The morning sun poured into the penthouse through the wall of glass like it had no respect for the emotional wreckage from the night before. Elara blinked against it, stirring beneath Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like a soft trap.
It was too quiet.
No bustling street noise, no honking, no dogs barking—just the purr of wealth at rest.
She sat up slowly, letting the satin slip against her skin. She still wasn't used to the silence. Her family's house back in Westchester had always been loud. Loud love, loud fights, loud everything. This...this was something else. Sterile and cold. Pretty, but void of history.
Like Lucian.
She found a robe and padded toward the kitchen, led more by instinct than memory. The scent of strong coffee hit her halfway, rich and bitter.
And there he was—already in a tailored charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled, sipping from a matte-black mug that probably cost more than her old car. Hair still perfectly disheveled, like even his chaos had style.
Lucian didn't look up as she entered. "You take yours black?"
She raised a brow. "You mean you didn't have a barista on standby to get it wrong for me?"
The corner of his mouth twitched—half amusement, half warning. "I figured if we're pretending to be a couple, I should learn how you survive mornings."
Elara moved closer and took the mug he offered. Their fingers brushed again. This time, she held his gaze longer. "I survive on caffeine, sarcasm, and emotional distance."
Lucian let out a low chuckle. "A woman after my own heart."
She took a sip, then looked around. "Do all rich people live like this?"
He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Some live in glass cages. Some decorate them with art and lovers. Me? I prefer control."
She gave a little smile, feigning casual curiosity. "And does marrying a stranger fit into that definition of control?"
Lucian didn't answer right away.
Instead, he slid a sleek black folder onto the counter between them. "You didn't read the contract."
"Of course I did," Elara said, though her heart thudded at the sight of it. "Page six, clause three—no public scandal, no unplanned media interviews, and definitely no sleeping in separate rooms if we're seen together for extended periods."
Lucian nodded slowly. "And clause four?"
She paused. Damn. He noticed.
"I skimmed that part," she admitted.
He opened the folder and flipped to it. "You agreed to live here. Full-time. For six months. All events, all photos, all expectations—marriage, in the public eye. No exceptions."
"And if I break a clause?"
His eyes met hers. Cold. Calculated. Beautiful in the most dangerous way.
"You pay me back. Every cent."
Elara's breath caught, but she didn't flinch. "That's fair. So is that your thing, Lucian? Buy love and rent commitment?"
Something flickered behind his eyes—quick and hidden.
Then he straightened. "My driver will be ready at noon. There's a charity art exhibit we're expected to attend."
"Expected?" She sipped again, this time letting the taste linger. "You didn't ask if I had plans."
"You don't. Not anymore."
Their eyes locked.
The contract said married, but what they were doing felt more like war—with slow weapons and velvet gloves.
Outside the windows, the city stirred below, but up here, two strangers were quietly unraveling each other.
And neither was willing to blink first.
Elara stared at the folder. The matte finish caught the light like it was proud of its secrets. She reached out, fingers grazing the edge, but didn't open it again.
Instead, she looked at him—really looked.
Lucian's jaw ticked, barely noticeable unless you were watching for it. His grip on the edge of the counter was tight, knuckles pale against the granite. He wasn't just composed—he forced himself to be.
"You really don't trust anyone, do you?" Her voice was low, not soft.
He didn't respond. Just pushed away from the counter, too suddenly. The motion made the stool he'd been leaning against screech a little across the polished floor, the sound cutting into the silence like an accusation.
"I don't need trust," he said, walking away toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. His bare feet made no sound against the smooth marble. "I need results."
She followed, footsteps slower—barefoot like him, but more hesitant. As she passed the counter, she set the coffee mug down a little too hard. It clinked loud, deliberate.
"You don't need people either, huh?"
Lucian turned, just slightly, hands buried in his pockets now. His profile against the skyline was something out of a dream—sharp cheekbones, lashes too thick for a man that cold, lips that looked like they'd forgotten how to smile.
"I have people," he said finally. "Assistants. Lawyers. A PR team. That's enough."
Elara's laugh came out like a breath catching on something sharp. "You mean puppets."
His gaze cut to hers, fast and direct. "And what does that make you?"
Silence stretched thin between them.
She stepped closer, each footstep echoing. Stopped just short of him—close enough to smell the clean spice of his cologne, expensive and subtle, like everything else about him.
"Temporarily inconvenient," she said, voice tight. "But not for sale."
Lucian's eyes flickered. Just a fraction. But it was there.
A crack.
He turned abruptly, walking past her. His shoulder brushed hers, lightly but full of tension, like he was holding something back. He headed to the hallway, then paused halfway and looked back at her.
"You might want to change. You'll be surrounded by women who think money is a blood type."
"And you think I care what they think?" she shot back, stepping forward.
He watched her for a moment longer than necessary.
Then—coolly, too coolly—he disappeared around the corner, door clicking softly behind him. A controlled, deliberate sound.
Elara stood there, arms wrapped around herself. The coffee now tasted bitter in her mouth.
Her fingers clenched around the silk of her robe as she turned slowly, back to the living room.
She stared out the window, chin lifting.
Fine. Let's play your game, Lucian Thorne. Let's see who really wins when two people stop pretending not to care.
And as she headed to the walk-in closet—because of course it was bigger than her first apartment—she didn't just pick a dress.
She picked armor.