The bus dropped me off at the edge of nowhere—a dirt road fringed with wildflowers and silence. My suitcase felt heavier with every step toward the farmhouse. This was it. My life traded for my father’s freedom.

When Troy opened the door, I expected straw hats and calloused hands. Instead, I found storm-gray eyes that didn’t blink, a jaw tight with restraint, and a voice like gravel under boots. 'You’re early,' he said, stepping aside.

Inside, the house smelled of pine and something sharper—lemon oil and gunmetal. Too clean for a farmhand’s home. Too quiet.

'I signed the papers,' I said. 'Three months. No questions. Just… pretend.'

He crossed his arms. 'You don’t have to pretend to hate me. I already know you do.'

That night, I found a locked drawer. Inside: a satellite phone, a passport under a fake name, and a photo of him shaking hands with a CEO I recognized—one declared dead last year.

My breath caught. Who the hell was I married to?

Now, headlights cut through the trees outside. Unannounced. Unwelcome. And Troy’s hand went straight to the gun under his jacket.