The gala was over, but the echo of heels, clinking glasses, and hollow compliments still lingered in Nayla's mind. She stepped into the elevator of the penthouse, her arm brushing against Kenan's as they stood side by side, not speaking.
Not a word was exchanged during the ride up. Only silence. As always.
When they entered the apartment, Nayla took off her heels with a sigh. Her feet ached, but her heart ached more. The night had been a parade of lies—smiles that weren't hers, laughter that was forced, and eyes watching her every move as if waiting for her to slip and reveal the truth.
"You did well," Kenan said without turning, slipping off his blazer and placing it neatly on the back of a chair.
She looked at him, surprised. It was the first compliment he had given her since the wedding.
"Thanks," she muttered, unsure if she should feel proud or insulted.
Kenan walked toward the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. "We'll be attending two more events this week. One for the shareholders, and one for my cousin's engagement. You'll need to be at both."
Nayla frowned. "Can I ask something?"
He raised an eyebrow but didn't stop sipping. "You can ask. Doesn't mean I'll answer."
She sighed. "Why are you really doing this? Why the contract marriage? You're rich, powerful... I'm sure there are women lining up to be your real wife."
Kenan set the glass down, the sound sharper than necessary. "Because I don't want a real wife. I want control. And this"—he gestured between them—"is controllable."
Nayla blinked. "You think marriage can be... controlled?"
"Everything can be controlled. If you're smart enough."
She looked away, her chest tight. "And emotions?"
"That's the first rule, Nayla. No emotions."
He walked past her, heading toward his room.
But Nayla wasn't done. "What if I break the rule?"
Kenan stopped, his hand resting on the doorknob. He turned slightly, eyes colder than ever.
"Then you'll lose everything. Including the money I promised your family. And I won't be kind."
His voice was low. Quiet. But it struck like a knife.
The door closed behind him a second later.
Nayla stood alone in the hallway, suddenly more exhausted than she had been all night.
---
The next morning, a list appeared on the kitchen counter. Typed. Precise. Cold.
Rules:
1. Do not enter Kenan's room without permission.
2. No personal questions.
3. Maintain appearances at all times.
4. Attend events when requested.
5. No physical contact unless in public.
6. No romantic involvement—especially not with Kenan.
7. Violation of the rules = contract termination. No compensation.
At the bottom, his signature. Neat. Legal. Heartless.
Nayla stared at it for a long moment, then picked up the pen beside the list.
She didn't want to sign. She didn't want to agree to this twisted set of boundaries.
But she did.
Because she had to.
---
Days passed like fragments of glass—sharp, clear, and cold. Each one cut her just a little more.
Kenan was always polite in public, always perfect in front of people. But at home, he was distant. Business-like. As if she were just part of the furniture in his life.
Yet sometimes... just sometimes... she caught him watching her.
Like last Tuesday, when she spilled coffee on her blouse before a lunch meeting with his board members. She had rushed out of the bathroom, hair half-tied, lips trembling in frustration. And for one second—just one—she saw a flicker in his eyes. Concern, maybe. Or curiosity.
It was gone before she could be sure.
---
One rainy evening, Nayla returned from the store, her coat soaked through. The driver had dropped her at the lobby, but a sudden storm had drenched her before she could reach the elevator.
She sneezed as she entered the penthouse, shivering.
Kenan looked up from his laptop on the couch. "You're wet."
"Well observed," she muttered, wiping her face.
"Go change. You'll catch a cold."
His voice was still flat, but something about the way he stood and walked to the thermostat felt... human.
"Do you always bark orders when you're worried?" she teased, trying to lighten the air.
"I'm not worried. I just don't want you getting sick before Friday's dinner."
Ah. Right. The dinner.
Business.
Always business.
---
Later that night, as Nayla curled up with a book in the guest room, she heard a soft knock.
Kenan stood at the door, holding a mug.
"Ginger tea. For the cold," he said simply, setting it on her nightstand.
She looked up at him. "Thank you."
He nodded, and for once, didn't leave immediately.
"Do you ever... get tired of pretending?" she asked softly.
Kenan leaned against the doorframe. "Pretending?"
"That you don't care. That you don't feel anything."
He didn't answer right away. His jaw tensed. His hands curled into loose fists.
"I used to feel too much," he said finally, voice low. "And it destroyed everything."
There was a long silence.
Then he turned and left.
---
That night, Nayla couldn't sleep.
Not because of the rules.
But because for the first time, she saw a crack in his armor.
A glimpse of the man behind the contract.
And it terrified her more than anything else.
Because maybe... just maybe... she wanted to break the rules after all.