The penthouse smells like nothing.
That's the first thing Isla notices when she wakes. No garlic. No simmering sauce. No Nonna humming in the kitchen at 4 AM. Just silence and glass and air so clean it feels wrong, like breathing in a hospital.
She hasn't slept.
Three hours, maybe. Tossing. Staring at ceilings that are too high, walls that are too white, a city that glittered all night like it was mocking her.
Little one.
She showers. Dresses in yesterday's clothes because she hasn't unpacked. Stands in front of her bedroom door for three full minutes before opening it.
The hallway is empty.
She follows the smell of coffee.
Liam stands in the kitchen—if you can call it a kitchen. All marble and stainless steel and nothing that looks cooked in, ever. He's holding a mug, still in yesterday's suit like he didn't sleep either, staring at the city through windows that cost more than her restaurant.
He turns when she enters.
"Morning."
"Morning."
Silence.
This is her husband. The man she married yesterday in a City Hall ceremony with no guests, no flowers, no anything except a judge who looked confused and a signature that changed everything.
"You didn't sleep." He says it like a fact.
"Neither did you."
"I don't sleep much." He pours her coffee. Hands it over. Their fingers don't touch. "There's food. I wasn't sure what you eat, so—" He gestures at the counter. Pastries. Fruit. Eggs. Enough for ten people.
"This is..." She trails off. Doesn't know the word. Overwhelming? Insane? Generous?
"Excessive," he supplies. "I know. Anna does the ordering."
"Anna?"
"My assistant. You'll meet her today." He pauses. "There's an event tonight. Charity gala. You'll need to come."
Her stomach drops. "Tonight?"
"You don't have to stay long. Just show up. Smile. Let them take pictures." His voice is careful. Businesslike. "That's what this is. Public appearances."
Right. Public appearances. Not a real marriage. Not real anything.
"What do I wear?"
"I had Anna send options. They're in the closet." He sets down his mug. Meets her eyes. "You don't have to do this alone, Isla. If you have questions—if you need anything—"
"I'm fine."
The words come out too fast. Too defensive. She sees something flicker in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or recognition of the walls she's building.
"I know you're not," he says quietly. "But I'll pretend you are if that's what you need."
He leaves.
Isla stands in his kitchen, holding coffee she doesn't want, surrounded by food she can't eat, married to a man who just offered her something she doesn't know how to accept.
Kindness.
She doesn't deserve kindness.
---
The closet is bigger than her bedroom in Brooklyn.
Dresses hang in rows. Tags still on. Her size, every one of them. She runs her fingers over silk and chiffon and sequins, and thinks about the last dress she bought. $40. Clearance rack. She wore it to the club because Chloe made her, because Chloe said she deserved one night.
Chloe doesn't know about the marriage yet.
No one does.
Isla chooses the plainest dress. Black. Long sleeves. High neck. The kind of dress that says don't look at me.
She's wrong.
That night, when she walks into the gala on Liam's arm, every camera turns. Every head swivels. She hears whispers—who is she?—and grips his arm tighter.
His hand covers hers. Warm. Steady.
"Breathe," he murmurs. "Just breathe."
She breathes.
They move through the room. Names fly past her—investors, politicians, people who own things she can't imagine owning. Liam introduces her. My wife, Isla. The word hits her chest every time. Wife. She's not ready for it. Will never be ready for it.
Then a woman approaches. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. She's not looking at Liam—she's looking at Isla, and not in the way everyone else is looking.
"You're real," the woman says.
Isla blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"I've worked for him for five years." The woman gestures at Liam, who's been pulled into conversation across the room. "He's never brought anyone. Not once." She holds out a hand. "Anna. His assistant."
"Isla."
"I know." Anna's smile is small but genuine. "I ordered your dresses. Made sure the kitchen was stocked. Read your file."
"My file?"
"Standard due diligence." Anna shrugs. "He wanted to make sure you weren't a reporter or a gold-digger or—" She stops. Tilts her head. "You know what? You're exactly what the file said."
"What did the file say?"
Anna leans closer. "That you work eighteen-hour days for a restaurant that's dying. That you haven't taken a day off in two years. That you send money to people you've never met—small amounts, regularly, like you're paying off a debt no one knows about." Her eyes are too knowing. "He didn't ask about that part. But I noticed."
Isla's blood goes cold.
"I'm not here to judge." Anna straightens. "I'm here to tell you that he's a good man. Complicated. Walled off. But good." She pauses. "Whatever you're running from—you're safe here. As long as you don't lie to him."
She walks away.
Isla stands frozen, champagne glass sweating in her hand, heart pounding.
Whatever you're running from.
She's not running from something.
She's running toward something. Toward the moment he finds out. Toward the moment everything shatters.
Liam appears beside her. "You okay? You look—"
"I need air."
She's outside before he can respond. A terrace—smaller than the one at Eclipse, but same city, same lights, same feeling of standing on the edge of something.
The door opens behind her.
"Isla."
She doesn't turn. Can't.
"Anna said something." His voice is closer now. Careful. "Whatever it was—"
"Your assistant is very observant."
"She's terrifying."
A laugh escapes her. Small. Broken. "Yeah. She is."
Silence. Then his hand on her arm, turning her gently to face him.
"Talk to me."
She looks up at him. Sees the concern in his eyes, the walls he's letting down, the risk he's taking by standing here with her when he could be inside charming investors.
She should tell him. Now. Here. Before Anna digs deeper, before Kaelen remembers more, before—
"Little one."
The voice comes from inside her head. From last night. From eight years ago.
She can't.
"Not yet," she whispers. "I can't. Not yet."
Something crosses his face. Disappointment? Understanding? She can't read him.
"Okay." He squeezes her hand once. Then releases it. "When you're ready. I'll be here."
They go back inside. Smile for cameras. Pretend.
---
Three hours later, Isla walks into her room at the penthouse.
She knows immediately.
The nightstand drawer is open. Not much—just a crack. But she closed it this morning. She remembers closing it.
She crosses the room. Pulls the drawer open.
Her father's letter is still there.
But it's been moved. The creases are different. The edges line up wrong.
And on her pillow—a single piece of paper.
Handwritten.
I know what you did.
Tell him yourself, or I will.
—K
She doesn't scream. Doesn't cry. Just stands there, staring at those words, feeling the walls she's spent eight years building crumble to dust.
Her phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
She answers.
"Did you find my note, little one?" Kaelen's voice is soft. Almost gentle. "I wanted to give you a choice. I'm generous that way."
"You're a monster."
"I'm a businessman." A pause. "You have forty-eight hours. Tell him everything—the phones, the calls, your daddy's little helper act—or I do. And I won't be gentle."
The line goes dead.
Isla drops the phone. Slides down the wall until she's sitting on the floor, knees to chest, shaking.
Across the hall, Liam's light is on. He's awake. He's three doors away. He has no idea.
She has forty-eight hours to destroy herself.