POV: Alina Maxwell
The knock on the penthouse door came at seven-thirty on a Saturday morning, sharp and insistent in a way that made Alina's heart skip with recognition even before she opened it to find Leah standing in the hallway with two coffee cups from their favorite café and an expression that suggested she had been rehearsing this conversation during the entire drive from her apartment across town. Her best friend looked exactly the same as she always had—wild curly hair barely contained by a colorful headband, paint-stained jeans that spoke of late nights in the art studio, and eyes that were too bright, too knowing, too capable of seeing straight through whatever careful facade Alina might try to construct.
"Don't even think about pretending everything is fine," Leah said before Alina could speak, pushing past her into the penthouse with the kind of determination that had gotten them both through finals week and heartbreak and every other crisis they had weathered together over the past four years. "I brought your usual—extra shot, oat milk, ridiculous amount of cinnamon—and I'm not leaving until you tell me what the hell is really going on in this glass tower you're apparently living in now."
Alina closed the door behind her friend and leaned against it for a moment, watching as Leah surveyed the pristine living space with the critical eye of someone who had spent enough time in Alina's cramped dorm room to know that none of this luxury reflected the person she had known since freshman orientation, when they had bonded over terrible cafeteria food and shared anxiety about whether they were smart enough, strong enough, brave enough to make it through the next four years.
"It's not that simple," Alina said finally, accepting the coffee cup that Leah thrust toward her and wrapping her hands around it like a lifeline, grateful for the familiar comfort of her usual order even as she braced herself for the conversation she had been dreading since the day she signed that contract in Aiden's office.
"Try me," Leah said, settling onto the sofa with the kind of casual confidence that made expensive furniture look like it had been designed for someone in paint-splattered jeans, and Alina marveled at how her friend could make herself at home anywhere, how she could walk into a space that cost more than most people made in a year and treat it like just another place to sit and drink coffee and have the kind of honest conversation that cut through pretense like a knife through silk.
Alina perched on the edge of the chair across from her, acutely aware of how carefully she was holding herself, how much effort she was putting into appearing relaxed and happy when everything inside her felt like it was held together with tape and hope and the desperate need to convince someone—anyone—that she had made the right choice.
"You look terrible," Leah said bluntly, her dark eyes cataloging the shadows under Alina's eyes, the careful way she was holding her shoulders, the smile that looked like it had been painted on with the same precision someone might use to restore a damaged painting. "And don't tell me it's just adjustment stress or wedding planning exhaustion, because I've seen you during finals week and this is something else entirely."
The words hit Alina like a physical blow because they were true, because no matter how much concealer she used or how many hours she spent practicing her happy wife expression in the bathroom mirror, she couldn't hide the toll that living in emotional limbo was taking on her, couldn't disguise the way she was slowly disappearing into a role that required her to be everything except herself.
"It's complicated," Alina said again, though even as the words left her mouth she knew they sounded hollow, defensive, like something someone said when they didn't want to admit that their life had become unrecognizable even to themselves.
"Everything worthwhile is complicated," Leah replied, taking a sip of her coffee and settling back into the cushions with the patience of someone who had nowhere else to be and all the time in the world to wait for the truth. "But that doesn't mean you get to shut out the people who care about you. I haven't heard from you in weeks, Alina. Weeks. Do you know how worried I've been?"
The guilt hit Alina like a wave, washing over her with the force of recognition that in trying to protect her friend from the messy reality of her situation, she had also cut herself off from the one person who might actually understand, who might be able to help her make sense of the tangle of emotions and obligations that seemed to grow more complex with each passing day.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly, meaning it more than she had meant almost anything in recent memory. "I didn't want to... I didn't know how to explain."
"Start at the beginning," Leah suggested, her voice gentler now but still carrying that note of determination that suggested she wasn't going to be satisfied with partial truths or careful omissions. "Start with why you married someone I've never met, someone you've never even mentioned, after knowing him for what—three weeks?"
The story came out in pieces, halting and incomplete, with Alina editing as she went to remove the most damaging details while trying to preserve enough truth to make the narrative make sense. She told Leah about the night in the alley, about Aiden's proposal, about the financial security that the arrangement would provide, but she found herself dancing around the more painful realities—the contract that reduced their relationship to a business transaction, the woman in Chicago who held Aiden's heart, the growing realization that she was falling in love with someone who would never see her as anything more than a convenient solution to an inconvenient problem.
"So let me get this straight," Leah said when Alina finally fell silent, her voice carrying the kind of careful control that suggested she was working very hard to keep her initial reaction from exploding out of her like shrapnel. "You married a man you barely know, someone who was clear from the beginning that he doesn't love you, in exchange for money to pay for school and the promise of financial security afterward."
"It's not that simple," Alina said again, but the words felt even weaker now, more like a prayer than a defense.
"Isn't it?" Leah asked, leaning forward with the intensity that always made Alina feel like she was being seen more clearly than was entirely comfortable. "Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you've essentially agreed to spend three years of your life pretending to be someone you're not for someone who doesn't appreciate who you actually are."
The accusation hung in the air between them like smoke, acrid and impossible to ignore, and Alina felt something inside her chest crack under the weight of hearing her situation described so starkly, so accurately, so completely stripped of the romantic delusions she had been using to make it bearable.
"You don't understand," she said, though even as she spoke she wasn't sure what, exactly, Leah was supposed to understand, what crucial piece of information would make this all make sense, would transform her arrangement with Aiden from something that sounded desperate and self-defeating into something that could be called reasonable or wise.
"Then help me understand," Leah said, her voice carrying the kind of frustrated affection that came from years of friendship, from knowing someone well enough to see when they were lying to themselves. "Help me understand why the smartest person I know, someone who has never backed down from a challenge or given up on something she believed in, has decided that the best thing she can do with her life is disappear into someone else's story."
The words hit Alina like a slap, sharp and shocking and somehow exactly what she needed to hear, even though they made her want to curl up in a ball and hide from the truth that was staring her in the face with the relentless clarity of Leah's dark eyes.
"It's not disappearing," she said weakly, but even as she said it she knew it wasn't true, knew that every day she spent in this beautiful prison was another day of becoming smaller, quieter, less herself, until she sometimes wondered if she would remember who she had been before she became Mrs. Aiden King.
"Isn't it?" Leah asked again, and there was something almost gentle in her persistence now, something that suggested she was fighting for Alina's soul rather than just trying to win an argument. "When was the last time you painted? When was the last time you stayed up all night reading a book that had nothing to do with your studies or your obligations? When was the last time you laughed—really laughed—at something silly and stupid and completely unimportant?"
The questions hit Alina like arrows, each one finding its mark in the growing emptiness she had been trying not to acknowledge, the way she had stopped doing all the small things that used to bring her joy because they didn't fit with the image of the person she was supposed to be now.
Before she could answer, the sound of a key in the lock made them both turn toward the entryway, and Alina felt her stomach clench with a mixture of anxiety and something that might have been relief as Aiden's voice called out a greeting from the foyer.
"Alina?" he called, and she could hear the slight surprise in his voice that suggested he hadn't been expecting to find anyone else in the penthouse, hadn't prepared for the possibility that his carefully controlled domestic space might contain variables he couldn't predict or manage.
"In here," she called back, though her voice came out smaller than she had intended, and she watched as Leah's eyebrows rose in a way that suggested she was already forming opinions about the man who was about to enter their conversation.
Aiden appeared in the living room doorway moments later, still wearing the expensive suit that marked him as someone important, someone successful, someone who belonged in boardrooms and corner offices rather than casual Saturday morning conversations over coffee. His eyes moved from Alina to Leah with the kind of quick assessment that she had come to recognize as his default mode, cataloging and evaluating potential threats or opportunities with the efficiency of someone who had learned to read people as quickly as he read financial reports.
"Aiden," Alina said, rising from her chair with movements that felt stilted and awkward, "this is my friend Leah. Leah, this is Aiden."
"The husband," Leah said, standing as well but making no move to cross the room for handshakes or polite social greetings, and Alina could feel the tension crackling between them like electricity before a storm, two strong personalities taking each other's measure and finding the results less than reassuring.
"Leah," Aiden said with a polite nod, and Alina could see him switching into the professional charm mode that he used for business meetings and social obligations, the careful smile that never quite reached his eyes but was convincing enough for most people who didn't know him well enough to recognize the difference.
"I hope you don't mind me dropping by unannounced," Leah continued, her voice carrying a edge of challenge that made Alina want to sink through the floor and disappear. "I was worried about Alina. She's been so hard to reach lately, so unlike herself. But I can see now that she's in good hands."
The words were perfectly polite on the surface, but Alina could hear the layers underneath, the accusation and the warning and the promise that Leah would be watching, would be paying attention, would not be easily dismissed or ignored.
"Of course not," Aiden replied, though Alina could see the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested he was recalibrating, trying to figure out how to handle this unexpected complication to his carefully ordered Saturday. "Any friend of Alina's is welcome here."
The conversation that followed was a masterclass in polite hostility, with Leah asking pointed questions about Aiden's work, his interests, his plans for the future, while Aiden provided smooth, professional answers that revealed absolutely nothing about who he actually was underneath the expensive suit and practiced charm. Alina sat between them feeling like a referee in a boxing match where all the punches were being thrown with kid gloves, devastating but invisible to anyone who wasn't paying close attention to the subtext.
"And how did you two meet?" Leah asked, her tone conversational but her eyes sharp as they moved between Alina and Aiden, looking for inconsistencies in whatever story they might tell.
"Alina saved my life," Aiden said, the same line he had used at the charity gala, delivered with exactly the right amount of warmth and gratitude, and Alina watched as Leah's expression shifted slightly, confusion flickering across her features at this unexpected note of genuine feeling in what had otherwise been a completely manufactured conversation.
"Did she now?" Leah said, turning to look at Alina with raised eyebrows. "How very heroic of her. Though I have to say, she's always had a talent for rescuing people who probably don't deserve it."
The barb landed with surgical precision, and Alina felt heat rise in her cheeks as she realized that her friend was fighting for her in the only way she knew how, using words as weapons to defend against someone she perceived as a threat to Alina's wellbeing.
"I should go," Leah said suddenly, rising from the sofa with the kind of abrupt movement that suggested she had seen enough, learned enough, reached whatever conclusion she had come here to reach. "I have a studio session this afternoon."
She gathered her things with efficient movements, but before heading toward the door, she stopped in front of Alina and pulled her into a hug that felt fierce and protective and somehow desperate, as if she were trying to pour years of friendship and concern and love into a single embrace.
"Call me," she whispered in Alina's ear, her voice low enough that Aiden couldn't hear but intense enough to cut through every excuse or rationalization Alina might try to construct. "Not when it's convenient, not when you think you should, but when you need someone who remembers who you really are."
And then she was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of paint and coffee and the kind of honest affection that made Alina realize how long it had been since anyone had looked at her and seen the person she used to be rather than the role she was trying so desperately to play.
Aiden watched from the living room as Leah let herself out, his expression unreadable as always, but when he turned back to Alina, she thought she saw something different in his eyes, something that might have been surprise or curiosity or maybe just the recognition that he had been given a glimpse into a part of her life that had nothing to do with contracts or obligations or the careful performance they maintained for the rest of the world.
"She's protective," he said finally, and Alina nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she tried to speak.
That night, as she lay in her guest room bed staring at the ceiling and listening to the city breathe beyond the windows, Alina found herself thinking about Leah's questions, about laughter and joy and all the small things that used to make her feel alive, and she wondered if it was possible to lose yourself so gradually that you didn't notice until someone who loved you pointed out that you had disappeared entirely.