Slade did not do love.

Love was unpredictable. Illogical. A liability that got people killed or, worse, used against you. He had seen it happen too many times to ever mistake it for something useful.

Marriage, however—

Marriage could be useful.

Legal protection. Shared assets. Built-in alibi. Someone who could walk into rooms he couldn’t without raising suspicion. Someone who understood his world and didn’t scare easy.

Convenience.

That was the word he used whenever anyone asked.

The florist didn’t question him when he walked in. People rarely did. He had the kind of presence that made strangers mind their business and move a little faster.

He looked around the shop for a long moment before pointing at an arrangement near the window.

“Those,” he said simply.

The woman behind the counter nodded quickly and started writing something down. “Card?” she asked.

Slade stood there for a moment, silent, like the question required more thought than it should have.

Then he said, “Just write my name.”

He paid in cash, picked up the receipt, and left without another word.

Across the city, flowers would show up at her job in a few hours. Big enough that everyone would see them. Expensive enough that everyone would talk.

He told himself it was strategic.

Appearances mattered. A stable marriage meant fewer questions, fewer people looking too closely at their business.

That was all this was.

Slade adjusted his cuff as he stepped back out onto the street, արդեն mentally moving on to his next meeting, next problem, next decision that actually mattered.

But he had still signed the card.

— Slade.

Not Wilson.

Not anything formal.

Just Slade.

Convenience, he reminded himself again as he walked away.

Nothing more than that.