The first night in the penthouse was colder than any hotel room I'd ever stayed in—and not because of the temperature.
I stood by the window long after Celine disappeared into the second bedroom. Her door had closed with a finality that echoed through the marble-floored space like a slammed verdict.
We coexisted now. Her word, not mine. It wasn't peace. It was a truce. And truce came with landmines.
I let the scotch burn down my throat as the city hummed beneath us. Velmora looked beautiful from up here. Far away. Quiet. Nothing like the chaos of press, whispers, or our clipped conversations. Just lights and lines and the suggestion of calm.
A perfect illusion.
I knew I had no right to expect more. Celine had been cornered into this marriage just like I had. But the difference was, she'd never stopped fighting. And me? I'd learned early to stop resisting what couldn't be changed.
My parents had loved each other. Fiercely. Their marriage had been real and loud and messy and whole. When my father died, it gutted my mother—and I saw what kind of wreckage love left behind. Since then, I'd kept things clean. Contained.
Marry for strategy. Merge for power. Keep emotions locked tight.
But then there was Celine. With her sharp eyes and silences. She made everything messy.
The next morning, I didn't see her before I left for work. Oliver had arranged my schedule to keep me out of the spotlight for a few days, but I still had internal meetings. And questions. Always questions.
How's married life? When's the honeymoon? You two looked perfect at the reception.
It was all so fake. But I smiled through it.
At lunch, I found myself scrolling through the press photos again. Not the headlines—those were trash. But the photos… they told a different story.
In some, Celine looked ethereal. Unreachable. In others, she looked… exhausted. Worn. Like someone trapped in a palace she didn't want.
I closed my phone.
By evening, I wasn't in the mood for another quiet night. But when I stepped into the penthouse, she wasn't in the main lounge. I assumed she was in her room, so I walked into the shared office instead.
To my surprise, she was already there. Dressed in soft grey loungewear, barefoot, laptop open and glowing. She looked up briefly.
I didn't expect her to speak, so I was surprised when she did.
"We're scheduled for a charity event Friday. Evelyn confirmed it."
"I know," I said, stepping in. "I approved the RSVP this morning."
"We're expected to make a donation in person."
"Handled."
She raised an eyebrow. "Efficient."
"Always."
A beat passed. She looked back at her screen.
I hesitated, then crossed to the other desk. Sat. Turned on my own screen. It was the closest we'd come to… something. Maybe this was what peace looked like.
After an hour of silence, I heard her close her laptop.
"I'll have my assistant coordinate transportation. Unless you prefer to go separately."
I shook my head. "Together. For optics."
She nodded and stood. For a second, I thought she might say something else. But then she turned and walked toward the hallway.
Halfway there, she paused.
"This place doesn't feel like a home," she said softly.
I swallowed. "I know."
And just like that, she disappeared again.
I sat back in my chair, staring at the empty doorway.
We weren't lovers.
We weren't friends.
But we weren't strangers anymore either.
And maybe… that was a start.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what she said.
This place doesn't feel like a home.
Of course it didn't. It wasn't ours. It was curated. Cold. Designed for appearances. A glass cage lined with luxury.
In the middle of the night, I wandered through the halls, barefoot, the echo of my own steps keeping me company. I passed by her door. The light beneath it was off. She was either asleep or doing what I was doing—trying to pretend the walls didn't feel so hollow.
I ended up in the living room, on the couch, staring out at the skyline. The city lights blinked like distant stars. I thought about all the things I should have said to her earlier. All the apologies I'd never given.
But I knew she didn't want apologies. She wanted her life back.
So did I.
In the morning, I beat her to the kitchen. Made two coffees out of habit. When she came in, she blinked at the extra mug, then took it without a word. We drank in silence. And for once, it wasn't tense.
I watched her glance over the calendar. She was organized, efficient, always two steps ahead. I respected that. Maybe too much.
"We should talk about Friday," I said, breaking the quiet.
She looked up. "About what?"
"Our roles. How we want to appear."
She sighed. "Perfect. Married. In love."
I flinched. "Right."
She finished her coffee. "I'll wear white. You'll wear a smile. Let's give them what they paid for."
Then she was gone again.
I was left alone, the coffee cooling in my hand, and a gnawing question in my chest:
What happens when pretending becomes the only thing you remember how to do?