The penthouse occupied the entire top floor of the building. When the doors of the private elevator opened, it wasn't into a hallway, but into the living room itself. It was a vast open space, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that showcased the city in a spectacle of lights. The white and gray marble floor reflected the night sky like a frozen lake. Modern, minimalist furniture punctuated the space—low sofas in black leather, a linear fireplace, abstract sculptures that were probably worth more than my entire life. Everything was immaculate, cold, and… empty.
Alexander let go of my hand as soon as we entered, as if contact were a battery he needed to discharge. He crossed the room to a kitchen island made entirely of brushed steel and turned on a small light under a cabinet.
"Your suite is to the right," he said, without looking at me, while filling a glass with water from a tap that looked like it came from a spaceship. "Mine is to the left." These are the common areas. Don't go into my room.
His coldness, after the performative heat of dinner, was like a bucket of ice water. The adrenaline that had kept me standing began to drain away, leaving a heavy weariness in my bones.
—Understood—I replied, my voice sounding small in that vast silence.
He finally turned around, resting his hips on the counter. He watched me as I stood there, still near the elevator, like an unwelcome visitor.
—The closet in your room is full of clothes suitable for the occasions we will face. Wear them. Your personal belongings are in the dressing room.—He took a sip of water.—Tomorrow, at nine, a car will take you to get a credit card in my name and update your documentation. You will be my wife, Isabella Vance, in every legal sense.
The name sounded strange. Outsider. A stolen identity.
—And what… what should I do until then?—I asked, feeling absurdly lost.
He raised an eyebrow. "What do you normally do at night?"
Normally? Normally I counted coins to see if I could pay the rent. Normally I called my mother in the hospital and lied, saying everything was fine. Normally I cried in the shower so no one would hear. That life seemed to belong to someone else.
"I… read," I lied.
"Great," he replied curtly. "There's a library in the hallway next to your room. Goodnight, Isabella."
And with that, he picked up his glass and started walking toward the left wing of the apartment. He was dismissing me. After a day in which his touch set me on fire in front of the cameras, now I was invisible.
"Alexander," I called, before my brain could process the recklessness.
He stopped, but didn't turn completely. He just tilted his head, his sharp profile illuminated by the bluish city light.
"The contract," I continued, forcing the words out. "It talks about… public appearances. And about… shared residence." But it doesn't talk about what happens here, inside these walls. When the doors close.
He turned slowly. His eyes, in the dim light, seemed almost black. "What are you asking?"
Courage, Isabella. "I'm asking if the nights… are part of the deal. If the performance includes… this."
I couldn't say the word. This. The touch in the elevator. The hand on my knee. The warmth that felt like an unspoken promise.
He silently placed the glass on the counter and walked back toward me. This time, his steps weren't calculated. They were slow, predatory. I stopped breathing.
When he stopped a few inches from me, I could see the tiny sparks of silver in his gray eyes. I could feel the warmth of his body, a magnetic force pulling at mine.
"The contract," he said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper, "specifies that we must maintain the appearance of a happy and committed couple. To the world." His gaze dropped to my lips. "Here, inside these walls, there is no world." Here, there's only you… and me.
His index finger lifted, hovering near my jawline. It didn't touch me. But the near-touch was worse, it was torture in anticipation.
"What if I say," I continued, caught in his gaze, "that I don't want to… play… any role in here?"
Finally, he touched me. Just the tips of his fingers under my chin, lifting it gently. A shiver ran down my neck.
"Then don't play," he whispered. "Be real."
The meaning of the words hung between us, laden with a dangerous question. What would be "real" for two strangers bound by a written agreement?
"I don't know you," I replied, my voice faltering.
"And I don't know you," he agreed, his thumb tracing a soft arc at the tip of my chin. "But we know the agreement. We know the rules. Everything beyond that…" he paused, his gaze becoming intense, impenetrable, "…is uncharted territory." He released my chin and took a step back. The air in the room, which seemed to have been sucked out, began to flow again.
"The choice is yours, Isabella." The doors to my room will be locked. Yours don't need to be. Goodnight.
This time, when he turned and left, I didn't call him. I heard his silent footsteps disappear down the dark hallway. A door closed with a soft, but definitive click.
I was alone in the icy vastness of the glass room, enveloped by the silence and the weight of his words. The choice is yours.
I looked down the hallway to the right, which led to my new room, to my new life. Then I looked to the left, where he had disappeared.
The contract was clear about many things. But about what happened in the dark, between a man and a woman who barely knew each other, it didn't say a word.
And that was, perhaps, the most dangerous part of all.
My legs finally moved. I walked to the suite that was mine. It was beautiful, decorated in shades of beige and cream, with a huge bed and its own terrace. Some open suitcases on the floor revealed my few personal clothes, looking insignificant and worn amidst all that luxury. In the closet, as he had said, hung dresses, suits, coats. A wardrobe for a pretend wife.
I closed the bedroom door. I didn't lock it.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the burgundy dress looking like a bloodstain on the neutral fabric of the duvet. Slowly, I took off the diamond earrings he had given me for the night. They were heavy.
There, alone, the facade finally crumbled. A muffled sob rose in my throat. I didn't cry for my old life, nor for the debt, nor for the despair. I cried for the confusion. For the stupid and inappropriate desire that his touch had awakened. For the fact that, in less than twelve hours, Alexander Vance was already a thin line in my mind, separating what I should feel from what I actually felt.
And worst of all: I cried because part of me, that dark and reckless part, was already wondering what the sound of his door opening at night would be like.
The night passed, slow and restless. At dawn, I put on one of the new outfits – a pantsuit that cost more than my old monthly rent. As I left the room, I found Alexander in the kitchen, already in a suit, reading something on a tablet. He looked me up and down, and his expression was impenetrable. "The car is waiting," he said. "And Isabella? Today you will meet my lawyer. He has some questions about your past... relationships. For the file." The coldness of his words contrasted with the warmth of the gaze that had swept over me. What file was that? And what secrets of mine did he intend to unearth?