The city slept, but she didn't.
She couldn't.
Even in the quiet of her room, the weight of the day pressed on her chest. Every interaction, every glance, every whispered instruction had left her both exhausted and strangely electrified. She had survived the press, survived the photographers, survived the perfectly curated smiles that made her feel like a prop in someone else's story. But what she hadn't survived was him.
The way he watched. The way he anticipated. The way he moved in her world as if it had always belonged to him.
Her phone vibrated.
Him: I'll be down in ten. Dinner. Private this time.
Her stomach tightened. Private.
Not public. Not controlled by the camera lenses or the staff's silent choreography. Private meant alone with him—the person who already owned pieces of her attention she wasn't willing to admit she had given away.
She tried to steady her breath, tried to tell herself this was just another negotiation. Another arrangement. Nothing more. But the truth was simpler, far more terrifying: he had already invaded her mind.
She descended to the private dining room—a sleek, candlelit space at the very top of his building. The city stretched endlessly below them, glittering with life she felt detached from. He was already there, waiting, dressed in black. No suit this time, no distance. Just him.
The sight of him made her stomach clench.
"You're late," he said lightly. Not accusing. Not teasing. Just a statement. Calm. Precise.
"I was… preparing," she said, voice tight.
"You don't need to prepare," he said softly, eyes tracking her every movement. "Not for me."
She froze. Her pulse spiked.
For him.
Dinner began in silence. She picked at her food. He sipped his wine. Occasionally, he glanced at her, but never touched her plate. He didn't need to. Presence alone was enough to make her stomach twist.
"You're tense," he said after a long moment.
"I've had a long day," she replied flatly.
"You've had one day," he pointed out evenly. "Yet you carry it like months of grief."
She looked up sharply. "And what would you know about grief?"
He tilted his head. "More than you think."
She scoffed softly, trying to push away the heat creeping along her spine. "I doubt that."
"Doubt is healthy," he said. "But denial? That's dangerous."
The air between them thickened. She felt it—the silent tension, the charge that hummed when he was near.
Then he leaned slightly forward, voice low. "Do you realize what this marriage actually means?"
She met his gaze, steady but wary. "It means protection."
"And control," he added softly.
Her chest tightened. "I don't need your control."
"You already agreed to it," he said. "Even if only in theory."
She bristled. "Theory doesn't bind me."
"I disagree," he replied. "Theory binds everyone who refuses to acknowledge reality. And reality,"—his gaze locked on hers—"is that we are connected now. Publicly, privately. Every move you make, every step you take… it touches me."
Her breath caught.
"I don't want this," she said sharply. "I don't want—anything."
He leaned back, unflinching. "No one ever wants it at first. Desire, control, dependence—they creep in when you're least prepared. That's why this is difficult for you now."
She looked away, heat crawling up her neck.
"You're afraid," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
She clenched her fists under the table. "I am not afraid of you."
"Yes, you are," he said softly. "But not because I'm dangerous. You're afraid of yourself. Afraid that you're already…"—his gaze darkened—"…interested."
She flinched.
"That's ridiculous," she said, though her voice wavered.
"I didn't say it was fair," he said. "I only said it's true."
Dinner ended with neither speaking again. The city lights reflected in the polished floors, and as she moved toward the door, he fell into step beside her.
"You will obey the contract," he said softly.
She stiffened. "I don't follow orders."
"You will obey what protects you," he corrected, tone sharp enough to leave no room for argument.
She wanted to argue. To protest. To scream that she didn't need him. That she didn't want him.
But every instinct in her body screamed against that logic.
By the time they reached the elevator, her mind was in turmoil.
He pressed the button for her floor. Close enough to smell the faint scent of his cologne.
"You are thinking about him," he said quietly.
"Who?" she hissed.
"Your ex," he said evenly. "And yet, more than him, you are thinking about what this means for you… for us."
She stiffened. "We are nothing."
"We are everything," he said softly, almost casually. "It's just that you haven't realized it yet."
Her breath hitched.
When they reached her floor, he didn't step back. Instead, he held the door open.
"You will sleep well tonight," he said. "Or at least, you will rest. I will ensure nothing reaches you that isn't meant to."
She bit back a retort, forcing herself to step out.
"Goodnight," she muttered, voice brittle.
"Goodnight," he said, almost gentle—but there was fire in his gaze. Fire that promised he wouldn't let her ignore him. Not now, not ever.
As the door closed behind her, she pressed her back against it, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. Her hands trembled.
Her body betrayed her thoughts. Her chest still raced. Her mind was tangled with resentment, fear, and… something else she didn't want to admit.
She had entered this arrangement thinking it was a shield, a weapon. A way to survive betrayal.
But now… now it felt like a cage.
And worse, she realized it wasn't the cage she feared.
It was the man holding the key.