Rain hammers the sidewalk as I crouch beside the elderly woman, clutching her purse to my chest while shouting for someone to call 911. My hands won’t stop shaking—not from the cold, but from the mugger’s knife grazing my arm. She grips my wrist, eyes wide. “You saved me,” she whispers. “My son will hear about this.”

I don’t realize which son until the black SUV pulls up, doors flying open. Then I see him. Xavier. Seven years older, sharper, draped in power like a second skin. He takes in the scene—me, bleeding, holding his mother—and something flickers in his gaze. Not gratitude. Calculation.

“Mrs. Chen,” he says coolly, “you’ve just become very valuable to me.”

He offers a contract on the spot: one year of marriage, $10 million payout, total discretion. No emotions. No history. Just business.

I think of William’s asthma meds, the eviction notice on the fridge, and Richard’s latest letter slipped under my door: You belong to me.

I look at Xavier and whisper, “I’ll do it.”

But as he helps me into the car, his hand brushes mine—and for the first time in years, I wonder if I’ve just traded one danger for another.