Sunday mornings in the Lockwood penthouse were supposed to be silent—hours carved from stillness, Grayson's rituals held together by precision coffee and backlit cityscapes.
But not today.
Today, sunlight spilled over the marble countertops, finding Evangeline mid-chaos: barefoot in pajamas, hair a wild bun, dusting flour across half the kitchen island. There were two mugs steaming by the window, spatulas marching in a line, and the unmistakable scent of citrus and vanilla filling the air.
Grayson entered to find his world rearranged. He froze, as if startled by an early-morning apparition.
Evangeline looked up, a dab of flour on her cheek. "Morning, Suit. Nice of you to join the living."
He glanced down. No suit, per her house rules. He'd dug out his one tolerable sweater—navy cashmere, sleeves rolled smirkingly at his elbows.
"You seem...," he was careful with the word, "intense, for eight a.m."
She grinned. "We're making lemon-ricotta pancakes. Well, I am. You're on berry duty."
He blinked, wary. "Berry duty?"
"You've never washed berries in your life, have you?"
"I outsource berry management—"
She pressed a colander into his hands before he could finish. "Welcome to domestic labor, Grayson Lockwood."
He hesitated at the sink, uncertain, as if the blackberries might judge him. Evangeline watched, then burst out laughing—warm, unguarded, a bridge across his morning defenses.
He tried, he really did. You rinsed the berries, right? Or was it enough to just run them under water? Was there technique to something as basic as blueberries?
She hip-checked him: "You missed one."
He rolled his eyes. "You're a menace."
She set down her spatula and leaned back on the heels of her hands, studying him.
"In another life, you'd be kind of fun, you know."
He arched a brow. "And in this life?"
She slid off the counter so close he could smell the lemon on her skin. "You're impossible. But I like impossible things."
For a moment—just a flicker—he considered catching her, pulling her into something that wasn't contract-appropriate but absolutely necessary.
The spell was broken by the shriek of his phone. Grayson slid it free with military reflexes, reading the caller ID—his assistant, Irene.
His tone shifted, frosty. "Lockwood."
On speaker, Irene's voice was as smooth as grated steel. "Mr. Lockwood. I thought you'd want to know—a rumor is circulating online about your marriage. Something about a 'strategic wedding' and a 'boardroom romance for show.'"
Evangeline, platters balanced, stilled instantly.
Grayson's grip on the counter turned white-knuckled. "How bad?"
"Level three," Irene answered. "Trending, but not viral. Yet. A blogger claims to have a source at the Tower. I'll contain it, but…"
Evangeline quietly scooped pancakes onto a plate, attention fixed on the swirl of batter.
Grayson's voice was cold as marble. "Find the source. No statements, not yet."
"Yes, sir. If you need to attend to damage control, I have a preliminary memo draft on email."
He ended the call, jaw working. He didn't have to ask; he saw the worry darken Evangeline's eyes.
"Is there anything you want me to do?" she asked, steady, offering the question like an olive branch.
"Stay off your phone for three hours. Don't answer unknown numbers. Don't engage."
A pause, heavy between them. "I'm not delicate, Grayson."
"It's my job to make sure you aren't collateral damage."
She slid his plate over. "So, what—am I the damsel or the PR shield?"
He met her gaze, finally. "Neither. You're my partner. Let me handle the wolves. You just... make breakfast."
For a second, she saw all the fear and responsibility coiling behind his storm-gray eyes. Not arrogance. Not calculation. Just a man who'd been forced to wear armor so long he'd mistaken it for skin.
She forced a brave smile. "Partner. Sure. But if this gets out, the press will want photo ops. Backstory. Maybe even a love story."
His mouth, involuntarily, twitched. "I can fake it if you can."
---
Dining Nook — 8:31 a.m.
They ate in awkward, tense silence at first: pancakes, berries, daylight slicing across the window like floodlights on a stage.
Evangeline watched him, searching for cracks in his facade. "Do you actually care about rumors, or just about your board?"
He chewed, choosing. "There's a difference?"
She tilted her head, analytical. "Your board will weather one scandal. What about you?"
He didn't answer at first. "I built my credibility from nothing. One mistake, one shadow—there goes twenty years. It's not about pride. It's about survival."
She swirled syrup, considering. "You'd rather be feared than doubted."
His mouth tightened. "I'd rather not be pitied."
Evangeline laid her fork down. "You don't have to prove anything to me."
He glanced at her, surprise flickering and vanishing in the same heartbeat.
A knock at the penthouse door jolted both of them.
Grayson moved with purpose—quick, wary—his CEO mask slotting back into place.
On the threshold was a woman in a lilac trench coat, perfume too expensive for polite company, and a camera-ready smile that made Evangeline's skin crawl before she even spoke.
"Amelia Darrow, Morning Lights Magazine. And you must be the new Mrs. Lockwood."
Evangeline's heart thunked. Not this soon.
Grayson positioned himself between them. "I didn't schedule any interviews today."
Amelia held up her badge. "Of course not. But your head of PR invited us for a profile on the Lockwood Foundation. Purely off the record. We only wanted five minutes—an exclusive look at 'domestic bliss.'" She let the words linger like cigarette smoke.
Evangeline pasted on her brightest smile. "We're just about to have breakfast. Pancakes? Or are you on the 'juicing only' plan like everyone in this city?"
Amelia blinked, regrouping. "Just coffee, thank you." She swept her gaze across the penthouse, mentally cataloging every detail—the too-neat surfaces, the absence of family photos, the clusters of cozy clutter Evangeline had scattered just yesterday.
Grayson folded his arms. "Five minutes. No photographs."
Amelia perched on a barstool, pen poised. "Mrs. Lockwood, how did you two meet? Hollywood, or—dare I say—something more corporate?"
Evangeline resisted the urge to laugh, bracing herself for the lie. "Grayson hired me as his interior designer. He's got an eye for clean lines, but an empty kitchen. I convinced him you can't build a home on gloss and glass."
Amelia scribbled. "And the whirlwind wedding just… happened?"
Grayson pressed a hand to the small of Evangeline's back. It was gentle, rehearsed, but something honest vibrated between them.
"I believe in decisive action," he said.
Evangeline met his gaze. "And sometimes you fall for possibility instead of plans."
The reporter's mouth curved, like a cat scenting cream. "You make it sound romantic. But does your marriage feel like a merger? Or a leap of faith?"
Evangeline held her gaze. "It's a collaboration."
"And collaboration needs trust," Amelia prodded.
Grayson looked her dead in the eyes. "Trust, and an ironclad contract."
That, at least, was true.
---
The Interview Fallout — 9:11 a.m.
Amelia left, content with five minutes of sourceless quotes and polite hostility. The door had barely clicked shut before Grayson dropped the act.
"She's fishing for dirt. Who let her in?"
Evangeline retreated to the kitchen and scrubbed at the pancake pan, shoving down the sting. "Someone in your PR team, apparently. Or a board member who prefers drama to dividends."
He ran both hands through his hair, rare and unguarded. "We have until the evening before the gossip blogs run their next installment. Irene will put out fires, but once it's out, it's out."
She dried her hands and found him watching her, his mask cracked wide open. "You've done this before, haven't you? Played house. Staged happiness."
He didn't flinch. "People don't want reality. They want certainty. And a good story."
"That's why you hired me, then. For the story."
He stepped closer, closing the kitchen gap between them. "I hired you because you don't lie well. And that makes everyone else nervous."
She looked at the floor. "It makes me a liability."
He tilted her chin up. "No. It makes you the only real thing in this mess."
For three seconds, the world paused. She was sharply aware of how his hand lingered, how the tension between them was knotted and hungry but still, somehow, clean.
A phone buzzed again. Grayson pulled back.
---
Afternoon — Redecoration and the Ritual of Chaos
By noon, Grayson had locked himself in the study for phone calls; Evangeline, restive, turned to coping the only way she knew—making the guest bedroom less like a mausoleum, more like an act of rebellion.
She dragged baskets of blankets from her studio boxes. Lit candles that smelled of clean linen and sun. Repotted her basil—now thriving, unlike its predecessors—to the kitchen windowsill. She tucked a color-wheel under one arm and, humming, gave the living space a scatter of life.
Grayson appeared at the edge of the living room mid-move, eyeing her cargo warily. "That's a lot of color."
She fluffed a yellow pillow at him. "I refuse to sleep in a crime scene. Consider it a reclamation."
He watched, quietly interested. "You really see a home where I see expensive furniture."
She straightened, suddenly vulnerable. "I see possibility everywhere."
He nodded, slow. "Maybe that's why we're not both miserable yet."
She held his gaze. "It's more than not-miserable, Grayson. Don't you feel it?"
After a pause, he walked to the window, hands in his pockets. "I feel something. Can't name it yet."
Her laugh was soft, almost shy. "That's how you know it's working."
---
Evening — The Midnight Pasta Challenge
Dinner was supposed to be simple. Evangeline's plan: a creamy tomato risotto, watched like a hawk so nothing ignited this time. Grayson appeared precisely at the scheduled dinner time—7:00, sharp.
He was still in the navy sweater, sleeves rolled.
She wagged a wooden spoon at him. "Tonight, you're on rice duty. Or do you prefer to set off another alarm?"
He eyed the cutting board with suspicion. "What do I do?"
She rolled her eyes. "Stir, and don't stop. It's like answering emails, but it smells better."
He bent to the task, lips thinning in concentration. She couldn't help it—she laughed, and he glanced up, mock-glowering.
Halfway through, he said, "My mother cooked. Badly. Everything was overboiled, but there was always too much of it. She said the point wasn't perfection—it was that everyone arrived at the table."
Evangeline froze, amazed he'd offered anything personal at all. She put down her spoon, heart softened. "That's... actually incredibly sweet."
"It was chaotic." He almost smiled. "But everyone was allowed to be there."
She watched him, chest tight, wishing she could put words to this unexpected tenderness.
They finished the risotto in silence—companionable, easy. On impulse, Evangeline reached across and flicked a rice grain from his sleeve.
He caught her hand, holding it for a beat longer than necessary.
"Thank you. For today," he murmured.
She squeezed back, just once, not letting go. "For today. And for possibility, even if it makes the wolves howl."
They ate at the counter, sharing risotto, the city outside flickering in and out of sight.
---
Nightfall — False Peace and the First Rumors
Just as Evangeline was tucking a faded blanket over the yellow pillow on her bed, her phone vibrated.
Blocked number.
She let it go to voicemail, tried to ignore it, but a creeping chill rose in her arms. Across the penthouse, Grayson's study door clicked shut.
She listened to the message, heart sinking as she heard the cold, sharp voice—practiced and anonymous:
"Some contracts are meant to be broken, Miss Hart. Ask yourself if you're in over your head—before you burn."
She deleted it on instinct, but the fear wouldn't leave.
She thought of Grayson's hands—steady, strong, briefly gentle as he stirred the risotto.
She thought of the wolves. The press. The watchful board.
She thought: I'm not running. Not when something real is just beginning.
Evangeline crossed the penthouse to the shuttered balcony, gaze fixed on the city. Inside, the light was golden, unfamiliar, and—just maybe—enough to face whatever danger tomorrow brought.
Because tonight she wasn't alone.
And for now, the possibility was enough to fight for.