Monday dawned blue-gray over Aurelia City—morning traffic stringing ruby-red through the avenues below. Grayson Lockwood stood at the living-room windows, already immaculate in a granite suit, the city reflected in his storm-colored eyes. Behind him, the penthouse stirred to gentle life: kettle whistling, a radio humming, Evangeline humming along—off-key, wildly and entirely herself.
He almost smiled. Almost.
He checked his phone: four new press alerts about their marriage. Two emails from Legal. One subject line, urgent: "FRAUD ACCUSATION – Foundation Intake Leak." Another, softer: an old photo from his estranged sister—backs turned, he'd been twenty-two.
He locked his phone. That part of his life could wait.
Evangeline appeared in the kitchen wearing a sunrise-yellow cardigan over pajamas, her hair a halo of sleep-tangled curls. She yawned so big it made him want to laugh, or worse—offer her coffee before she asked.
She stilled when she saw him. "You're up early." She peered through the glass. "Ignoring the wolves, or going out to run with them?"
"Both," Grayson replied, deadpan.
She filled two mugs, feet bare on cold tile. "I made muffins. Accidentally vegan, but you'll live."
He eyed them, suspicious. "And you haven't poisoned the coffee, I assume?"
"No," she said, her smile the softest thing in the room, "but I thought about it."
They shared a flutter, almost-laughter, skirting relief.
He sipped his coffee, pretending it wasn't the best cup he'd had in years.
A hush settled. Grayson was first to break it.
"There'll be new press attacks," he said quietly, "especially after that reporter. I can get you a car. Security—"
She interrupted with a single raised hand. "I don't want a bodyguard at my side pretending we're royalty."
His mouth twitched. "It's risk management."
"It's theater," she shot back. "Besides, I can handle sharp questions; I grew up across the street from an art school and survived five years of passive-aggressive emails from my ex's mother. Tabloids are child's play."
He looked at her, searching for cracks, and found too much steel beneath the sunlit smiles. "If there's a line, you tell me."
She hesitated. Then, softer, "I'll tell you if I need saving." There was a hint of old pain beneath it, but she looked him dead in the eye. "You trust me?"
He blinked—once, slow—then nodded.
She thrust a muffin into his palm. "Good. You're going to need stamina."
---
Lockwood Tower – 9:15 a.m.
The boardroom looked more like a crime scene than ever. Sunlight knifed through the panoramic glass, illuminating faces tight with suspicion.
Grayson swept in, Evangeline at his side. Today she wore autumn-red—a dress neither sober nor attention-hogging, but undeniably vivid against the corporate monochrome.
A dozen eyes flicked from her to him, reading the space between their bodies, dissecting the myth of their marriage.
The foundation's chair, a hawk-nosed woman named Maren Crosby, shuffled papers with practiced authority. "Mr. Lockwood. Mrs. Lockwood. Thank you for joining us on short notice."
Translation: You're late.
Grayson slid into his seat, mask up, voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "What's urgent, Maren?"
She fixed him with a predator's smile. "A leak, possibly internal, suggesting the Foundation's upcoming youth program is a cover for laundering donor funds. And…." She slid an envelope across the table, neatly addressed to "Mrs. Lockwood."
Evangeline's insides curled. She'd never expected her own name to show up in the crosshairs this soon.
Maren's voice was honeyed, false. "Since you met under such…unconventional circumstances, we'd like additional assurance of your involvement." She looked Evangeline up and down, lingering. "Perhaps you'd care to summarize how you first became involved with the Foundation?"
Grayson's jaw tensed, but Evangeline took the cue. She met Maren's gaze directly.
"Gladly."
Her voice was crisp—controlled, but carrying. "I was hired to design the youth center's interior last year. I saw first-hand your volunteer coordinator—Ms. Wexler—oversee every purchase. There are no secret doors, no creative bookkeeping. Just a cramped office and a lot of paint cans."
A surprised murmur. Maren's nose twitched.
Evangeline didn't stop. "If you need to verify receipts, I can draw up the storage inventory. All thirty-six boxes of it."
She slid the envelope back, untouched.
For a heartbeat, the whole room enjoyed the face-slapping beat. Even Grayson's mouth twitched.
Maren sniffed. "Duly noted, Mrs. Lockwood. We'll be in touch with follow-ups. You two may go."
Once the door shut behind them, Grayson stopped her in the hallway. "Nice work."
She met his gaze, earnest. "Next time, let me plant a basil at the end of the table for moral support."
He almost smiled. Almost.
---
The Rumor Mill
Outside the boardroom, the Tower's pulse ran wild. People stared, eyed her name badge, whispered behind screens. Someone dropped a folder as she passed. Stubborn, she kept her back straight and her smile sharp—a little dangerous, now.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number, again.
She ignored it. More buzzing. This time, a message:
Miss Hart, you're not as invisible as you think. Watch the news at noon.
She tucked her phone away, refusing to give the unknown sender her fear.
Back in the lobby, Grayson stopped. "Is something wrong?"
She hesitated, then handed him the phone. He read the message, eyes darkening.
"Stalkers, now?" he muttered. "It's probably a scare tactic. My security team will trace it."
She leaned in, voice quiet but adamant. "No. I'm not hiding. If I learn anything, I'll tell you first. But don't lock me out. I can handle the shadows."
He held her look. "You expect me to treat you like a partner."
"I signed on for this, Grayson. For all of it."
For the first time, he showed a sliver of genuine fear. "Not all of it."
She squeezed his hand—deliberate, brief. "Let's face it, together."
---
Hartline Interiors — 1:30 p.m.
That afternoon, Evangeline slipped away to her small design studio for the first time since the contract. Boxes of swatches, small plants, and gold-dipped mugs gave the place a warmth she refused to let the scandal steal.
Her assistant, Sam, met her at the door. "You're—uh—kind of viral," they whispered, holding up a phone.
Headlines scrolled:
"CEO's New Wife—Genuine Love or Cover-Up?"
"Foundation Under Fire: Hart Named in Leaked Board Memo!"
Evangeline took the phone and read the salacious lines, each word a knife.
Sam bit their lip. "You could go on live, tell your side—"
Evangeline shook her head, steady. "No statements. Nothing defensive. Cool, clear, and honest wins the long game."
Behind her, the door opened—a courier with a bouquet and a plain white envelope.
The card read simply:Don't outshine your husband. The spotlight burns.
Sam gasped. "That's...creepy."
"It's pathetic," Evangeline said, steeling herself. "And exactly what they want—fear."
She set the bouquet aside and opened her laptop, her hands only shaking a little. "Time to do what I do best."
She worked until sunset—shaping presentation documents for the youth center, designing new color schemes, replying to anxious emails. Every moment of order was its own resistance.
At five, Grayson called. "Coming home soon?"
His use of "home" caught her off guard. "Half an hour. You want me to bring anything?"
A pause. "Surprise me."
---
Evening — Penthouse Sanctuary
When Evangeline got back, the penthouse was dim, city lights washing the ceiling with distant gold. Grayson was in the kitchen, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed—attempting, and mostly failing, to dice bell peppers.
She stopped in the doorway, smiling wide despite everything. "If you cut your thumb off, your PR team will faint."
He grunted. "I have steady hands, thank you. It's the vegetable's fault."
She donned an apron, moved in close—showing him the trick, hand on his, patient and gentle. Both of them quieter than usual.
At one point, he looked up—really looked. "Are you scared?"
Evangeline took a breath. "Maybe. But that's how you know it matters."
He nodded, lips pressed tight, some shield in him buckling at last. "I don't want you hurt because of me."
She brushed a pepper seed from his wrist. "You didn't put the wolves out there, Grayson. But you did let me in."
He let out a long, slow breath. "I'm... glad you're here."
It was the closest to vulnerable he'd ever been with her.
They finished chopping together, hands brushing, building dinner as if assembling a barricade against everything beyond their threshold.
---
Dinner — 8:00 p.m.
Over bowls of grilled vegetable pasta, candles glowing between them, Evangeline lifted her glass.
"To surprise attacks and steady hands," she joked, the glint in her eyes edged but alive.
He gave her a tired, grateful smile. "And to partners who won't run, no matter the wolves."
They clinked. For a while, the city seemed far away, and the wolves nothing but rumors. Grayson watched the way she laughed, how she filled the rooms he'd never let anyone enter before.
He realized, suddenly, that he'd rather lose every board vote than lose this fragile thing warming his cold life.
He said nothing. But she saw it in his eyes.
And for that one soft hour, they were truly together.
---
Late Night — The Wolf at the Threshold
Just before midnight, as Evangeline set the last mug in the dishwasher, someone buzzed the penthouse—twice, insistent.
She glanced sharply at Grayson. He went to the intercom; a muffled voice spat static.
"Mr. Lockwood. Unscheduled package delivery. Needs signature."
Grayson checked the security camera. Deliveryman, face hidden by a ballcap, holding a plain folder.
He hesitated.
As Grayson signed for the envelope, he felt Evangeline at his shoulder, the two of them suddenly more united than ever.
Inside the envelope, a single snapshot: grainy, dark—Evangeline blurred in the background, a shadowed figure watching her through Hartline's studio window.
On the back, a note in jagged, unrecognizable writing:
"If you want the wolves to leave, let Hart go."
Grayson's hand closed around Evangeline's.
"We're not running," he whispered.
She squeezed back.
And somewhere beyond the city lights, the wolves circled. But inside, their shared quiet was stronger.
For now.