Morning arrived far too soon.
Sunlight slipped through the sheer curtains of the penthouse, soft and golden, like it didn’t know it was walking into emotional chaos. Elara lay still, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second of the night before.
The hallway.
His voice.
Maybe it stopped feeling fake…
She sat up abruptly.
“No,” she muttered.
“Focus.”
This was still a contract marriage.
Feelings were not part of the agreement. Sleepless nights weren’t either but here she was.
She got ready quietly, choosing a simple outfit instead of the designer dresses laid out for her. If the world insisted on seeing her as Adrian Knight’s wife, she at least wanted to feel like herself.
When she stepped into the kitchen, Adrian was already there.
Coffee brewed. Tablet in hand. Calm mask back in place.
Of course.
“Morning,” he said, without looking up.
“Morning,” she replied.
The word felt heavier than it should have.
They moved around each other carefully, like strangers learning a shared space for the first time. No accidental touches today.
No lingering glances. Just politeness stretched thin.
Then Adrian’s tablet buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Relentlessly.
His jaw tightened as he glanced at the screen.
“What?” Elara asked, already sensing trouble.
“The media picked up last night faster than expected,” he said.
“They want interviews. Statements. Photos.”
She sighed. “Of course they do.”
“There’s a breakfast meeting in an hour,” he added.
“With investors. You’ll need to come.”
Her head snapped up.
“That wasn’t in the contract.”
He finally looked at her. “Public appearances were.”
“Yes but not ambushes,” she shot back.
“This is part of the role,” he said calmly.
“And where exactly does my comfort fit into this role?” she asked.
He paused.
That pause again.
“We’ll get through it,” he said instead.
Not an answer.
But she nodded anyway.
The café was elegant, sunlit, and crawling with attention.
The moment they walked in together, heads turned.
Whispers followed.
Phones subtly lifted.
Adrian placed a hand at Elara’s back professional, practiced.
Her stomach twisted.
Across the table sat two investors… and Vivienne.
Of course.
Vivienne’s smile widened the second she saw Elara.
“Well,” she said lightly, “you two look… close.”
Elara held her smile.
“We are married.”
Vivienne’s eyes flicked to Adrian. “Marriage suits you,” she said.
“Softens the edges.”
Adrian didn’t respond immediately.
That silence felt loud.
“So,” Vivienne continued, “how long did it take for you to decide she was the one?”
Elara felt it then
that slow burn of jealousy, unwanted and undeniable.
Adrian glanced at Elara before answering. Just for a second.
“Longer than people think,” he said.
Her breath caught.
Was that for the investors…
or for her?
Back in the car, tension crackled again.
“You didn’t have to say that,” Elara said quietly.
“You didn’t have to feel uncomfortable,” he replied.
She turned to him. “Then maybe we need clearer rules.”
He leaned back slightly. “We already have rules.”
“Not enough,” she said. “Because things are blurring.”
Silence.
“What do you want?” he asked finally.
She hesitated. Then said the hardest thing.
“I want to know where I stand. Not as a headline. Not as a strategy.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thin folder.
“The contract,” he said. “Revised.”
Her heart sank. “Revised how?”
“Clearer boundaries,” he replied. “No emotional involvement. No possessiveness. No expectations beyond appearances.”
She stared at the folder.
Rules.
Safe.
Cold.
Exactly what she’d asked for.
So why did it feel like losing something?
She took it. “Fine.”
Their fingers brushed.
Neither reacted.
That hurt more than the argument ever could.
That night, Elara read the contract alone.
Rule after rule. Clause after clause.
Everything was spelled out.
Except what to do
when pretending starts to feel like truth.
Across the penthouse, Adrian loosened his tie, staring at the city once more.
He had rewritten the rules to protect control.
But control had never felt more fragile.
