ALEXANDER'S POV
I knocked on the bathroom door again. "Maya. Open it."
I heard the water move. A small splash.
"Please, Alexander," her voice came, weak and shaky. "I don't have clothes."
"I know," I said. My voice was tight. I was not angry at her. I was angry at myself. Why did I leave her alone? "I brought you a robe. Take it."
I held the white robe through the small opening in the door. I felt her damp fingers take it from me. The touch was quick, but it burned my skin. I looked away.
A minute later, she spoke. "Okay."
I turned around. She stood there wrapped in the robe. It was too big for her. She looked small. Her hair was wet and dark. Her face was clean, and her eyes were big and a little scared. She was beautiful.
"Are you sick?" I asked. It came out rougher than I meant.
"No," she said, looking down. "Just tired. I'm sorry about dinner."
"I didn't want dinner," I said. This was a lie. I had been hungry, but eating alone felt wrong. "I was worried. You were in there too long."
She looked up, surprised. "You were worried about me?"
I could not say yes. My pride was too strong. "The contract is important," I said instead, using my business voice. "You are part of the deal. I need you to be safe."
The hope in her eyes disappeared. "Oh," she said softly. "The contract."
Silence filled the room. It was thick and uncomfortable.
"Tomorrow," I said, trying to fill the quiet. "You will go to the university. You will finish signing up for your classes. In the afternoon, someone will come. She will bring you new clothes. Many new clothes."
"Why?" Maya asked.
"Because you are my wife now," I said. The word wife felt heavy. "People will see you with me. You need to look... right for them."
She nodded slowly. She always agreed. It should have made me happy. But it didn't. It made me want to shake her. I wanted to see the strong woman who fought for her family.
"Is that all?" she whispered, pulling the robe tighter.
"No," I said. I took a step into the room. She stepped back. I stopped. "There is the other part. The baby."
Her face went pale. She knew what I meant.
"We don't have to start that now," I heard myself say. The words surprised me. My plan was to be fast. But seeing her fear, I changed my mind. "We have time. A year is long."
She let out a shaky breath. "Thank you," she said. She sounded truly grateful.
"But," I said, my voice firm. "We must sleep in the same room. Starting tonight."
Her eyes got wide. "What? But you have your room..."
"It was a mistake," I said, cutting her off. I felt frustrated, but not at her. At myself. "My parents might visit. Their friends, too. They cannot find us in separate rooms. They cannot think this marriage is fake. Do you understand?"
It was a good reason. A smart reason. But it was not the only reason. The truth was, I did not want her so far away.
She looked at the huge bed, then back at me. Her voice was very small. "So... we just sleep?"
"Yes," I said, my voice hard. "We just sleep."
I went to my room to change. When I came back, she was already in bed. She was on the very far edge, facing away from me. She wore a simple nightgown. The robe was folded neatly on a chair.
I turned off the big light. Only a small lamp was on. I got into bed. There was a wide space between us.
The room was dark and quiet. I could hear her breathing. It was fast. She was awake, and she was nervous.
I stared at the ceiling. We just sleep, I told myself.
But after a few minutes, I spoke into the dark. "You were very brave today."
She did not move. "What?"
"At the wedding. Saying the vows in front of everyone. You were brave."
"It was just words," she whispered.
"For you, maybe," I said. I turned my head to look at her back. "For me, it was not just words."
She was silent for a long time. Then she slowly turned over. In the faint light, I could see her face. Her eyes were watching me.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean..." I started, then stopped. This was dangerous. "I have said vows before. To another woman. They were all lies. Today... I wanted them to feel true."
Her breath caught. "Because of your parents?"
"Not just because of them," I admitted. It was hard to say. "Because of me."
We looked at each other across the pillows. The air in the room felt different. Warmer.
"Your kiss," she said suddenly, her voice so quiet I almost didn't hear it. "It did not feel like a contract kiss."
My heart beat hard against my ribs. "No," I said, my own voice low. "It did not."
I did not plan it. I moved. Just a little. My hand reached across the space between us. My fingers touched her hand, which was lying on the sheet.
She flinched, but she did not pull away.
Her skin was soft. I traced the lines of her fingers. A simple touch, but it felt more intimate than the kiss.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked. There was no fear in her voice now. Just confusion.
"I don't know," I answered honestly. "I told myself this was business. But when I am near you... my plans do not work."
I turned my hand and let our palms touch. Then I laced my fingers through hers. Her hand was small in mine. She held on.
We lay there in the dark, holding hands like two teenagers. Not like a billionaire and his bought bride.
"I am afraid," she confessed, her thumb moving softly against my skin.
"Of me?" I asked, the thought hurting me.
"Of this," she said. "Of feeling something real in a fake marriage. It will hurt more when it ends."
Her words were a knife. She was right. But I could not let go of her hand.
"Then we won't talk about the end," I said, my voice rough. "Tonight, we are just Alexander and Maya. A man and his wife on their wedding night. Nothing else exists."
I lifted her hand to my lips. I kissed her knuckles gently. It was a soft, tender kiss. A promise of something I could not name.
She didn't say anything. But she moved closer. Not a lot, just an inch. Her body heat reached me across the sheets.
We stayed like that, holding hands in the silent dark, until her breathing finally slowed and she fell asleep.
I did not sleep. I watched her. And for the first time since I made that cold contract, I felt a real, terrifying emotion.
It was not desire.
It was not pity.
It was the beginning of something much more dangerous.
It was the beginning of care.