The house was a lie.
Isla realized it the moment she stepped through the front door and into a space that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine rather than serving as anyone's actual home.
Everything was sharp angles and clean lines. Black marble floors so polished she could see her reflection. White walls that soared up two stories to a ceiling lined with geometric light fixtures that probably cost more than her college education. Chrome accents everywhere—on the railings, the furniture, the abstract sculptures positioned at strategic intervals like sentries guarding a museum.
It was stunning.
It was sterile.
It was absolutely, devastatingly cold.
"This way," Killian said without looking back at her, his shoes clicking against marble as he strode deeper into the house like he couldn't wait to be away from her.
Isla followed because what else could she do?
They passed a living room that looked like no one had ever actually lived in it. Furniture arranged in perfect symmetry around a fireplace that had probably never been lit. Not a single personal item—no photos, no books, no throw pillows or blankets or any of the small touches that made a space feel human.
A dining room with a table that could seat twelve. Empty.
A kitchen that was all stainless steel and granite, so pristine it might've never been used.
"Staff comes in daily," Killian said over his shoulder, still not slowing down. "Chef, housekeeper, maintenance. They have their own entrance and they know not to disturb you unless necessary. If you need something, there's an intercom system. Luca will show you how it works."
"Where is everyone now?" Isla's voice echoed in the cavernous space.
"I gave them the evening off. I thought you'd want privacy to settle in."
That almost sounded considerate.
Almost.
They climbed a floating staircase—because of course the stairs floated, cantilevered off the wall with no visible support, another architectural flex that probably made visitors gasp. Isla gripped the chrome railing and tried not to think about how far the drop was.
The second floor was more of the same. Hallways lined with closed doors. More white walls. More marble. More cold, expensive emptiness.
They kept climbing.
Third floor.
This level was different. Quieter. More private. The hallway narrowed, and there were only four doors visible from the top of the stairs.
Killian stopped in front of the second door on the left and pushed it open.
"This is yours."
Isla stepped past him into a bedroom that was easily three times the size of her entire apartment.
The color palette continued the theme from downstairs—white walls, dark hardwood floors, chrome fixtures. But someone had at least made an attempt at warmth here. A massive bed dominated one wall, dressed in soft gray linens that looked like they cost more than her monthly rent. Sheer white curtains framed floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. A sitting area with a velvet couch. A desk. A walk-in closet visible through an open door.
And through another door, she could see marble—a bathroom, probably the size of her old bedroom.
"It's huge," Isla said, because she had to say something.
"You'll have privacy here. Space to think." Killian moved to the windows, hands in his pockets, staring out at the view that made the city look like a toy village spread out below them. "The closet is stocked with appropriate clothing. If something doesn't fit, let Luca know and he'll have it corrected."
"You bought me clothes before I even agreed to marry you."
"I prepared for multiple contingencies. You weren't the only option, Isla. Just the one I preferred."
That shouldn't have stung.
It did anyway.
"Where's your room?" she asked.
Killian turned to look at her, and something flickered in his ice-blue eyes. "The master suite is at the end of the hall. You're not to go there."
"Ever?"
"Ever." He said it with finality. "This entire wing is private. My office is across the hall. My bedroom is at the end. Consider both off-limits unless I explicitly invite you in."
Isla's hands clenched at her sides. "So I'm just supposed to stay in this room? Like a prisoner?"
"Like a guest with boundaries." Killian crossed to the door. "You have access to the rest of the house—first floor, second floor, the grounds. But this wing is mine. My space. My sanctuary. And you will respect that."
"We're married."
"Contractually." His voice went cold. "Don't confuse the paperwork with reality, Isla. This is an arrangement. You play the role I need you to play in public. In private, we maintain appropriate distance."
Distance.
That's what he'd been doing since the moment she'd signed the contract. Creating distance. Sitting across from her in the car instead of beside her. Barely kissing her at the ceremony. Showing her to a bedroom as far from his as possible while still being in the same wing.
"I don't understand," Isla said quietly. "Why go through all this—the contract, the marriage, bringing me here—if you're just going to keep me at arm's length?"
"Because I need a wife. Not a romantic entanglement."
"You need the appearance of a wife."
"Exactly." Killian's jaw tightened. "Which is why we need to establish boundaries now. Clear, firm boundaries that we both understand."
"Like separate bedrooms."
"Like separate lives that intersect only when necessary." He gestured around the room. "You have everything you need here. Comfort. Privacy. Safety. What more do you want?"
An answer. The truth. Some explanation for why a man who'd orchestrated her entire life to trap her into marriage now acted like being near her was some kind of hardship.
"Why me?" Isla asked instead. "You said I wasn't your only option. So why choose me specifically?"
Killian's expression shuttered. "That's not relevant."
"It's relevant to me."
"Everything isn't about you, Isla. This arrangement serves my purposes. That's all you need to know."
He moved toward the door, clearly done with this conversation.
"Wait," Isla called out.
He stopped, hand on the doorframe, but didn't turn around.
"The separate bedrooms," she said. "I need to know why."
"I already explained—"
"No, you explained that you want distance. You didn't explain why. We're married. Legally married. Most married couples share a bedroom, even if it's just for appearances."
"We're not most couples."
"Obviously. But I'm trying to understand the rules here, Killian. I need to know what's expected of me. What lines I'm not supposed to cross. And right now, you're telling me to stay away from you—from your room, from your office, from your entire life apparently—and I don't understand why you'd marry someone you want nothing to do with."
Finally, he turned.
The look on his face made her take a step back.
Not anger. Something darker. Something that looked almost like hunger before he buried it behind that careful control.
"You want to know why separate bedrooms?" His voice had gone dangerously quiet. "Fine. I'll tell you."
He crossed the room in three long strides and stopped directly in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Close enough that she could see a muscle ticking in his jaw, could see the barely restrained tension in his shoulders.
"Because I don't trust myself near you," he said.
Isla's breath caught.
"What?"
"You heard me." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I don't trust myself near you, Isla. I don't trust what I'll do if we share a bedroom. If we share space. If you're close enough to touch whenever I want."
"I don't—"
"I have very carefully constructed control," Killian continued, his voice still that dangerous quiet. "Over my life. Over my business. Over everything. I don't lose control. Ever. And you—" His eyes dragged over her face like he couldn't help himself. "—you make me want to lose it."
Isla's heart hammered against her ribs. "We barely know each other."
"You think that matters?" Something like a bitter laugh escaped him. "You think attraction cares about knowledge or logic or appropriate boundaries? I've been watching you for six months, Isla. Six months of seeing you at that coffee shop, at the hospital, taking care of your sister. Six months of learning everything about you while you had no idea I existed. And every single day, the want got worse."
"Then why—"
"Because want isn't the same as should." He took a step back, putting distance between them again like it physically hurt him to be close. "I want you. I've wanted you since the first time I saw you laugh at something the barista said. But wanting you doesn't mean I get to have you. This marriage is business. A means to an end. And if I let myself blur those lines, if I let myself touch you the way I want to—" His jaw clenched. "—I'll ruin everything."
"What would you ruin?"
"The arrangement. Your safety. The carefully maintained distance that keeps this from becoming complicated." His ice-blue eyes met hers, and there was something almost desperate in them. "I'm not a good man, Isla. I do terrible things. I hurt people. I've killed people. And the only thing keeping you safe from that darkness is the fact that you're off-limits. You're the wife I need for appearances, nothing more. The moment you become something I actually have, something I can touch and claim and keep—"
He stopped himself.
Turned away.
"You're safer in this room," he finished quietly. "Away from me. Trust me on that."
Isla stood frozen, trying to process what he'd just admitted.
He wanted her.
Had wanted her for months.
Was keeping her at a distance not because he found her unappealing but because he didn't trust himself not to cross lines he'd drawn for reasons she still didn't understand.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said.
Killian laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You should be."
"You said you wouldn't hurt me. That was in the contract."
"I said I wouldn't hurt you physically. That I wouldn't touch you without consent." He looked back over his shoulder, and the expression on his face made something low in Isla's stomach twist. "But there are a lot of ways to hurt someone, Isla. A lot of ways to ruin them. And if I let myself have you, even for a night, even for an hour—I'd ruin you completely."
"That sounds like a threat."
"It's a warning." He moved back to the door. "Stay in your room tonight. Settle in. Tomorrow, we'll discuss expectations and appearances. But for now—" His hand gripped the doorframe hard enough that his knuckles went white. "—stay away from me."
"And if I don't want to?"
The words were out before Isla could stop them.
Brave or stupid, she wasn't sure which.
Killian went absolutely still.
"What did you say?"
"You said I make you want to lose control," Isla heard herself continue, her voice steadier than she felt. "What if I don't want you to maintain it?"
"You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then tell me. Explain it to me. Because right now, I'm married to a man who barely touched me at our wedding, who won't sit next to me in a car, who's putting me in a bedroom as far from his as possible and calling it protection. And I'm trying to understand what I'm supposed to do with that."
Killian turned fully to face her again, and the look in his eyes made her breath stop.
"You're supposed to be grateful," he said softly. "You're supposed to stay in this beautiful room in this beautiful house and play the role I need you to play and not push me. Because if you push me, Isla—" He took one step toward her. Just one. "—I'll push back. And you won't like what happens when I do."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know myself. I know what I'm capable of. I know what I want to do to you." Another step. "And none of it is gentle. None of it is appropriate for a contract marriage to a woman who signed papers because she was desperate. None of it—"
"What if I want it anyway?"
The question hung between them like a live wire.
Killian stared at her for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with carefully controlled breaths, his hands still clenched into fists, everything about him screaming restraint on the edge of breaking.
"Go to bed, Isla," he said finally.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're getting tonight." He backed toward the door. "Sleep. Settle in. And for God's sake, stay in your room."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't—" His voice dropped to something raw, almost ragged. "—I can't promise I'll keep my hands off you. And we both need me to keep my hands off you. At least for now."
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Isla stood in her beautiful prison of a bedroom, staring at that closed door, her heart racing, her skin hot, her mind spinning with everything he'd just admitted.
He wanted her.
Had wanted her for months.
Was keeping her away to protect her.
From what?
From him?
Or from herself?
She walked to the windows and looked out at the city sparkling below. Somewhere down there, Mara was safe. Her father was being cared for. The Kozlov family had been paid off. Everything she'd traded herself for had been delivered.
And all she had to do was play the role of devoted wife to a man who wouldn't even sleep in the same room as her.
Because he didn't trust himself.
Because he wanted to ruin her.
Because apparently, wanting her and having her were two different things in Killian Archer's carefully controlled world.
Isla pressed her forehead against the cool glass.
Eighteen months.
Five hundred and forty-seven days.
In a fortress with a man who'd admitted he'd been watching her for half a year. Who'd orchestrated her entire life to trap her here. Who wanted her badly enough that he had to physically separate their bedrooms to maintain control.
What kind of man did that?
What kind of man married someone and then ran from them?
Her phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
Stay in your room tonight. I mean it. —K
Isla stared at the message.
Then she looked at the door he'd just exited through.
The door to the hallway.
To his private wing.
To the master suite at the end of the hall that she was absolutely, explicitly forbidden from entering.
She should stay here.
Should do exactly what he'd told her to do.
Should be grateful for the distance he was maintaining, the boundaries he was enforcing, the control he was exercising for both their sakes.
Should be.
But Isla had spent her entire life doing what she should do. Being responsible. Making safe choices. Putting everyone else's needs before her own.
And look where it had gotten her.
Trapped in a contract marriage to a stranger who wanted her but wouldn't touch her. Locked in a fortress disguised as a home. Playing a role she didn't understand for an audience she'd never meet.
Maybe it was time to stop doing what she should do.
Maybe it was time to push back.
To see what happened when Killian Archer's carefully maintained control actually broke.
Isla set down her phone.
And stared at that forbidden door.
Wondering.