The car was a silent, rolling tomb. Alexander sat beside me, his attention wholly consumed by the tablet in his hands, the blue light etching the severe lines of his profile. He hadn't spoken a word since his command "Shall we go?"at the courthouse. The partition between us and the driver was up, sealing us in a bubble of thick, suffocating quiet. I kept my body angled toward the window, watching the familiar, bustling streets of my city morph into the sleek, impersonal canyons of the financial district.
This wasn't happening. This was a dream, a stress-induced nightmare. I, Elara Sterling, was married. I was married to the man next to me, a stranger whose name I now shared. My left hand felt unnaturally light. I'd refused a ring. He hadn't offered one. It was a detail the contract hadn't specified, and one we had both, silently and mutually, agreed to ignore.
The car slid smoothly into a private underground garage, stopping before a dedicated elevator door made of brushed steel. Alexander finally looked up from his tablet, his gaze sweeping over me as if he'd forgotten I was there.
"This is a private elevator. It requires a biometric scan," he stated, his voice cutting through the silence like a shard of glass. "Julian will arrange for your access to be programmed tomorrow."
He stepped out, and I scrambled after him, my overnight bag feeling absurdly small and pathetic. The elevator doors opened soundlessly at his touch. The interior was mirrored, and I was confronted with a dozen reflections of my own wide, frightened eyes and his impassive, towering form.
The ascent was swift and stomach-lurching. When the doors opened again, they didn't reveal a hallway. They opened directly into his home.
My breath caught.
The penthouse was… breathtaking. And utterly soulless. It spanned the entire top floor, a vast, open-plan space of glass, steel, and pale limestone. The far wall was a single, continuous curve of floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a panoramic, god-like view of the city and the bay beyond. Everything was monochromatic, shades of grey, white, and black. There were no personal photographs, no knick-knacks, no stray books. It was a museum of modern design, a place that looked staged for an architectural digest, not lived in.
It was the most beautiful and lonely place I had ever seen.
"Mariela," Alexander said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.
A woman in her late forties or early fifties, with a kind, round face and warm brown eyes, appeared from a corridor. She wore a simple, elegant grey dress and a polite, professional smile.
"Sir. Madam," she said, her gaze lingering on me with a flicker of curiosity that was quickly masked.
"This is Mariela. She manages the household," Alexander said, his tone indicating this was the extent of the introduction required. "Your belongings have been delivered and are in your room. Mariela will show you. I have work."
With that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps silent on the thick, grey wool rug. He disappeared through a doorway on the far side of the living area, presumably into his office, and closed the door with a soft, definitive click.
I was left standing there, my bag in my hand, feeling like a piece of furniture that had been mistakenly delivered.
Mariela's smile became a little more genuine, a touch of sympathy in her eyes. "Welcome, Madam. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room."
Your room. Not our room. Not the master bedroom. Your room.
I followed her down a wide hallway, past closed doors. She stopped at the last one on the right and pushed it open.
"Here you are. I hope it's to your liking."
I stepped inside and stopped short. It was beautiful. A large room with its own stunning, though smaller, view of the city. A king-sized bed with a silvery grey upholstered headboard, a sleek writing desk, a small sitting area. A door stood ajar, revealing a luxurious en-suite bathroom with marble tiles. Like the rest of the penthouse, it was impeccably decorated in cool, neutral tones. And like the rest of the penthouse, it was completely impersonal. My two suitcases, containing the sum total of my old life, were placed neatly by the closet, looking small and forlorn.
"It's… very nice," I managed to say, my voice thin.
"Dinner is at eight," Mariela informed me gently. "It will be served in the dining room. Is there anything you need? Anything you'd like me to arrange?"
I need to go home. I need this to not be real. I shook my head. "No. Thank you, Mariela."
She nodded and withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
Alone.
The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the faint, distant hum of the city below. I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. I was in a gilded cage a thousand feet in the air. I had a million dollars in the bank and a hollowed-out feeling in my chest.
I had saved my family. I had secured their future.
So why did I feel like I had just jumped from a great height and was still waiting to hit the ground?
My phone vibrated. I pulled it from my clutch. It was my sister, Chloe. A photo of her beaming, holding up a fabric swatch for her latest project. The text read: Found the PERFECT material! Thinking of you! How's the newlywed bliss?
The lie was a physical pain. I typed back, my fingers clumsy, the words tasting like ash.
It's beautiful. He's wonderful. Talk soon.
I threw the phone onto the perfectly made bed as if it had burned me. I was here to play a part. The part of the blissful, new wife. The performance had already begun.
I looked around the beautiful, sterile room...my room. My home for the next year. A single, traitorous thought escaped the prison of my resolve.
What have I done?