The next morning arrives before I feel ready. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. Mom hums softly in the kitchen, probably making breakfast for Liam. The familiar sounds should bring comfort, but instead they make me feel hollow. I'm about to leave home, temporarily, for a life I barely understand.
I pack slowly, methodically, each folded shirt and tucked pair of trousers feeling heavier than the last. This isn't just luggage-it's my tiny attempt to hold onto something normal before stepping into a world that's anything but.
Nova texts me every five minutes, practically vibrating with excitement. Don't chicken out. You'll do fine.
You'll see-it's not that bad.
Promise me you won't panic when you see him again.
I ignore most of her messages, but the last one makes me pause: Remember, he's a man who expects everything perfect. Don't mess up.
Perfect. The word echoes in my head. I already feel like I've failed before even arriving.
By the time I reach the Sterling building, my hands are clammy and my chest tight. The receptionist greets me, recognizing me from yesterday, and sends me up without a word. I step into the elevator, and every floor that ticks by feels like a countdown.
When the doors open, the hallway stretches before me like a runway. Suite 4201 waits at the end, polished and imposing. My heartbeat hammers against my ribs as I knock.
The door swings open, and there he is.
Asher Sterling. Just standing there, crisp and perfectly poised, as if the world itself bends around him. The suit fits like it was molded to his body, the sleeves rolled just slightly to reveal the silver of his watch. His expression remains calm, unreadable-every inch the man who could crush me with a look if he wanted to.
"Ms. Wynn," he says, voice smooth and steady. "I assume you're ready."
"I... yes," I manage, stepping inside. My voice sounds small even to me.
He nods once, and I notice the faintest twitch of approval in his eyes. It's subtle-maybe he's trying not to show that I'm human, or maybe he simply doesn't care to reveal anything.
"I will go over the rules for your stay," he says as he closes the door behind me. "Pay attention. They are not suggestions. They are conditions, and breaking them is not optional."
I nod, swallowing hard.
"Rule one," he begins, pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "You will maintain punctuality at all times. Any event, appearance, or meeting is not yours to negotiate. Arrive early. Leave on schedule. Understand?"
"Yes," I whisper, my stomach twisting.
"Rule two. Respect privacy." He pauses, and his gaze sharpens, like he's checking if I understand the gravity. "This household is not public property. Do not enter rooms without permission, do not touch personal items, and do not question my decisions in front of anyone outside the household. Confidentiality is paramount."
I nod again, noting the firmness of his tone. He is unyielding.
"Rule three. Public appearances." He gestures toward the city skyline beyond the windows, and my pulse skips. "You will act naturally, with composure. Smile when required. Speak when required. Maintain the appearance of familiarity and affection without overstepping into personal familiarity. This is a business arrangement, Ms. Wynn. Not a friendship. Not a romance. A façade, nothing more."
The words sting, reminding me that everything I'm doing is an act, and yet the weight of real-world consequences hangs over me like a cloud.
"Rule four. Boundaries." He pauses, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me inhale sharply. "There is no intimacy. Physical or emotional engagement beyond what is required for appearances is prohibited. This includes private moments, gestures, and unsolicited contact. We will maintain decorum at all times."
I bite my lip. The rules are strict. Strict to the point of suffocation. But I can't deny the logic in them. The boundaries are what will keep me safe.
"Rule five. Communication." He moves to the sofa and sits with perfect posture. "You will communicate any issues immediately. Delays, doubts, questions-all of it. I expect honesty. I will provide guidance, but discretion is my responsibility. Understood?"
"Yes." My voice is firmer this time.
"Rule six." He leans back slightly, scanning me with sharp eyes. "You will not alter your behavior to ingratiate yourself. You will not try to manipulate situations to your advantage. This is a professional arrangement. Authenticity is the only currency you have. You either succeed by following these rules, or you fail."
The word fail echoes in my mind. I feel the weight of it, heavier than any contract.
"Rule seven." His tone softens fractionally, though it's still commanding. "You will maintain personal care, dress appropriately for events, and present yourself with dignity. If you have questions about expectations for attire or conduct, ask before the event. Do not improvise."
I swallow again. Every rule feels like a wall being built between me and the life I knew.
"And finally, rule eight." His voice drops lower, almost a whisper, though it carries across the suite. "Respect my space. Respect my time. Respect the arrangement. You are here to perform a role, nothing more. Forget everything else."
I nod, unable to look away. There's no room for argument, no room for hesitation. Every rule is a steel cage I willingly step into.
Asher rises from the sofa and moves toward the window. "This is your life now for the next six months. Understand the seriousness. Follow the rules. Don't make mistakes. I will not repeat instructions."
I inhale sharply. "I understand. I will follow them."
He turns slightly, giving me a rare, fleeting glance. "Good. Now, I will have my assistant prepare your residence. You move in tomorrow morning. Pack accordingly."
Tomorrow. My chest tightens at the thought of leaving my home, even temporarily. But the rules, strict and unyielding, give me something I didn't expect-structure. A way to survive, a map through chaos.
Nova's voice echoes in my mind: Don't chicken out. You'll do fine.
I step closer to the window, looking at the city below. For the first time since Dad's funeral, I feel a sliver of clarity. Fear still coils in my stomach, but beneath it, determination grows. I am about to step into Asher Sterling's world-a place where every move will be scrutinized, where my life will no longer be entirely my own.
But if I follow his rules... maybe, just maybe, I can survive it.
And perhaps, even thrive.
The morning of the move arrives faster than I feel ready for. I barely sleep, waking multiple times, imagining every possible mistake I could make. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I break a rule without realizing it? What if he thinks I'm incapable?
Nova bursts in just as I finish the last strap on my suitcase. "You look... nervous," she says, trying to sound casual.
"You think?" I mutter, zipping my bag.
"Relax. You're going to be fine. Just... follow the rules. Don't touch anything you're not supposed to. Smile. Breathe. Survive."
I snort, but it's a nervous laugh, more like a squeak. She shakes her head at me and drags her own bag toward the door. "I'm coming with you until you get settled. Someone has to make sure you don't melt into a puddle the second you meet him again."
I can't argue, so I follow her out, each step weighted with nerves and anticipation.
The car ride is silent except for my restless thoughts. I stare out the window at the city whizzing past, each building a reminder that I'm stepping into a world so far from my own.
By the time we arrive at the Sterling building, my hands are trembling again. Nova nudges me gently. "Okay, breathe. You've got this."
The elevator dings open, and the polished hallway stretches before me, familiar but no less intimidating. Suite 4201 waits at the end, as sleek and imposing as yesterday. I knock lightly, and the door opens immediately.
Asher Sterling stands there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, aura commanding. He doesn't even glance at Nova. "Ms. Wynn," he says simply.
I swallow and step inside. "Good morning."
"Morning," he replies. Then, with that same calm precision, he gestures toward the door behind me. "Your belongings will be transported shortly. Nova may stay until the movers arrive."
She grins at me and gives a thumbs-up. "See? Told you I'd help you survive the first hour."
I try to smile but it feels tight. Asher studies me with sharp eyes. "Follow me. I will show you your residence."
The penthouse is breathtaking. My first thought is that it's impossibly clean. Minimalist furniture, sharp lines, cool colors, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city below. Every surface glimmers faintly. There is no clutter. No warmth. And yet, it's strangely inviting, almost... safe, in a rigid, controlled way.
"This will be your space," he says, indicating a room at the far end of the suite. "Your room, bathroom, and study. You are expected to keep it in the same condition. The housekeepers will provide maintenance, but nothing is to be moved without prior consent. Understand?"
"Yes," I whisper, taking in the room. It's large, but not personal. No pictures, no trinkets. Just furniture arranged with exact precision.
He watches me as I set my suitcase down. "You will keep personal belongings organized. Clothes, toiletries, and other items should remain in the provided storage. The layout of this residence is not to be altered. This is rule nine."
I nod quickly, trying not to look overwhelmed.
"And rule ten," he continues, voice calm but unwavering, "you will report to me directly any concerns. If you need assistance, ask immediately. Delays or miscommunication will not be tolerated."
"Yes," I say again.
He pauses at the window, overlooking the city. "Rule eleven. Your movements within the residence and during events are expected to be discreet, efficient, and graceful. You are part of a public image, Ms. Wynn. Remember that at all times."
I feel the weight of the words settling over me like armor I must wear.
"And rule twelve," he adds finally, "you will be prepared for public appearances. This includes dress, posture, etiquette, and conversation. You will act naturally, as though we are a couple familiar with one another. There are no exceptions."
"Yes," I whisper again, my voice almost inaudible.
He studies me for a long moment, and for the first time since yesterday, his eyes soften just slightly. "This is not meant to intimidate you. It is meant to protect both of us. You follow these rules, and you will succeed."
I exhale, a small relief slipping through my nerves. "I... understand. I will follow them."
"Good." He gestures toward the door. "The movers will arrive in one hour. Unpack only what is necessary. You are expected to be settled before dinner. Nova, you may assist."
Nova grins at me, already bouncing toward my bag. "See? Told you it wouldn't be that bad. You just have to survive the rules."
I force a smile and start unpacking, but my hands shake slightly as I arrange my things. Every rule he gave me echoes in my mind. Don't touch. Don't move. Don't speak out of turn. Don't improvise. Don't make mistakes.
And yet, there's something about the order, the precision, the predictability, that feels grounding.
Asher doesn't linger. He walks to the other side of the suite, straightening a chair, checking a tablet, completely focused. I watch him for a moment, wondering how someone can be so composed, so controlled, so... untouchable.
I begin placing my clothes in the drawers, unpacking toiletries, arranging personal items just so. The movements are deliberate, careful. Following rules becomes a game, a way to survive the anxiety twisting in my chest.
Nova hums softly beside me, whispering tips about folding, coordinating outfits, and keeping appearances in mind. I listen, nod, and try not to feel the absurdity of taking etiquette lessons from her for a pretend marriage.
Hours pass. Movers come and go. Boxes are unpacked. The room slowly begins to feel a little like mine, though the sterility of the penthouse reminds me constantly that I'm not home.
As the sun lowers in the sky, Asher finally speaks from across the suite. "Dinner will be at eight. Be prepared. Appropriate attire. You will not be late. You will not draw unnecessary attention. You will behave as though we are accustomed to each other."
"Yes," I say again, my throat tight.
He glances at me once more, then turns back to his tablet, completely composed, completely unflappable.
Nova nudges me gently. "Deep breath. You survived the first rules session. That's... something."
I laugh softly, the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe. Just a little.
But as I look around the penthouse, the city lights beginning to twinkle beyond the windows, I realize something: following the rules is only the first step.
The real challenge-living under them, day after day, with Asher Sterling-is only just beginning.