Charlotte didn't breathe for a full five seconds.
Then ten.
Her stomach twisted into a sailor's knot, tightening with every breath Asher didn't take. His face had turned to stone—no reaction, no give, just carved marble, sharp and unreadable.
"I see," he said into the phone, voice smooth but clipped. He ended the call and turned back to her. "Pack a bag."
Charlotte blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Your face is still on CCTV outside the registry office," he said, already crossing the room to open the walk-in closet. "Someone recognized you."
"Who?"
"I don't know. Yet. But someone's already reached out to a contact of mine in media. That means whoever they are, they're dangerous and fast."
Charlotte's blood turned to ice. "No one should know I'm here. I scrubbed everything. I've been invisible for six months—"
"And now you're not," he cut in. "Which means either you got sloppy, or someone got smart. Either way, we move now."
Her pulse throbbed in her ears. "What does that even mean? Move where?"
He pulled out a dark suitcase, tossed it on the bed, and turned to her. "To my penthouse uptown. It's secure. Cameras, underground entrance, 24/7 doorman who doesn't blink unless I tell him to."
Charlotte crossed her arms. "And you just happen to have a panic shelter disguised as a home?"
"No," he said. "I have a home disguised as a panic shelter."
She stared at him for a beat. "You're insane."
"And you married me."
Touché.
Still, she didn't move.
Asher's eyes narrowed. "You said yes, Charlotte. That means you trust me to handle this."
"No, it means I trust you to want custody of your goddaughter badly enough not to screw me over."
"Same thing," he said, coolly. "Get packing."
She opened her mouth to argue—then closed it again. The ring on her finger glinted in the early sunlight, a reminder that she'd already crossed the point of no return.
"Fine," she muttered. "But I want answers. About who made that call. About how they found me. About how the hell I'm supposed to stay invisible while also playing perfect wife in public."
He looked at her for a long, unreadable moment. "Fair."
They packed in silence. He was efficient—three suits, two ties, one gun. She wasn't even sure where he pulled the weapon from, but it slid into a zippered lining like it belonged there. Probably did.
Charlotte, meanwhile, stood in front of her open suitcase, realizing she had almost nothing she actually wanted to bring. Everything in this hotel room had been borrowed, bought under a name that didn't belong to her. She settled for one hoodie, one pair of jeans, a few neutral dresses, and the emergency cash she'd tucked into a sock in the minibar.
Thirty minutes later, they were in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, weaving through the narrow arteries of London's early morning traffic.
"You still haven't told me what exactly I said last night," Charlotte said, watching the city blur by. "What was it that made you think I was worth betting a marriage on?"
Asher didn't look away from the road ahead. "You said someone named Julian knows who you really are."
Charlotte stiffened. "I don't remember saying that."
"Alcohol makes memory elastic. But your voice cracked when you said his name."
She turned away, jaw clenched.
Asher didn't press.
The silence stretched, thick with things unspoken. Then he added, almost casually, "You also said you weren't running because of guilt. You said it was survival."
She let out a bitter laugh. "Sounds like a line."
"I don't believe in lines. I believe in pressure points. And your voice had one."
Charlotte let her head fall back against the leather seat. "Julian isn't just some ex or something. He's the reason I had to disappear. The reason I don't sleep."
Asher didn't respond. He didn't promise protection or say "you're safe now." He didn't offer comfort, and she hated that it was exactly what she preferred.
She didn't want soft words.
She wanted someone capable of burning things down.
Asher's penthouse wasn't an apartment. It was a fortress in disguise.
She barely had time to process the underground entrance, the keycard-locked elevator, or the retinal scan by the front door before they were inside a sprawling space full of modern glass, soft steel, and silence.
Everything gleamed. Everything was symmetrical. No mess, no emotion, no color beyond cold blues and greys.
"This is... sterile," she muttered.
"It's safe," he said. "Your new wardrobe will be delivered by noon. Everything has tags that match your new identity. From now on, your name is Elise Hart."
She turned. "That's not very bridal. Shouldn't I be Elise Blake?"
His expression didn't change. "You're not taking my name."
"Why?"
"Because wives who take names leave paper trails," he replied. "You're here to vanish. Not to get Pinterest boards made about your wedding."
The reminder was grounding. Uncomfortable. Necessary.
Charlotte ran a hand through her hair and moved to the window. The view was panoramic. Impossibly high.
She heard him speak again.
"Tomorrow morning we attend a charity gala. The press will be there. You'll be photographed. That's when we make the marriage public."
Charlotte turned to him, startled. "Tomorrow? Already?"
"The longer we wait, the more questions there'll be. We do it fast, clean, and loud."
She nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll be your perfect wife. Publicly."
"And privately?" he asked, the smallest edge of curiosity in his tone.
She met his gaze evenly. "Privately, I'm a ghost. You won't even know I'm here."
There was a flicker in his eyes then, gone too fast to name.
Then he turned away. "Dinner's in two hours. Wear black. Minimal jewelry. We'll go over the guest list and rehearse the story."
"Rehearse?"
"People will ask. You'll need answers. I won't risk anyone catching you off guard."
Charlotte swallowed. She'd become a character in someone else's lie.
But the scariest part?
It didn't feel like the first time.