The next morning, Elle stood in front of a towering iron gate, suitcase in hand, staring up at the mansion that now—technically—belonged to her.
The St. Clair residence wasn't just a home; it was a statement. Marble columns, endless windows, and manicured gardens that looked like they belonged in a magazine. It was silent, too silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath here.
Elle adjusted her scarf, her heart pounding. You can do this, she told herself again.
The gates opened smoothly as if the house itself had been expecting her.
Inside, a woman in a crisp black uniform greeted her with a professional smile. "Good morning, Mrs. St. Clair. I'm Lydia, the housekeeper. Mr. St. Clair asked me to show you to your room."
Mrs. St. Clair.
The title felt foreign on her tongue, almost ridiculous.
"Thank you, Lydia," Elle said softly, following her inside.
The air smelled faintly of cedar and expensive cologne. Everything gleamed—polished marble floors, tall glass walls, chandeliers that scattered gold light across the foyer.
"This way," Lydia said, leading her up a sweeping staircase. "Mr. St. Clair's quarters are on the west wing. Yours are in the east wing for privacy."
Privacy. A polite way of saying distance.
When they reached her room, Elle stopped in the doorway. It was bigger than her entire apartment—soft ivory walls, a four-poster bed, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
"I'll have breakfast sent up shortly," Lydia said. "Mr. St. Clair is in his study if you need anything."
Elle doubted she'd ever "need" anything from him.
After unpacking, she wandered through the house, drawn by curiosity more than comfort. It was beautiful but cold—every surface perfect, every room immaculate. Like a museum of someone's success, but not their life.
When she passed the study, the door was slightly ajar.
She hesitated, then peeked in.
Adrian sat behind a massive oak desk, his jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows as he flipped through a file. Morning light slanted across his sharp features, catching the edge of his wristwatch and the cool concentration in his eyes.
He didn't look up, but somehow she felt him notice her.
"Come in," he said, his voice even.
She pushed the door open. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't," he replied, signing something without looking up. "You're settling in?"
"Trying to."
He nodded once, still not meeting her gaze. "Lydia will handle your schedule. There are events and public appearances we'll attend together. My assistant will brief you on what to say, what not to say, and how to deal with the press."
Elle blinked. "Press?"
"People talk," he said simply. "They'll want to know who the mysterious Mrs. St. Clair is. You'll learn to smile and say nothing."
Her lips tightened. "And if I say something real?"
That made him look up at last. His gray eyes locked onto hers—cool, controlled, but faintly curious. "Then you'll make headlines," he said, almost dryly.
Elle folded her arms. "You really have a rule for everything, don't you?"
"Order keeps things from falling apart."
"Or it keeps people from getting close," she murmured.
For the briefest moment, something flickered behind his calm expression—surprise, maybe even recognition—but it vanished as quickly as it came.
He rose from his chair, every movement deliberate, confident. "You'll find that emotions complicate things, Elle. I don't do complications."
She forced a polite smile. "Don't worry, Mr. St. Clair. Neither do I."
He studied her for a long moment, as though weighing her words. Then he turned back to his desk. "Breakfast is in the dining hall at nine. Don't be late."
Elle left before he could see the faint flush creeping up her neck. His words were sharp, but his presence was sharper—every time she stood near him, she felt as if the air grew heavier.
Back in her room, she let out a long breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
The house felt like a cage—beautiful, golden, and suffocating.
When breakfast came, the dining table stretched endlessly between them. Adrian sat at one end, reading his tablet, barely speaking. The silence wasn't awkward; it was intentional, like he'd mastered it.
Elle pushed her food around the plate before asking quietly, "Do you always eat alone?"
He didn't look up. "Yes."
She smiled faintly. "Guess I should get used to it."
"Do whatever makes you comfortable," he said. "Just don't mistake this arrangement for something it's not."
Her fork froze. "And what is it?"
He finally looked at her, his eyes unreadable. "A business agreement. Nothing more."
She nodded slowly, forcing herself to keep her voice even. "Right. Of course."
But as the silence settled again, Elle couldn't help but glance at him—at the man who spoke like ice but carried something darker behind his calm.
Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe something worse.
Whatever it was, she had a feeling this mansion held more secrets than she'd signed up for.
And as the rain began to fall again outside the tall windows, Elle wondered—not for the first time—what kind of man she'd really married.