The kiss lingered on Evelyn's lips long after Nicholas pulled away, a searing reminder of the heat that had ignited between them—again. She stood frozen in place, her chest heaving, her fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to her skin like a sin. The penthouse was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the distant honk of a taxi below, but all she could hear was the thud of her own heartbeat, loud and chaotic, echoing in her ears.
Nicholas smirked, his thumb brushing over her swollen lower lip, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction. "You're still as responsive as I remember," he murmured, his voice low and husky, sending a shiver down her spine. He stepped back, adjusting his suit jacket, the moment of vulnerability gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the cold, detached demeanor of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
"Don't get confused," Evelyn said, tearing her hand away from his shirt, her voice shaky but determined. "This was… a moment of weakness. Nothing more. We have a contract, and I intend to keep my end of the deal. But that doesn't mean I'm yours to play with."
He chuckled, pouring himself another glass of scotch, his gaze never leaving her. "Play with you? Evelyn, you're not a toy—not anymore. You're my wife, at least in public. And I don't share what's mine." His words were laced with possessiveness, a sharp edge that made her stomach flip. She hated the way he made her feel—helpless, desired, conflicted. Hated that even after everything, a part of her craved his attention, his touch, the dangerous thrill of being with him.
"When will I see the contract?" she asked, changing the subject, desperate to regain control of the conversation—and her emotions. She couldn't afford to get tangled up in his games, not when her studio, her future, and the truth about the fire were on the line.
"My attorney will drop it off at your apartment tomorrow morning," Nicholas said, taking a sip of his scotch. "It's straightforward—18 months, no strings attached, except the ones we've agreed to. You'll move into the penthouse next week—we need to be seen together, to sell the act. My grandfather's health is fading fast, and Samuel is already spreading rumors that I'm unfit to inherit. We need to look like the perfect couple."
Evelyn nodded, her mind racing. Moving into his penthouse—living with him, sharing a space, pretending to be his wife. It sounded like a nightmare, but it was the price she had to pay. "And the fire?" she asked, her voice softening. "You said you'd help me find out who did it."
Nicholas's expression darkened, a flicker of something cold and dangerous crossing his face. "I meant it. I have people looking into it already. The fire wasn't random—whoever did it knew what they were doing, and I have a feeling it's connected to my brother. Samuel has never been one to play fair, especially when it comes to the company." He paused, his gaze narrowing. "Did you have any enemies? Anyone who would want to destroy your studio?"
Evelyn thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. "A few competitors—there's a production company that tried to steal my album rights a few months ago. But I turned them down. I never thought they'd go this far."
"I'll look into them," Nicholas said, setting his glass down on the bar. "In the meantime, focus on playing your part. No mistakes, Evelyn. If we slip up, Samuel will pounce, and we'll both lose everything." He took a step toward her, his body once again inches from hers, the heat between them threatening to reignite. "And if you ever feel like breaking the rules again…" He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "I'll be more than happy to oblige."
His breath was hot against her skin, and she could feel the familiar flush of desire pooling between her legs. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to pull away, to resist the temptation that was staring her in the face. "I should go," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I have… things to take care of."
Nicholas didn't stop her. He just stood there, watching her, a smirk playing on his lips, as she grabbed her coat and headed for the door. When she reached the entrance, she paused, turning back to him. "Why me?" she asked, the question burning in her throat. "There are hundreds of women who would jump at the chance to be Mrs. Grayson. Why choose someone you barely know? Someone you… had a one-night stand with?"
He leaned against the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "Because you're different," he said, his voice sincere for the first time that night. "You're not after my money, or my name. You're strong, stubborn, and you don't take shit from anyone. And besides…" He smirked, the familiar glint returning to his eyes. "I know you can keep a secret. And I know you're capable of playing the part—better than anyone else."
Evelyn stared at him, unsure of what to say. His words were flattering, but she knew there was more to it—something he wasn't telling her. But she didn't press. She didn't want to know. Not yet. "Goodnight, Mr. Grayson," she said, opening the door.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Grayson," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "See you next week."
The door closed behind her, and Evelyn leaned against it, her heart still racing. She was walking into a minefield—a contract marriage with a man who was dangerous, unpredictable, and who made her feel things she couldn't explain. But she had no other choice. She took a deep breath, straightening her back, and stepped into the Manhattan night. The road ahead was long and dangerous, but for the first time in weeks, she felt a glimmer of hope. Hope that she could save her studio, find the truth about the fire, and maybe—just maybe—survive Nicholas Grayson.
As she hailed a taxi, her phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number: Stay away from Nicholas Grayson. He's not who you think he is. And if you don't, you'll end up just like his mother.
Evelyn's blood ran cold. His mother? What had happened to his mother? She stared at the text, her hands shaking, as the taxi pulled up beside her. She climbed in, her mind racing with questions. Who had sent the text? What did it mean? And what was Nicholas hiding from her?
One thing was certain—this contract marriage was going to be far more dangerous than she had ever imagined. And the line between truth and lies, between desire and danger, was only going to get blurrier.