London still held the weight of last night like a bruise beneath its morning light. The sky remained pale and heavy, as if the city itself wasn't ready to wake. Eleanor stepped out of the car in front of the Moreau residence no, their residence now and exhaled a slow breath that turned white in the cold air. He hadn't planned to arrive early. He hadn't planned anything at all, really. His thoughts had refused to line up into straight lines since Isabella walked away from him last night, leaving nothing but the echo of an argument that wasn't quite an argument.
He entered the house.
The lights were dim, the silence thick, the warmth muted like a place waiting for a storm. He removed his coat and walked toward the kitchen. The moment he stepped inside, he stopped.
Isabella was already there.
She stood near the marble counter, hair loosely tied, wearing a satin top beneath a soft grey cardigan and tailored black trousers. She held a cup of tea in one hand, steam curling gently upward. The morning sun framed her shape like a soft outline.
She didn't look at him.
That alone was unusual.
Isabella Moreau never ignored anything intentionally unless she wanted to send a message.
Eleanor stepped closer.
"You're awake early," he said.
"I needed to be."
She didn't soften. Her tone wasn't cold, but precise, controlled, the way a surgeon prepared for a cut. He moved around the counter, giving her a clear view of his face.
"About last night.."
"Don't apologize."
"I wasn't going to apologize."
"Good. I would've considered it insincere."
He wanted to sigh. Or laugh. Or pull her attention back to him. Instead he leaned against the counter.
"You're angry with me."
"I'm not angry." She lifted her tea. "I'm assessing."
"Assessing what?"
"You."
His brow tightened slightly. "For what?"
"For reliability." She placed the cup down with a soft click. "Elanor, I cannot enter a war with someone whose emotions shift like the weather."
He exhaled slowly. "You think I'm unstable?"
"I think you're haunted," she corrected. "And I need to know if you can separate your past from our arrangement."
"I can."
She finally looked at him directly, sharply, with eyes that always seemed to see a fraction too much.
"You say that," she murmured. "But your father has a way of shaking you. And you let him."
He fell silent.
That cut deeper than it should have.
Isabella picked up her cup again, took a calm sip, and continued, "We cannot afford emotional cracks right now, Eleanor. The announcement goes live in an hour. After that, we enter a different battlefield entirely. Every move will be dissected. Every expression analyzed. Every silence recorded."
"And you think I'll cause a problem?"
"I think you're still torn between two fronts," she answered softly. "Yours and theirs."
"Not anymore."
"Then prove it."
"How?"
She stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she was close enough that he could smell the faint trace of jasmine on her skin. Her gaze didn't waver. Her voice lowered not threatening, but serious with a weight that hit him deeper than any anger could.
"Tell me you're not marrying me out of desperation," she said.
"Tell me you're not doing this because you're trying to claw your way out of your family's shadow."
He held her gaze steady.
"I'm doing this because I chose to," he said. "Not because of them."
She searched his face as if looking for cracks, lies, or softened truths.
Then she stepped back.
"That will have to be enough for now."
She moved toward the dining table and opened her tablet. Eleanor followed. A notification blinked on the screen.
It had begun.
The engagement announcement had gone public.
For a moment, both of them just stood there, watching the inevitable unfold in real-time. The comments, the articles, the quiet shock spreading like ripples across London's business world. Photos of Isabella taken from last night's gala flashed beside headshots of Eleanor, creating a narrative they hadn't even begun to shape.
The world believed them.
And the world was already reacting.
Isabella sat, scrolling briskly. "Our names are trending."
"Already?"
"This is London, not a monastery," she replied. "Everyone thrives on scandal."
Eleanor pulled a chair next to hers. "What do they say?"
"That we're an unexpected match."
"That the Moreaus must be planning something."
"That the Vance heir resurfaced too conveniently."
She scrolled further.
"That you must have seduced me," she added dryly.
He blinked. "Seduced you?"
Her lips twitched faintly. "Apparently you have a reputation."
"I do?"
"Yes. You're brooding, mysterious, difficult, and too attractive for your own good."
He stared at her. "Where did they get that?"
She scrolled again. "Rumors. Articles. Old features."
"Are you complaining?"
"I'm analyzing."
He leaned slightly closer. "And what's your analysis?"
She met his gaze briefly.
"It's not wrong."
Something warm slipped beneath the tension in his chest, a quiet heat.
But the moment softened only for a breath before reality struck again. Her expression changed more controlled, sharper.
"Elanor," she said. "We need to prepare."
"For what?"
"For the real war."
"What happens first?"
Isabella turned her tablet toward him.
A headline glared across the screen:
THE VANCE AND MOREAU ALLIANCE: POWER MOVE OR DISASTER IN THE MAKING?
He clenched his jaw.
Of course.
"Your father will call," Isabella said.
"I won't answer."
"You will have to, eventually."
"Not today."
She watched him carefully.
"You're different today," she noted.
"How?"
"You're… steady."
"Is that surprising?"
"Yes."
He blinked again. "Is that good or bad?"
"It's…" She hesitated. "Reassuring."
Her voice softened, barely, but enough to hit harder than anything else this morning.
He sat back, studying her the way she studied him. Isabella Moreau was powerful. Beautiful. Controlled. But beneath the layers of steel, there was something fragile wasn't the right word, but breakable. A woman holding a dozen worlds together by force.
He wondered if anyone had ever stood beside her without trying to control her, use her, or compete with her.
"Isabella."
She looked up.
"Whatever this becomes," he said, "I'm not your enemy."
Her eyes flickered. And for a moment, something vulnerable moved beneath the surface.
"I know," she whispered.
Silence stretched between them not dangerous this time, but almost… tender.
Then she broke it.
"We'll be late," she said.
"For what?"
"Our first appearance as an engaged couple."
He raised a brow. "Where?"
"Outside this house," she said. "The paparazzi have been waiting since dawn."
"Are you serious?"
"Very."
She stood and adjusted her cardigan. "This is where the performance begins."
He rose too.
"And what do you want me to do?"
She stepped forward, close again closer than necessary.
"Stand beside me," she said softly.
"Look at me like you could believe this."
"And walk like a man who's not afraid of being seen with me."
He didn't break her gaze.
"Isabella."
"Yes?"
"You make it sound easy."
"It isn't," she whispered. "But it will be easier if you don't flinch."
"Do I look like someone who flinches?"
"No." She smirked faintly. "You look like someone who pretends not to."
He exhaled a subtle laugh.
She opened the front door.
Noise exploded instantly cameras, voices, flashes of light.
She glanced back at him once, silently asking, Ready?
He nodded.
She took his arm.
He let her.
And in that split second, as the world roared and cameras burned, Eleanor realized something startling:
She fit beside him far too naturally.
London watched as they stepped into the light two people bound by contract, shadowed by revenge, and beginning a quiet war neither of them could afford to lose.
But somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the tension, beneath the roles they were forced to play..
Something real began to tremble awake.