The contract is a masterpiece of cold precision.
It outlines financial trusts, confidentiality clauses, public appearance quotas, and behavioral expectations with the thoroughness of a corporate merger. My allowance is obscene. My obligations are rigid. A schedule is appended: a press conference in forty-eight hours, a private "courtship" photo leak in twenty-four, a swift, quiet civil ceremony within the week.
Section 7: Personal Conduct.
7.1. The Parties shall maintain a cordial and mutually respectful relationship in all private interactions.
7.2. Cohabitation shall be strictly platonic. Separate bedrooms and private living quarters are guaranteed.
7.3. Romantic or sexual intimacy is expressly prohibited for the duration of the Contract, unless mutually agreed upon in a separately executed addendum (see Appendix D).
Appendix D is blank. A formality, a piece of legal theater. The message is clear: this will not be a real marriage. It is a corporate structure with a shared address.
I read it twice. Elara's mind dissects the clauses, while Luna's memories send pulses of panic through my nervous system—flashes of Arthur's face from magazine profiles, stories of rivals he's dismantled, his infamous, glacial silence.
The two-hour mark arrives with another soft click at the door.
It isn't Arthur. It's a woman in a severe black suit, her hair in a flawless platinum bob. She carries a tablet and a leather folio.
"Miss Sterling. I am Ms. Alistair, Mr. Valentine's head of legal and personal affairs." Her smile is a brief, professional curve of lips. "Have you reviewed the document?"
"I have."
"Do you have any questions before we proceed?"
I have a hundred. I start with the most practical. "My current lease, my belongings?"
"Already handled. Your personal effects will be moved to the Valentine penthouse today. This residence will be maintained, unused, as a discretionary asset." She taps her tablet. "A medical team will arrive at the new residence at 1800 hours for your first prenatal exam and to establish care. Mr. Valentine will attend."
The efficiency is breathtaking. I am being processed.
"And my career?"
Ms. Alistair's gaze doesn't flicker. "Your professional engagements are suspended. Per Clause 5.2, any future projects require joint approval and must align with the rehabilitated public image. Our strategy suggests a hiatus of no less than nine months, followed by a carefully selected philanthropic or independent film role."
They've planned my comeback before I've even signed. The arrogance is staggering.
"I want a clause added," I say, the words out before I fully think them through.
Her eyebrow lifts a millimeter. "Mr. Valentine indicated the terms were non-negotiable on major points."
"This isn't major. It's personal. Appendix D. I want it amended."
A faint, genuine curiosity now colors her professional mask. "Regarding the prohibition on intimacy?"
"No. I want a clause added that guarantees me unrestricted use of a kitchen. A professional-grade kitchen. And final say over all menu planning and household nutrition while in residence."
Ms. Alistair blinks. It is, I suspect, the closest she ever comes to looking stunned. She recovers quickly, her fingers flying over the tablet. "A culinary stipulation?"
"A necessity," I say, channeling every ounce of Elara's authority. "For my well-being." For my sanity.
She types for a moment, then gives a short nod. "I will add it as a rider to Appendix C, covering living arrangements. Mr. Valentine has approved it remotely. He… finds it acceptable."
Of course he did. It's so bizarre it doesn't threaten his control. It's just a quirk.
"Then we are ready," she says, turning the tablet to face me. A digital signature line glows at the bottom of the contract. A stylus rests beside it.
This is it. The point of no return. I think of Elara Vance's last signature, scrawled on a vendor invoice for black truffles. A lifetime ago.
I pick up the stylus. Luna Sterling's hand hesitates. Elara Vance's will presses down.
I sign.
---
The move is a silent, military operation. Men in black uniforms pack Luna's life into museum-quality crates. I give no direction. I don't know what she would want. I pack a single small bag myself: practical clothes, the few books that don't look purely decorative, and the damned pregnancy test. A morbid trophy.
A black sedan with opaque windows takes me across the city. We enter an underground garage that requires three separate security scans before a private elevator opens. It ascends to the penthouse without stopping.
The doors open directly into his world.
Arthur Valentine's home is not a home. It is a monument to minimalism and surveillance. Vast sheets of glass reveal a breathtaking, cold view of the city and the river. The interior is all muted grays, stark whites, and blacks. No photographs. No art with soul. Just a few stark, abstract sculptures that look like they cost more than my old restaurant. The air is filtered, silent, and smells of nothing at all. No lived-in scent. No lingering aroma of coffee or last night's dinner. It is the opposite of a kitchen. It is a vacuum.
"Your rooms are this way."
I jump. He's there, leaning against the doorway to what looks like a study. He changed into dark trousers and a simple black sweater. It makes him look younger, and somehow more dangerous. More approachable, yet completely untouchable.
He pushes off the doorframe and leads me down a wide hall without another word. He stops at a double doorway. "Your suite. Mine is at the opposite end of the residence." He states it like a fact about a hotel. "The medical team will be in the main living area. Be ready in ten minutes."
He walks away before I can respond.
I push the doors open.
It is a beautiful prison. A spacious bedroom, a sitting area, a bathroom with a marble tub big enough to drown in, and a small, enclosed sunroom. The style is consistent with the rest of the penthouse—impersonal, luxurious hotel. My crates are stacked neatly in a corner, a foreign invasion in this sterile space.
But there, through an open archway, I see it.
A kitchen.
Not a kitchenette. A serious, professional line of stainless steel appliances, a vast central island, racks for pots and pans. It's empty, clean, and waiting. My rider. My piece of territory.
For the first time since I woke up in this nightmare, my breathing slows. I have a battlefield. I know this ground.
A soft chime echoes through the suite. The medical team.
I find them in the living room, setting up discreet equipment. Arthur is already there, standing by the window, a silhouette against the dying light. He doesn't turn as I enter.
The exam is efficient, intrusive, and surreal. A doctor confirms the pregnancy—roughly seven weeks. A nurse takes blood. They ask about the drug exposure, and I recite the hazy, second-hand memories Luna possesses. Arthur answers the questions I cannot, his voice flat. He knows the name of the drug, its half-life, its likely source. He was tested that same morning, he says. Cleared.
He was a victim, too. But he wears victimhood like a poorly tailored suit—it doesn't fit him.
"Overall health is good," the doctor says, finally addressing us both. "Given the circumstances, we'll monitor closely. Stress management is paramount." She says this while looking directly at Arthur, as if he is the primary stressor.
He doesn't react.
When they leave, the silence returns, heavier now, charged with the new, clinical reality of the life growing inside me—a life that is part him, part the girl whose body I wear, and none of me.
"Dinner will be delivered at eight," he says, finally turning from the window. His eyes scan me, a quick, impersonal assessment. "You should rest."
"I'd prefer to cook."
He goes still. "Excuse me?"
"My rider. The kitchen. I'll cook dinner."
A long pause. "There is no food here."
"Then I'll make a list. Your… people… can procure it." I meet his gaze, holding onto this one point of control like a lifeline.
He studies me, that analytical look back in his eyes. He's trying to reconcile the spoiled, desperate starlet of the headlines with the woman demanding groceries. He finally gives a single, curt nod. "Send the list to Ms. Alistair."
He turns to leave.
"Arthur."
He freezes. It's the first time I've used his name. It feels dangerous on my tongue.
"Why the kitchen rider?" he asks, his back still to me. "A power play? A reminder of your former domesticity?" He says 'domesticity' like it's a weakness.
I think of the roar of my old kitchen, the smell of searing scallops, the quiet focus of chopping herbs. The only place where the world ever made perfect, edible sense.
"No," I say quietly. "Because in a kitchen, I know what I'm doing. Here, I don't know anything at all."
He is silent for so long I think he won't respond. Then, without turning, he speaks, his voice lower, almost lost in the vast, quiet room.
"Neither do I."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone with the city lights, the silent steel of my new kitchen, and the terrifying, echoing truth of his confession.