The morning after the gala, London's skyline felt almost too bright. Sunlight cut through the penthouse windows, unforgiving in its clarity. Nadia sat at the kitchen island, her hands wrapped around a mug of untouched coffee. She had read the papers twice already, each headline more glowing than the last.
Power couple.
Unshakable alliance.
The Kingsleys dominate.
The image was perfect. But the truth was not.
Across the room, Tom moved with quiet efficiency, tie knotted, phone pressed to his ear as he coordinated with his assistant. His voice was steady, calm, decisive—exactly the kind of man who thrived under the spotlight. Exactly the kind of man she had spent years avoiding.
Nadia glanced down at her mug, her reflection rippling on the black coffee surface. He had blindsided her last night. Announced a pledge in her company's name without warning, claimed a piece of Verdant in front of the world. Yes, it had worked—Vogel's office had already called to congratulate her—but it was also reckless. Dangerous.
And part of her hated that she hadn't been angry enough to stop thinking about the way his hand had guided her across the ballroom floor.
---
When Tom finally ended his call, he crossed to the island and slid into the chair beside her.
"You haven't touched it," he said, nodding at her coffee.
"I'm not hungry."
"That's not what I asked."
She shot him a sharp look. "You don't get to monitor me."
His lips curved faintly. "Someone has to. You're running on fumes."
"Don't." Her tone was low, edged with warning. "Don't pretend this is about me. Last night was about you proving something."
"Wrong," Tom said simply. "It was about us proving something. And it worked."
She exhaled sharply, fighting the pull of his certainty. "You don't get to keep deciding what's best for Verdant without me."
"I didn't. I decided what was best for us."
The words lingered between them, heavier than the silence that followed.
---
By afternoon, Nadia escaped to Verdant headquarters. She needed the hum of work—the safety of numbers, prototypes, staff questions that could be answered with logic. Work was predictable. Work was hers.
But even here, she wasn't free.
Sophie, her assistant, stepped in with a tentative smile. "Congratulations, Mrs. Kingsley. Everyone's talking about the gala."
Nadia forced a polite nod. "Thank you."
"And, um… there are a few journalists waiting outside the building. They want a comment on Verdant's partnership with the Kingsley Foundation."
Nadia's pen stilled in her hand. She hadn't agreed to call it a partnership. She hadn't agreed to any of this.
Her walls threatened to crack. She excused Sophie, shut the door, and pressed her palms hard against her desk.
She had built her life on control—measured moves, careful plans, nothing left to chance. And now Tom had wedged himself inside those walls, forcing her to play by his rhythm. Forcing her to feel.
That terrified her more than Blake's threats ever had.
---
That evening, Tom came home late. He found Nadia in the study, papers spread across the desk, the tension in her shoulders visible from the doorway.
"You didn't eat again," he said quietly.
She didn't look up. "I worked through dinner."
He walked closer, stopping on the other side of the desk. "You can't keep running yourself into the ground."
"And you can't keep pretending you know what's best for me."
His eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed calm. "Why does it scare you so much to let someone else in?"
Her chest tightened. "Because people leave. Or they betray you. Or they want something. Always."
His jaw clenched. "I'm not them."
"How do I know that?" Her voice broke sharper than she meant. "How do I know you won't use me, the way Blake would, the way Vogel could? You already made a decision for Verdant without asking me. How do I know what line you'll cross next?"
Tom leaned across the desk, his gaze steady, his voice low. "Because I don't want your company, Nadia. I want you."
Her breath caught. For a second, the world tilted. She hated how much she believed him.
Hated it because belief was dangerous.
She stood abruptly, gathering her papers as a shield. "I can't do this."
Tom didn't move. He just watched her, the muscle in his jaw tightening, as she walked past him and out of the room.
---
Meanwhile, across the city, Richard Blake swirled a glass of wine in his office, eyes on the glowing headlines plastered across his tablet.
The Kingsleys were winning. Too convincingly.
He turned to his assistant, a sharp young man with an ear for gossip. "There has to be a crack somewhere. Find it."
The assistant hesitated. "Their performance at the gala was airtight, sir. Even Vogel seemed impressed."
"Performance," Blake repeated, his smile thin. "Exactly. And every performance slips eventually. No marriage of convenience stays convenient forever."
He lifted his glass. "And when it does, I'll be ready."
---
The days that followed blurred into a careful balancing act. Nadia and Tom appeared together at luncheons, charity meetings, even a press interview for a glossy magazine. Outwardly, they were seamless—her poised smile, his protective hand, the illusion of perfect unity.
But behind closed doors, fault lines deepened. Conversations turned into sparring matches. Tom pushed; Nadia pulled away. He reached for her; she resisted.
One night, as they prepared for bed, Tom finally snapped.
"This marriage—this arrangement—it doesn't work if you keep treating me like the enemy."
Nadia folded her arms. "And what do you call making decisions without me? A partnership?"
"I call it backing you up when you won't let anyone else."
Her voice rose. "I don't need backing up. I don't need saving."
Tom stepped closer, his eyes dark. "Maybe not. But you need someone who won't walk away when things get ugly. And that terrifies you, doesn't it?"
Her pulse hammered. She wanted to deny it. Wanted to throw his words back. But she couldn't.
Because it was true.
And in the silence that followed, Tom turned away first, his shoulders tense, leaving her alone with the confession she couldn't make.
---
Nadia lay awake long after, staring at the ceiling. The city lights spilled across the room, fractured through glass, painting her in shifting patterns.
She thought about Tom's words. About the way his hand had steadied her on the dance floor, the way his gaze softened when he looked at her like she wasn't armor and walls but flesh and heart.
She thought about how much she wanted that gaze again.
And she thought about how dangerous it was to want it.
Because Richard Blake was circling. Vogel was still testing. And if she slipped—if she let Tom too close—she could lose more than her company. She could lose herself.
For the first time in years, Nadia didn't know which was worse.
---
The next morning, Tom found her in the kitchen, dressed for work, her coffee untouched again.
He leaned against the counter, studying her silently.
She finally glanced up. "What?"
"Just trying to figure out how long you're going to keep punishing yourself."
She bristled. "I'm not."
"You are. And one day, it won't just be me who notices."
Something in his tone made her pause. "What do you mean?"
Tom's jaw tightened. "Blake's circling. He's asking questions. Digging."
Her stomach dropped. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that make it sound like we're hiding something."
Nadia's grip tightened around her mug. Blake couldn't see the fractures. Not now. Not when everything depended on holding the line.
Tom stepped closer. "Then stop fighting me. Let me in, Nadia. Because if we don't stand together, he'll tear us apart."
For once, she didn't argue. She just stared at him, her heart beating too fast, torn between fear and something dangerously close to hope.
---
And in the shadows of London's corporate towers, Richard Blake smiled as his assistant slid a folder across the desk.
Inside were photos, reports, whispers of late nights and separate rooms. Nothing definitive. Nothing concrete. But enough to build a story.
"Cracks," Blake murmured, satisfied. "Every wall has them."
He leaned back, swirling his wine.
"And I'll be the one to bring theirs down."