Marriage did not soften Oliver Walker.
It refined him.
He was still ruthless in meetings, still terrifying when displeased, still capable of reducing executives to silence with one glance.
Now, however, he also remembered to eat lunch.
Anna considered this meaningful progress.
They sat together in the penthouse kitchen on a Wednesday afternoon while he reviewed acquisition reports and she corrected projections.
"You skipped page six," she said.
"I rejected page six."
"It contains the numbers."
"Then the numbers should improve."
She took the file from him.
"This is why analysts fear you."
"They're well-trained."
"They're traumatized."
He reached for his coffee.
She moved it out of reach.
"You've had three."
He looked offended.
"You're regulating caffeine now?"
"I'm protecting civilization."
Their married routine formed in unexpected ways.
He left notes on her desk that looked like threats but meant affection.
Eat lunch.
—O
Home by eight.
Non-negotiable.
If Moreau annoys you, wait for me.
She returned them with edits.
I already fired Moreau.
Lunch consumed. Barely.
Home by nine. Negotiate better.
He kept every note in the top drawer of his desk.
She discovered this accidentally.
Then pretended she hadn't.
At headquarters, employees adjusted quickly to the new reality.
Mr. Walker still inspired fear.
Mrs. Walker inspired fear with clearer grammar.
Together, they were devastating.
Anna entered a strategy session twenty minutes late to find six executives pale and silent.
Oliver stood by the screen.
"What happened?" she asked.
One man answered weakly.
"We used the phrase 'industry standard.'"
She nodded sympathetically.
"Amateurs."
Oliver looked at her.
"They came unprepared."
"They always do."
She took the remote.
"Sit down. I'll finish humiliating them faster."
Several executives visibly relaxed.
Which said too much.
That evening they attended a charity gala neither wanted to attend.
Black tie.
Too many diamonds.
Too many people pretending philanthropy was not networking in expensive clothing.
Anna adjusted Oliver's cuff.
"Behave."
"No."
"Try."
"I'll disappoint selectively."
Inside the ballroom, whispers followed them.
Power couples attract attention.
Power couples who look like trouble attract more.
A socialite approached Anna first.
"Mrs. Walker, how do you manage such a difficult man?"
Anna smiled pleasantly.
"Leverage and eye contact."
The woman laughed nervously and retreated.
Oliver looked amused.
"You enjoy this."
"I enjoy honesty."
Later, on the dance floor, slow music replaced conversation.
Oliver offered his hand.
Anna raised a brow.
"You dance?"
"I acquire skills quietly."
"Concerning pattern."
He drew her close.
Around them, chandeliers glowed and cameras kept respectful distance.
His hand rested at her waist.
Steady.
Certain.
"You're distracted," he said.
"You're tolerable in a tuxedo."
"Liar."
"A little."
He guided her across the floor with surprising grace.
"Tell me something true," he murmured.
She thought a moment.
"I like watching rooms realize you love me."
His gaze sharpened.
"Why?"
"Because it confuses them."
"It should."
"And you?"
He leaned closer.
"I like that you never doubt it."
The simplicity of that answer struck deeper than dramatic declarations ever had.
She rested her forehead briefly against his.
"Good."
Near midnight, they escaped onto the terrace overlooking Milan.
Music muffled behind glass.
City lights below.
Cold air.
Freedom.
Anna slipped off her heels.
"Better."
"You're stealing from elegance."
"I'm saving my feet."
He removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders without comment.
Automatic now.
Care disguised as habit.
She looked up at him.
"When did you become easy?"
"I didn't."
"No?"
"I became yours."
The man was impossible.
And occasionally dangerous with words.
She pulled him down by the tie and kissed him under the winter stars.
When they parted, he looked unfairly composed.
"Ready to go home?" he asked.
"We've been home," she said.
For once, Oliver Walker had no reply quick enough to hide how much that meant.