybe three sweaters. And not cashmere. Do you know what happens to cashmere in a washing machine?"
"You won't be using a washing machine."
She blinks. "What?"
"The house staff handles laundry. Proper cleaning. Proper care for proper clothes."
The concept seems to short-circuit something in her brain. She stares at me like I just told her gravity was optional on weekends.
"You want me to give my clothes to strangers?"
"I want you to stop worrying about practical limitations that don't apply to your life anymore."
She processes this for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. You're right. I'm with you now. Different rules."
The manager returns with an armload of options. "Shall we start with fits?"
The fitting room process becomes its own kind of torture. Maura disappears behind heavy curtains with items I picked out, items the manager selected. I sit in the leather chair they provide for accompanying men and watch the curtain, waiting.
"How's this?"
She steps out in dark jeans that actually fit her hips and a cream sweater that shows the shape of her body instead of drowning it.
The difference is immediate and devastating. Not just that the clothes are better quality—they are—but that they were made for someone with her proportions.
The jeans follow her curves instead of gaping at the waist. The sweater skims her breasts and waist in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
"Good," I manage.
"Just good?" She turns to check herself in the three-way mirror, and the movement shows me the back view. The curve of her ass in denim that doesn't sag. The line of her spine visible through knit that doesn't pull across her shoulders.
"We'll take them."
"I haven't tried on the other?—"
"We'll take everything."
The manager makes a note. Maura stares at me.
"Everything? Mark, you haven't even seen?—"
"I've seen enough."
What I've seen is that clothes designed for her body and chosen by people who know what they're doing make her look like the woman I've been watching through cameras, but sharper. More defined. Like someone focused the lens.
She disappears back into the fitting room. Comes out ten minutes later in a black dress that stops me mid-breath.
It's nothing dramatic. Simple cut, long sleeves, hits just above her knees. But the fabric clings to her in places and skims in others, and the neckline shows her collarbone and the hollow of her throat. When she moves, the dress moves with her like it was designed specifically for her body.
"This one's for tonight?" she asks, smoothing her hands down her hips.
I can't speak for a moment. The dress, yes. But also the way she's standing in it. Shoulders back, chin lifted slightly.
"Yes."
The word comes out rougher than intended. She notices, because her cheeks flush and she glances away from my face.
"It's nice," she says, which is the understatement of the fucking century.
"We'll take it."
"Don't you want to see the other options?"
"No."
She's wearing it to dinner tonight. She's wearing it when I introduce her to the world as the woman I'm with. The dress is perfect for that purpose, and I don't need to see alternatives to know perfection when it's standing in front of me.
The trying-on continues. Day clothes, evening clothes, casual pieces I'm not sure she'll ever need but that round out a complete wardrobe. Shoes that match. Bags for different occasions. Accessories the manager insists are essential.
The manager runs my card. The receipt prints, and I sign it without looking at the total.
"Thank you, Mr. Callahan. As always, a pleasure."
I nod and start collecting bags.
Maura watches me load everything into the Range Rover. "I still can't believe you just spent?—"
"I didn't spend anything. I invested in making sure the woman I sleep with every night has clothes appropriate for her life now."