Chapter 4
Wyatt smiled—a slow, dangerous, utterly captivating smile that transformed his rugged face into something breathtaking.
“We have a deal, Mrs. Brandt.”
He reached into his pocket to pull out his phone—a ruggedized, scuffed-cased burner device he had grabbed from his security team that morning specifically for this decoy outing. As the screen lit up beneath the edge of the table, three encrypted priority notifications flashed from his personal chief of staff:
*CRITICAL: Trustee proxy challenge officially blocked by registered marriage filing. Board in complete disarray.* *RE: Restructuring audit error flagged in Sector 4 analytics.* *WHERE ARE YOU, MR. BRANDT?*
Wyatt casually tapped the screen, dismissing all three notifications without looking at them, and slid the phone back into his pocket.
Then he picked up his half of the poppy-seed bagel, raised it in a silent toast to his fiery new wife, and took a bite.
The radiator on the fifth floor of 34th Street didn’t just clank; it wheezed like a dying steam engine with a personal vendetta against silence.
Piper kicked the front door open with the heel of her boot, balancing a brown grocery sack in one arm and her battered leather laptop bag in the other.
“Welcome to the Holloway fortress,” she announced, out of breath. “Watch your head. The doorframe settles two inches every November.”
Wyatt stepped across the threshold, and the entire twenty-foot living room suddenly shrank by half.
He had an old army surplus duffel slung over one broad shoulder. In the low light of the afternoon, he looked impossibly massive in her tiny space—six-foot-three of lean, hard muscle that made the floral thrift-store armchair look like dollhouse furniture. His hazel eyes swept the room with an instinctual, methodical efficiency that felt less like a mechanic checking for termites and more like a tactical commander mapping sightlines.
“Cozy,” Wyatt said. His voice was that same low, textured rumble that made her ribs vibrate.
“That’s polite for ‘glorified shoe box,’” Piper retorted, setting the grocery bag on the scratched laminate kitchen island. “The deadbolt works if you jiggle the knob upward. The hot water takes four minutes to reach the fifth floor. And the sofa…”
She pointed a finger at the lumpy corduroy monster shoved against the exposed brick wall.
“…requires the ancient Holloway martial arts technique.”
Wyatt walked over, his heavy work boots thudding softly against the worn oak floorboards. He stood over the sofa, looking down at the warped iron hinge sticking out beneath the cushion.
“Two kicks to the left hinge?” he asked, a faint half-smile curving his mouth.
“Firm ones,” Piper said. “Don’t baby it.”
Wyatt raised one boot and gave the iron bracket two measured, deliberate taps. The sofa shuddered with a metallic groan, and the steel bed frame folded out with a triumphant, rattling clatter, landing perfectly flat on the rug.
Piper blinked. “It usually takes me twenty minutes and a tire iron.”
“Leverage,” Wyatt replied smoothly, dropping his duffel onto the end of the mattress. “Everything in this world is just physics and leverage.”
“Spoken like a man who spends his life under chassis.” Piper smiled, untying her dark hair and shaking it out over her shoulders. “I bought eggs, sourdough, and cheap cheddar. Since you’re doing me the honor of being my legal shield against Landon Pierce, the least I can do is make you an artisanal grilled cheese.”
Wyatt stood frozen for a fraction of a second, watching her hair tumble past her collarbone. In the golden slant of late-afternoon Queens light, her amber-brown eyes caught fire. There was an untamed, luminous energy about her—she was bruised by betrayal, cornered by wolves, and yet standing in a drafty kitchen offering him grilled cheese like she had all the riches in the world.
Something strange and heavy tightened in Wyatt’s chest.
“I can help,” he said, stepping toward the counter.
“Nope. House rule number four: the chef rules the stove. Go wash the subway off your hands. Bathroom is down the hall on the left.”
Wyatt inclined his head and disappeared down the narrow corridor.
The bathroom was roughly the size of an executive aircraft’s lavatory. A porcelain clawfoot tub sat under a tiny frosted window, and a faded yellow shower curtain hung from a rusted rod. Wyatt turned on the cold tap, splashing water over his face.
When he reached into the inner pocket of his canvas mechanic’s jacket for a handkerchief, his fingers brushed against a cold, impossibly thin rectangle of metal.
His titanium Centurion black card.
Beside it sat an Audemars Piguet Royal Oak chronograph—a two-hundred-thousand-dollar piece of master horology currently ticking quietly against a five-dollar pack of gas station mints.
Wyatt cursed under his breath.
He pulled the watch and the card out, looking around the tiny, pristine bathroom with a rare surge of cold panic. If Piper saw an auto mechanic carrying an unlimitable, invitation-only sovereign credit line and a watch valued at the gross domestic product of a small island, the entire cover story would disintegrate before the butter melted in the pan.
He quickly shoved both items into the deepest, zippered lining of his surplus duffel bag, tucking the bag beneath the fold-out couch frame when he walked back into the living room.
His burner phone buzzed against his thigh.
Two sharp pulses. A high-priority encrypted ping.
Wyatt stepped toward the window, pretending to inspect the fire escape latch while sliding the device from his pocket.
*BRIGGS (Head of Executive Security): Three unmarked sedans deployed on 34th Street per protocol. Holloway Foundation investigators spotted circling the block. We have visual on Landon Pierce’s personal attorney.*
Wyatt typed back with one thumb, his keystrokes ruthless and precise:
*Pull the sedans back three blocks. If my wife spots a single surveillance drone or an earpiece within two hundred yards of this building, you’re overseeing cargo logistics in Murmansk.*
*BRIGGS: Understood, sir. What about the board meeting tomorrow regarding the Holloway Logistics buyout?*
*WYATT: Delay it. Tell them I have influenza.*
He shoved the phone back into his pocket just as Piper called from the stove.
“Plate up, mechanic! Before the cheese hardens into plastic.”
Wyatt slipped back into the kitchen, his expression perfectly relaxed.
Two plates sat on the tiny round dining table, flanked by cracked ceramic mugs filled with cheap black tea. The grilled cheese was golden-brown, cut diagonally, sizzling slightly on the bread.
“Eat,” Piper commanded, sliding into the chair opposite him. “You look like you haven't eaten a solid meal since Tuesday.”
Wyatt took a bite. The bread was crisp, the butter rich, the cheddar sharp and perfectly melted.
For the past five years, Wyatt’s meals had been curated by Michelin-starred private chefs at twenty-thousand-foot altitudes or served across mahogany boardroom tables where every bite was accompanied by financial blood sport.
This ten-cent sandwich tasted better than all of it.
“Well?” Piper asked, her chin propped on her hand, watching him with expectant, bright eyes. “Does it pass inspection?”
“Best thing I’ve tasted in years,” Wyatt said honestly.
Her face lit up with a grin that made his breath catch. “Flattery will get you an extra slice of sourdough tomorrow.”
She reached over, casually grabbing the tea kettle to refill his mug. As she leaned forward, her shoulder brushed his, and the scent of her—sweet lavender, clean cotton, and a faint hint of paper and ink—drifted over him.
