I tried to avoid Alexander that day.
After Vivian left, the penthouse felt too small, every quiet corner filled with things neither of us wanted to say. I stayed in my room longer than necessary, changing clothes twice before finally forcing myself to step out.
Alexander was already dressed for work—dark suit, cufflinks, controlled expression. He looked at me once, briefly, as if memorizing something, then looked away.
"We have lunch today," he said.
I stopped. "We?"
"A business associate," he clarified. "You're coming."
"I wasn't told," I replied.
"You're my wife," he said evenly. "That's notice enough."
I bit back a response.
---
The restaurant overlooked the river, all glass and white linen. The kind of place where people spoke softly and power moved silently between tables.
Alexander pulled out my chair. Cameras weren't around—but the gesture felt automatic.
I didn't thank him.
The man across from us stood when we arrived. "Alexander. And this must be Elara."
"Mrs. Blackwood," Alexander corrected.
Something in his tone surprised me.
The man smiled. "Of course. Forgive me."
We sat. Conversation flowed around investments and mergers, words I barely understood. I focused on my glass of water, determined to stay invisible.
Then the man leaned slightly toward me.
"You're surprisingly young," he said. "I didn't expect Alexander to marry someone so… fresh."
Alexander's hand closed over mine under the table.
Firm. Possessive.
The man noticed—and laughed. "Protective, I see."
"She doesn't need to be evaluated," Alexander said coolly. "She's not part of the deal."
The man raised his hands. "Understood."
Alexander's thumb brushed against my knuckles, slow and deliberate.
I stiffened.
When the meeting finally ended, I pulled my hand back immediately.
"That wasn't necessary," I said once we were alone.
"It was," he replied.
"You crossed a line."
"You were being disrespected."
"I can handle that myself."
He stopped walking.
"You don't have to," he said quietly.
I turned to face him. "You don't get to decide that."
His gaze darkened. "I get to decide who touches what's mine."
The words hung between us.
"I'm not yours," I said sharply. "I'm here because of a contract."
He stepped closer. Too close.
"And that contract makes you my wife," he said. "Which means no one looks at you like that."
My heart pounded. "You're breaking your own rules."
"I haven't touched you," he replied. "Not in a way that matters."
"That matters to who?" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
Back in the car, silence stretched painfully. I stared out the window, my reflection looking smaller than I felt.
"Vivian contacted one of my partners today," Alexander said suddenly.
I turned. "Why?"
"To question your legitimacy."
Anger flared. "And what did you say?"
"I shut it down."
"How?"
"I made it clear," he said calmly, "that my wife is not up for discussion."
Something twisted in my chest.
"You're angry," I said.
"Yes."
"At her?"
"At anyone who thinks they can interfere."
I studied his profile—the tight jaw, the controlled breathing.
"You're jealous," I said softly.
He laughed once, cold and sharp. "I don't get jealous."
"You got territorial," I corrected.
His eyes flicked to mine.
"That's different."
"How?"
He leaned closer, his voice low. "Jealousy is emotional. Territory is strategic."
I swallowed hard.
The car stopped in front of the penthouse.
As we stepped out, his phone buzzed.
He checked the screen—and went still.
I caught the name.
**Vivian.**
He ignored the call.
Then his phone buzzed again.
And again.
His jaw clenched.
"She's not stopping," I said.
"No," he agreed.
He looked at me, his gaze intense.
"And neither will I."