The first thing Ivy noticed when she stepped out of the elevator was the silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the heavy, suffocating kind that pressed against her ears and reminded her she didn't belong. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with minimalist artwork and doors that looked more like vaults than rooms.
This was her new home.
Alexander Crowe's penthouse occupied the entire top floor.
Ivy stood frozen for a moment, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her handbag. The last forty-eight hours replayed in her mind like a cruel loop: the hospital, the contract, the scratch of the pen, the words Mrs. Crowe echoing in her head.
She was married.
Not by love.
Not by choice.
But by desperation.
"Take off your shoes."
Alexander's voice cut through the silence behind her.
She flinched, then turned slowly. He had followed her in without her noticing, his presence calm and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world—and she had none.
"I—what?" she asked.
"You're tracking dirt on the floor," he said, already walking past her. "I don't allow that."
Ivy looked down at the marble beneath her feet, spotless and gleaming. She swallowed the sharp response rising to her tongue and slipped off her shoes, setting them neatly by the door.
Strike one, she thought bitterly.
Alexander shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to a waiting housekeeper, who nodded respectfully before disappearing down the hall without so much as a glance in Ivy's direction.
"You'll have the west wing," Alexander said, loosening his cufflinks. "Bedroom, private bathroom, sitting area. My space is separate."
Ivy stiffened. "That's it? No… rules?"
He stopped walking and turned to face her.
His grey eyes were sharp, unreadable. "You already read the contract."
"Yes," she said quietly. "That doesn't mean I agreed with it."
"You signed it," he replied calmly. "Which means you agreed to all of it."
She clenched her fists. "You don't get to talk to me like I'm an object."
Alexander studied her for a long moment, as if reassessing a variable that hadn't behaved as predicted.
"You're not an object," he said. "You're an obligation."
Somehow, that was worse.
The bedroom was larger than her entire apartment.
King-sized bed. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A walk-in closet filled with clothes still bearing tags. Everything smelled new. Untouched. Like it had been prepared for someone else.
Or for a version of her that didn't exist.
Ivy ran her fingers over the soft fabric of a dress hanging nearest to her. Designer. Expensive. Beautiful.
None of it felt like hers.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," she said.
A woman stepped inside, smiling politely. "Mrs. Crowe, I'm Elena. I'll be assisting you."
"Assisting me with what?" Ivy asked cautiously.
"Everything," Elena replied. "Your schedule. Wardrobe. Public appearances."
Public appearances.
The word made Ivy's stomach twist.
"When is the first one?" she asked.
"Tonight."
Ivy's heart dropped. "Tonight?"
"Yes. A charity gala," Elena said smoothly. "Your presence has already been announced."
Ivy let out a shaky breath. "I don't even know how to be… this."
Elena softened. "No one expects perfection. Just stand beside him. Smile when necessary."
That didn't reassure her at all.
Alexander was already dressed when Ivy joined him an hour later.
Black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Tie knotted perfectly. He looked effortless in a way that felt unfair.
Ivy stood near the doorway, suddenly very aware of the emerald gown Elena had helped her into. It clung to her in unfamiliar ways, elegant and bold. When Alexander looked at her, his gaze paused for half a second longer than necessary.
Not admiration.
Assessment.
"You'll do," he said.
Ivy bristled. "That's the nicest thing you've said to me all day."
"That wasn't meant to be nice," he replied, offering his arm.
She hesitated.
"Appearances," he reminded her quietly.
Ivy slipped her hand through his arm. His body was warm. Solid. The contact sent an unwanted shiver through her.
The car ride was silent.
The gala was everything she expected—crystal chandeliers, champagne, laughter too loud to be sincere. The moment they entered, eyes turned. Whispers followed.
Alexander's hand settled at her lower back, firm and possessive.
"Smile," he murmured.
She did.
Introductions blurred together. Investors. Board members. People who smiled at her like she was a new acquisition rather than a person.
"How did you two meet?" someone asked with interest.
Alexander didn't miss a beat. "She was exactly where I wasn't looking."
Polite laughter followed.
Ivy felt his fingers tighten slightly, as if reminding her of something.
You're mine.
For now.
As the night wore on, Ivy grew more aware of the act they were performing. The way Alexander leaned toward her when people were watching. The way his hand guided her gently—but firmly.
Ownership disguised as affection.
By the time they returned home, her feet ached and her smile felt brittle.
The penthouse was quiet again.
Alexander loosened his tie and glanced at her. "You handled yourself well."
She scoffed. "Congratulations. Your investment didn't embarrass you."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Be careful," he said softly. "I don't tolerate disrespect."
Ivy lifted her chin. "Then you shouldn't have married someone with a spine."
For a moment, the air between them tightened.
Then Alexander stepped back.
"Get some rest," he said. "Tomorrow, you start learning how this world works."
"And if I refuse?" she asked.
His gaze darkened.
"You already did," he replied.
Ivy retreated to her room, her heart racing.
As she closed the door behind her, one thought echoed relentlessly in her mind:
She had survived the first night.
But she was beginning to understand the truth—
The real battle hadn't even begun.